#the prince of the moonlight stone

[killersandy]

Ham-Egg scenes from TPOTMS (drawings by me).

Not a big fan of him, but I don't hate him either.

Weird. XD

[annwrites]

⸻ a call to arms. part one. ⸻

· pairing: jacaerys velaryon x dragonseed!reader · type: part of a series · summary: desperate to provide aid to your starving family due to the blockade, you venture, along with a great many other lowborns, to dragonstone, in hopes of gaining something—anything—which you might bring back to them; something to fill your little sister's belly. things turn out quite the opposite as planned, as what you now believe to be a mad queen, locks all of you in her dragonpit, and you're forced to run, hide, & fend for your lives against two hungry dragons. in the end, only two individuals are left standing: hugh hammer, who has now claimed for himself vermithor...and you—chosen by silverwing. just when you believe things can't possibly get any worse, you then meet prince jacaerys. · word count: 1,674

He grinds his teeth together, filled with utter contempt—disgust—that whatever you are—bastards, lowborns, flea-ridden rats—are now, above all else, dragonriders.

And he is meant to share common spaces with you now? Such as the Great Hall? Meant to pass you in the halls and tolerate the sight of you?

To ride alongside you?

To treat you with...what? Kindness? Generosity for having 'come to his mother's aid'? He will most certainly not be treating, nor addressing you as an equal. Either of you.

To be a dragonrider...it is a sacred bond. And now he is meant to believe that even the lowest scum Flea Bottom has to offer has the same right as he to sail the skies, unleashing fire and blood upon the enemy?

Never.

He will never.

The rest of them got what they deserved for thinking they had any right to claim that which is meant only for those like him.

Queens and kings, princes and princesses, lords and ladies alike.

He is better than both of you.

Even if he is similar in ways he does not want to admit...

Boots echo against stone floors, dark curls falling over dark eyes, a brooding temperament within.

Jacaerys emerges into the Great Hall, Hugh promptly rising from his seat, bowing his head. "My Prince."

Jacaerys studies him for but a moment, briefly judging the plain-colored clothes he dons, before turning his sights across the room to you, who is seated between two stained-glass windows, arms wrapped around your bent knees, while you cast your attentions outward, instead of on him.

Your Prince.

Your superior.

He clenches his jaw at the sight of your long, silver hair that moonlight casts in an ethereal glow, making it appear as if it is sparkling. Cascading down your back like molten silver in soft waves.

"You there—girl—do you know how incredibly rude it is for you not to stand and curtsy when in the presence of royalty?"

You jolt—torn from tormented memories of but a couple days past; of people running, screaming for mercy. Dying choking on their own blood as dragonfire burns them alive.

None of you had anticipated—had imagined—that the very queen you were coming to, under the guise of offering your aid to in the war, would lock you in a room to be eaten by terrifying beasts.

Aegon deserves the throne in comparison to such a monster.

You have made a great mistake, mayhaps. Then again, becoming a dragonrider has already filled your belly, provided you with clean sheets to sleep upon, a guard outside your door, hot baths.

But it is not you who needs these things. You want them for your family.

There is no turning back now, however. You knew as much with certainty when that silver dragon laid her head at your feet before leaning forward, brushing her warm snout against your abdomen while you struggled to contain your bladder and bowels. While you sobbed hysterically, begging for mercy from a being that you do not so much as share a common language with.

You know not a word of High Valyrian, though you will now be expected to learn, you suppose.

Among many other things. Such as how to ride the animal...

Your stomach twists nervously at the thought.

You turn away from the window, slide off the ledge, then grab your skirts in either of your hands before tucking a foot behind your other ankle, bowing. "My Prince."

He scoffs, coming closer. "That was the worst curtsy I've ever seen."

You fold your hands in front of you, keeping your eyes downcast. "Forgive me, My Prince, it is...the first time I've attempted one."

He rolls his eyes, settling his arms behind his back before glancing over his shoulder to Hugh, jerking his head toward the hall he's just come from, and he quickly makes himself scarce.

He looks back to you.

"And what is your name?" He demands.

"Y/N," you state quietly.

A muscle in his jaw feathers. "You are to look at me while we're speaking. Do you understand?"

You nod, trailing your eyes upwards—over a red-and-black velvet tunic, the three-headed symbol of his house embroidered upon the breast—until they're looking into hues of chocolate-brown.

He clenches his hands into tight fists behind his back.

You've every trademark of a pure Targaryen: silver hair, lilac eyes—with flecks of violet—skin so fair it's near-translucent, delicate features.

He fucking loathes you for every asset which you possess and he does not.

He would never—will never—state it aloud, but you look far more Targaryen than he ever will.

He wishes one of the dragons had taken you down its gullet as well. That way, he would not be forced to suffer the nigh-daily sight of you now.

He looks you over, circling you like a dragon does its prey—desperate to find something he may use to mock you with; some imperfection—before standing tall before you again.

"You think wearing rags before your Queen's court appropriate?"

Your expression quickly settles into a scowl.

Good, he thinks. Give him an excuse to introduce you to the Queen's justice. He is silently begging you for as much within his malice-filled gaze.

Your small hands clench into fists at your slender sides. "My mother made this dress for me."

His jaw ticks. "From now on, you will wear more suitable clothing when outside your private chambers—which means conservative in nature; not whatever men found desirable upon the Street of Silk. You are a representative of our house now. A dragonrider. A soldier to our cause. You will look the part."

Tears sting your eyes as yours bore into his own hatefully.

"I am not a whore," you reply contemptuously.

There is a beat of silence, his brows furrowing slightly. Surely you are lying. You have the look—more than.

And then you continue.

"And with what coin, My Prince?" You sneer.

He takes a step closer, causing you to shuffle backward, catching yourself against the window-ledge, the stone digging into your palms as you grip it to steady yourself.

He leans in close—your faces mere inches apart. "I beg your pardon?"

You do not shrink away from him.

Gods, you already hate him with all that you are.

"I came here for coin. Desperate for—"

"So greed is what sent you? Not to aid us in winning back my mother's throne? Her rightful seat. You come to steal away a dragon, and then what?"

"My family is starving!" You finally shout, at the end of your rope from the last few sleepless nights that've been filled with nightmares instead of rest; your temper having reached its limit. "My mother and little sister both! How would you feel if it were you? If your loved-ones were suffering, while all you could do is sit back and watch them waste away before you? So, yes, I came. I claimed a dragon—even if my intentions had only been merely to host audience with a clement queen who would provide aid to her suffering subjects. Not burn them alive for coming to help her!"

He grits his teeth. "You will watch your tongue, you insolent little wench. My mother sent boat-fulls of food to King's Landing. She has provided—"

You begin to laugh, with a lack of humor behind it all, cutting him off. "Oh, yes, how very kind of her to give aid to the very subjects she is responsible for the suffering of in the first place. The blockade is all your all's fault! People were fighting like dogs in the streets—assaulting—killing each other for a small sack of grain! I risked mine own life for a peck of potatoes! That's it! Even then, I was forced to wrestle a full-grown man off myself to get it. I was fortunate to escape with my life—with any food to speak of for my struggles!"

You step forward, forcing his royal highness to take a step back, and he swallows thickly.

"You've never known hunger a day in your life, have you? Never known what is it to wear 'rags' while you don your silk and velvet, while you sleep on thousand-thread count sheets, while you flout your jewels, and your fancy titles, and your gilded castles while the rest of us bow and scrape before your feet for a mere morsel of respect! You are meant to take care of us!"

Once you've finished, your heart pounds in your ears, your shoulders rapidly rise and fall, and it's then that you notice Prince Jacaerys' hand is tightly gripping the pommel of his sword—his knuckles having now gone white from the force.

Your eyes flit back to his, tears filling your own. "And I am meant to one day call you king, given we are 'successful' in our endeavors to win your mother back her glorified chair," you say, spitting the final word at him.

The two of you stand tall before the other, refusing to be the first one to break—your chins held high, even if your stomach is now twisting painfully into knots while your bowels turn to water.

If he puts you to death for your unimaginable disobedience—your disrespect...who will help your family then?

Your little sister... Your little girl.

She became as much when your mother went away in herself after your father's passing. It did not matter that you were still a mere child yourself when it happened. She became your responsibility to look after and tend to from that day forward.

And now...you feel as if you have failed her.

"Go to your room," he orders lowly, his body shaking from anger, brief pauses between each word.

You curtsy one last time.

"My Prince," you mumble, brushing past him, wanting to break something.

He stalks off in the opposite direction, feeling much the same: wanting to burn something—or, rather, someone—alive.

[talesofesther]

and still, you have me

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: After everyone has left his side, you go find him.

A/N: A little something to heal our hearts from the finale. Here's a shameless plug of my ongoing series with Aemond, which has similar vibes to this story. <3

Masterlist

The night was late and quiet, tension high in the Keep as war loomed on the horizon. You'd been walking the lone hallways of the castle for a while now, smiling at each member of the king's guard who bowed their head at you.

You'd decided to leave your shared room with Aemond when the night stretched on and he was yet to show up. Having heard of his disagreement with his mother and sister earlier, you had a hunch he was keeping his distance, denying himself respite as he sometimes did.

However, it took you only a short while to find him. At times you thought he did it on purpose, that he wanted to be found, by the people who cared enough to look.

You pushed open the doors of the council chamber, which was now empty. The long table and stone walls softly highlighted by the golden glow of torches and candles. At the far end of the room, the doors that led to the balcony were open, and there, you found your Prince.

Leaning on the balustrade, Aemond overlooked the immensity of King's Landing under the clear night sky, his long silver hair softly moving with the wind.

You walked closer to him, quiet and careful, taking notice of his tense shoulders and head hanging low. If you had to guess, you'd say his talk with Helaena hadn't gone well.

Aemond straightened his back when he heard you approaching, you could almost feel part of his guard coming up again. Despite the way most people feared him, there was something delicate about him, you knew well. Under so many defenses, he protected a fragile heart.

The Prince took a deep breath in, he still refused to turn around and look at you. "Will you leave my side too, ñuha prūmia?" There was a crack in his voice as he spoke the last of his words.

"Only death could make me do such a thing, my love." You promised in the same breath.

Aemond turned around then, taking the remaining step that still separated the two of you. His eye shone bright under the moonlight, as did the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. He tried hard to keep his face impassive as he raised a hand to touch you but pulled away before he did so.

The turmoil was evident in how he softly furrowed his brows as if his thundering heart caused him pain, in how his lower lip wobbled, and how his eye quickly filled with new tears as he looked at the last person who stood by him. There was fear, guilt, and sorrow as he turned into the lonely young boy he once was before your eyes again.

"And what if-" Aemond stumbled in his words. He gulped, breathing through his nose, "What if the Stranger takes me before he does you? What then?" His voice was low and quiet, as if couldn't bring himself to utter the question any louder.

"Then I shall live the rest of my days in black, mourning the loss of the one I love," you spoke just as softly, gently taking one of Aemond's hands in yours. And he shuddered, you couldn't know if it was because of your touch or because of your words. "Yet glad that I got to share my time with you."

Aemond's lips parted, and the tear in his eye hung by his lashes when he blinked. There were suddenly no walls, he could crumble before you, just like that. His hand gripped yours tighter, and before his tear rolled down his cheek, he closed his eye, leaning forward so his forehead rested on yours. "Nyke ȳdra daor gūrogon ao."

You kissed the words, almost as an act of rebellion, your lips finding the edge of his with lingering affection. "Yn emā nyke mirre keskydoso." Devotion and love dripped from each syllable.

A low hum came from Aemond, and he followed after you once you pulled away, chasing your warmth.

"I will go with you," You spoke with ease, catching his gaze so he saw the sincerity in your eyes.

He kept quiet, with shallow and shaky breaths falling past his lips as he simply looked at you. Yet his hand held yours tight, refusing to let go.

"To Harrenhal. I will fly with you." You brought your free hand up, thumb brushing over Aemond's cheek and drying away the single tear that had fallen.

He closed his eye at your touch, and allowed himself to fall, for you were there to catch him. Aemond leaned his head on your shoulder, both arms coming to circle your waist and pull you against his body.

You held him back, squeezing him to you as your fingers buried in his hair. You could feel his tears dampening the fabric of your dress, could feel his nails digging into it with desperation as if you'd vanish if he didn't hold tight enough.

Aemond had refrained from asking you, because of how close you'd been with Rhaenyra once. Perhaps he lacked the courage to ask you to choose sides and risk losing you. Yet now, as you held his broken pieces together under the stars, he realized you'd chosen his side long ago.

If it would be you and him against the world, then so be it.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

High Valyrian translations: ñuha prūmia = my heart nyke ȳdra daor gūrogon ao = I don't deserve you yn emā nyke mirre keskydoso = but you have me all the same

Aemond's taglist is open, let me know if you'd like to be added. Or you can follow @talesofesther-library and turn notifications on to know when I’ve posted a new story/chapter.

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

[3rdgymbros]

━ 𝐇𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐓𝐨 𝐘𝐨𝐮 !

— pairing; malleus draconia x ramshackle! reader

— summary; you throw rocks at his window, malleus thinks you've come for a midnight rendezvous

— notes; idk what this is, it just came to me in a fever dream. please donate to my kofi if you like my work. and know that i am mentally smooching everyone who reblogs my stuff.

❋ It’s late at night, and you’re just about ready to call it a night and head to bed. But then you suddenly think: is there any History of Magic homework?

❋ For a fleeting moment, you consider texting Ace and Deuce. But considering how terrible the subject is at holding their attentions — and yours — it would be a wasted effort.

❋ And so, you decide that the next best option would be to trek to the dorm of a fae prince in the dead of night, stand below his window, and proceed to throw rocks to get his attention.

❋ Because that’s obviously what any sane person would do.

❋ But in your defence, he lives in a tower, and this was the best way you could think of to get his attention.

❋ Ever the night owl, Malleus hasn’t turned in for the night just yet. In fact, he’s completely engrossed in a thick tome when you hurl the first pebble up at his window.

❋ The sound in the otherwise silent room startles him at first, but then he peeks out the window and sees you standing below with a handful of stones, your beautiful features perfectly illuminated by the moonlight.

❋ And his heart melts.

❋ Truly, his Child of Man never ceases to surprise him. No one has ever been so bold, so daring, so romantic as to venture all the way to Diasomnia for him. Throwing pebbles at his window in the dead of night? He’s read about this in Lilia’s novels!

❋ The Great Malleus Draconia, one of the most powerful mages in Twisted Wonderland, is now leaning on the windowsill, practically swooning.

❋ “How devoted,” he whispers to himself with a dreamy sigh, pushing open the window with a grand flourish, so that he might better take in the sight of his beloved.

❋ Meanwhile, you’re completely oblivious to his current train of thought. It’s freezing out here, and you just want a quick answer to your question before your fingers and toes fall off from the cold.

❋ “Malleus!” You whisper as quietly as you can, glancing nervously around as though you expect to see Sebek springing out at any moment to berate you for your transgressions. “Do we have any history homework?!”

❋ Silence.

❋ Malleus blinks once. Twice. He’s momentarily taken aback, but then realisation dawns. This casual question must surely be a clever way of hiding your true feelings! Ah, they’re shy about their affection . . . How adorable. He says, “We do not. But if you wished to see me, you need only summon me in the future.”

❋ “I literally just threw rocks at your window —”

❋ “It was lovely.”

❋ After that, Malleus starts to leave his window open every night, just in case you feel the urge to throw more rocks. He even enchants the area so the rocks won’t chip the glass . . . Purely a precaution for his beloved’s romantic tendencies.

[spxllcxstxr]

Vermax • J.V

(Gif not mine)

Request: jacaerys falling in love with a servant girl and taking her for a ride on vermax. -- @sarahisslytherin

Summary: Jacaerys takes a servant girl to see Vermax

Warnings: fem!reader (referred to as girl at some points), servant x prince forbidden romance, dragon stuff, lowkey abrupt ending but oh well

Word Count: 1.2k

A.N: need more smiling jace but DAMN he was fine in this scene, first jace piece, hope it's ok! This wasn’t supposed to be over 1k words lmao

•

The dark corridors of Dragonstone castle twist and turn as Prince Jacaerys pulls you through them. His grip on your wrist is light as it pushes up the sleeve of your red servant’s dress.

The only sounds surrounding the two of you were your steps across the stone floors and both of your panting breaths.

In mere minutes the cool air of Dragonstone hits you as does the grass slick with fresh dew. Any guards near the entrances are cloaked in the darkness.

"Jacaerys," You hiss, careful not to draw any attention to you. "Where are you taking me?"

"Calm yourself, (Y/n), I am only taking you to see Vermax." Jace responds, his pace slowing as he approaches a patch of grass where his dragon frequently can be found.

"Are you feeding me to your dragon, Jace? Is this what this is?"

He snorts at your question. "Not today."

You giggle as Vermax is appears within your vision.

The moonlight shimmers on Vermax's olive green scales. The dragon mesmerizes you, even when stationary. You can't even fathom the fact that Vermax is on the smaller side of the Targaryen dragons.

Jacearys turns to you, the flowing red cape attached to the rest of his riding gear rustles behind him. Your eyes flick to the Prince.

"Do you trust me?" The Prince asks, his gentle brown eyes staring into your own. His thumb rests on your cheekbone. The leather riding gloves obstructs the warm feeling you have come to associate with the Prince. It's comforting nonetheless.

You heart hammers in your chest. Even his lightest of touches always leaves you dazed, but with the addition of a dragon just over his shoulder contributes to your nerves.

"Of course, Jacaerys," You breathe, wiping your sweaty palms against the rough fabric of your dress. The tall grass tickles your ankles.

He hums, lightly pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Do not be afraid, sweet girl, Vermax will do you no harm."

"Are you sure about this, Jace? We could get in trouble--"

"Nonsense, who here would fathom taking issue with the Prince?" Jacearys smirks, making your cheeks burn.

In the moonlight he takes your breath away. Pale skin littered with freckles, the desire to kiss every single one almost taking over.

You follow him as he strides over to his dragon, murmuring in High Valarian. His hands rest atop the dragon's snout.

He whispers to his dragon, gesturing to you to come closer. With your hand trembling slightly, you lightly place it on the dragon's scales, which are hot to the touch.

It takes a bit of maneuvering paired with Jace's help for you to get up on Vermax's saddle--you had barely ridden a horse much less a dragon.

"Might want to hold on tight, (Y/n)." Jacaerys whispers in your ear as he settles behind you. "Vermax is pretty quick."

He shouts a few phrases in High Valyrian and the dragon roars to life, large wings starting to move. As you rise through the air, you can't help but to scream your lungs out.

Higher above the trees, mingling between the clouds, a sense of adrenaline makes you dizzy.

How could anyone get used to this?

You holler and laugh as the wind quickly whips all around you. Your fingers tingle and your heart pound in your chest.

Jacaerys has Vermax climbing high up in the sky before dropping close to the ocean, twisting as you go down.

Eventually, with morning quickly approaching, Vermax coasts just below the clouds, heading towards Dragonstone, which is just a small island in the distance.

Dawn creeps over the horizon, the orange and yellow hues of the early light blending with the sea surrounding you. Your skin bathes in the light. The open sea and sky glitters in your vision. Closing your eyes you deeply inhale, the fresh air filling your lungs. You can feel his eyes watching you intensely. Jace's arms tighten around your waist as he guides Vermax to dive closer to land.

You don't open your eyes until you land and Vermax stops shifting on their feet. Slowly, and with guidance from the Prince, you dismount from the dragon, gently patting their scales once more before taking a few steps back.

“Thank you, Jace,” Your lips gently press against his cheek, red from the wind. "That was..." You search for the words that could possibly describe the experience you just had. "Amazing."

The dawn light highlights the flecks of gold in his eyes and you're unable to look away. His lips tilt up in a smile.

"Oh my sweet girl...I would do anything for you. Showing you all this," He gestures to Vermax's retreating figure in the sky. "It is because I love you."

You take a step back, breath catching in your throat. While the two of you had been sneaking around with each other and kissing in the dark corners of the castle, he had never told you he loved you before. You never thought he could love someone like you. "Jacaerys, I am a mere servant girl, you cannot--"

"I can, (Y/n)." He takes your hands in his, pulling you closer to his body. He smells of dragon and fire. "When my mother is sat on the Iron Throne it will not matter if my heart chooses to be with a serving girl or a lady at court." He squeezes your hands in an attempt to calm your nerves.

You bite your bottom lip, mind and heart racing with swarming thoughts and emotions.

"Do you--do you not love me back?" Jace's dark brows crease with worry.

"Do not be a fool, Jacaerys!" You respond, meeting his eyes. "I have loved you since I met you! But what of Baela? Of politics? You cannot just piss that all away for someone like me!"

"I do not care, (Y/n), please just listen to me!" He moves his hands to frame your face, one of each cheek. They're delicate on your skin. "We will deal with it when we get there, but please let us love each other now before we have to concern ourselves with all of that." Jace's eyes are wide, pleading with you to just say yes.

And how could you resist? You had loved him since you were both children running up and down the stone steps of the castle, him avoiding his duties as a Prince and you avoiding your duties as a servant.

Without saying anything, you surge forward to capture his soft lips in your own. Your own hands move to his neck, stroking the skin there. The two of you had kissed before, many times, in fact, but it was never like this. This was more special in a way you couldn't wrap your head around. It was slow and passionate, like Jacearys was trying to convey to you how much he truly loved you. You try your best to return the sentiment.

Breathlessly, you reluctantly pull away. Your eyes flutter as they meet his own. "Gods, Jacaerys, of course I love you back."

•

[wholoveseggs]

Scars

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Daemon Targaryen x Wife!Reader} Your husband had just returned from battle, injured and needing to be cared for. He is a brat, and needs lots of love. So you take care of him, and then some...

3.5k words - Warnings: smut, blood and injury, wound care, soft!dom Daemon, fingering, riding, slow sex, Daemon pretending to not be in pain, lots of hurt and comfort...

@elijahstwink @starshipcookie @absolutemarveltrash @odairtrqsh @darkened-writer

@cheneyq @fallout-girl219 @nina6708 @evasmlp @sadmonke

@deamonloverrrr @urmomsgirlfriend1 @moonsleep

@madeinmyownmind-blog @lovelyy-moonlight

The soft sounds of your feet scurrying against the stone floor of the keep echoed through the empty halls. Soft rustling sounds of the nightdress and robe you hastily threw over your bare body could be heard, but the only thing you could focus on was getting to him. The news of the battle that raged along the shores of Dragonstone had reached your ears only moments ago, but all you could think about was Daemon.

"My lady!" A startled servant gasped as she saw you rushing through the halls, her eyes wide as you came to a sudden stop, nearly running into her.

"Where is he?" You demanded, your chest heaving slightly.

"In his chambers. The maester is seeing to him now.” She answered and you didn't waste any more time. You rushed off in the direction of his rooms, your mind racing.

The door to the royal bedchambers flew open as you rushed in, startling the maester who had been cleaning the prince's wounds. Your husband was laid out on a lounge chair, his chest bare, revealing the deep wounds that covered him. You could feel your heart ache at the sight of the man you loved, but you didn't let yourself dwell on it, not right now.

There were a number of maesters and other assistants tending to Daemon, but the moment you entered, they all froze. "My lady-" the maester began, but you held up a hand.

"Leave us." You ordered, and the maesters and servants all began to clear out, they knew better than to go against your orders.

You watched them leave before turning to look at Daemon. His violet eyes stared back at you, a smirk forming on his lips as you walked over. He winced as he tried to sit up, but you pushed him back down, shaking your head.

"What were you thinking?" You asked, kneeling next to the chair, your hands gently pressing on his skin. He hissed softly, and you looked down, seeing a large wound in his side. It had already been cleaned, but it was deep. "Tsk, I told you to be careful." You sighed, looking around the room for supplies.

"Don't fuss, you know I can't stand it," Daemon spoke up, watching as you grabbed a needle and thread, holding the needle over a candle flame.

"I wouldn't fuss if you weren't such a fool." You scoffed, returning to his side with bandages and the thread.

"You don't mean that." He smirked and you rolled your eyes, threading the needle.

"Hold still." You ordered and began to sew his skin closed. He winced at first, but quickly got used to it, watching you as you worked.

You looked at the wounds that were already sewed up by the maesters, at the old and new scars that littered his body. He had seen many battles and many wars. This was one of the worst injuries he had suffered since his youth, and the sight of it made you uneasy.

"I'll be fine." He murmured, watching as your face contorted.

"What happened?" You asked, ignoring his hiss of pain as you continued to sew the wound closed.

"Pirates, probably from the iron islands." He explained, trying to shift in his seat, but hissing when you tugged at the thread.

"Stop moving." You snapped, giving him a pointed look. He sighed and did as you told him, watching as you returned to the task at hand.

You finished the deep gash on his side, tying the end of the thread before cutting it. You set the tools aside and took the bandages, gently wrapping the wound, making sure it was secure. There was another wound on his chest that was still bleeding, so you grabbed some clean cloth, pressing it against his skin, and putting pressure on it.

"What of Caraxes? Did you not bring your dragon to battle?" You asked, keeping the pressure steady.

"He's fine." He assured you, reaching up and cupping your cheek. You frowned and he chuckled, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. "It's just a couple of arrow wounds."

"You could've died." You whispered, feeling tears welling up in your eyes.

"But I didn't." He assured you, giving you a soft smile.

You nodded and took a shaky breath, taking the cloth away and seeing the bleeding had stopped. You grabbed a washcloth, dampening it with some water and wiping away the blood. You could see the dark bruises forming across his torso, the sight of them making your heart clench. But you quickly pushed the feeling aside, knowing now wasn't the time to fuss over him.

As soon as the wound was clean, you took the needle once more and began to sew it closed, going as fast as you could. He stayed quiet the whole time, watching as you worked on patching him up. Your robe and nightdress both fell off your shoulder, but you paid no mind to them as you reached over to grab a new bandage.

"You are far more skilled than the maesters." He stated, sitting up slightly to allow you to wind the bandage around his torso.

"I've just had more practice than they have." You hummed, tightening the bandages and tying it off. You took a moment to examine your work, tracing your fingers over one of his old scars, one that you stitched up not long after your wedding day. His large hand covered yours, his rough fingers entwining with your own, pulling you from your thoughts.

"This one will leave a nasty scar," he remarked, motioning to the gash on his side. "I fear I've run out of unmarred skin to stitch."

"You already have plenty of those." You shot back, drawing his attention to the old burn scars along his neck and shoulder.

"I thought you liked my scars," he teased, watching as you got to your feet and went to the basin to wash your hands. "You always seem to touch them so lovingly in bed."

Your cheeks flushed at the comment, your eyes refusing to meet his. He chuckled lowly, shifting in the seat once more, hissing slightly. Your eyes flicked over to him, concern filling them as you dried off your hands and walked back over to him.

"Let me see your arms." You commanded, gesturing to where an arrow had grazed him. He sighed and held out his arms, grimacing slightly as you unwound the bandage around his bicep. You examined the small wound on his right arm, the stitching was shoddy, but it seemed to be holding up for the moment. "Stay here. I need to speak with the maesters about these new sutures. They're horrible, any more stress, and they could tear."

"Enough," he grumbled, frowning at your fretting. "Come to me." He demanded, tugging at your wrist. You paused, looking at him with a slight frown, but you let him pull you into his lap.

"Daemon, this isn't the time. You're wounded, you should be resting," you sighed, wiggling slightly in his grip, though his arms caged you in, keeping you on his lap.

"I'm not an invalid." He scoffed, running his hands up your sides, pushing your robe and nightdress up.

"I'm serious. You need to rest." You sighed, trying to ignore the lovely way his calloused hands felt against your skin.

"I am resting." He purred, nipping at the skin of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your jaw.

You rolled your eyes, feigning disinterest, but your eyes fluttered shut as he continued to press gentle kisses along your skin.

"You have a couple scars of your own, don't you my dear wife?" He murmured, as his hands began to wander, moving over your stomach and down your hips.

"Yes, but I didn't get them the same way you did," you retorted, unable to hold back the soft moan that slipped past your lips.

"The birthing bed is just as violent as the battlefield." He replied, gripping at your thighs, using the other hand to tug at your garments.

"Daemon." You sighed, shaking your head.

He looked at you, taking in your appearance as his hand continued to roam your body. You sat on his lap, the thin fabric of your gown and robe slipping down to reveal your soft skin and smooth shoulders. Your bare legs were curled beneath you, nestled between his, and his hand moved further north, reaching underneath your dress to stroke the curve of your ass.

"Daemon, what are you doing?" You breathed, struggling to keep your composure as his rough hands slipped past your undergarments to squeeze your ass.

"Touching you, my darling. It's very healing," he whispered, his lips ghosting across your collarbone, leaving kisses along the skin.

"You'll make your wounds worse," you protested, but made no move to stop him. In fact, the last thing you wanted was for him to stop.

"Hush," he murmured, brushing his lips against yours.

You huffed, trying to resist the urge to lean in and kiss him, but in the end, you caved. The hand on your ass pushed you closer, forcing you to straddle his thigh. A gasp slipped from your lips and he grinned, enjoying the expression on your face.

His hand slid from your back to your hip, squeezing you lightly as he rocked your hips against his thigh. He watched with lust-filled eyes as your head tilted back, exposing your neck, a quiet moan leaving you.

"You always do this." He tutted, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "You always make sure to take care of me, but when is someone going to take care of you?"

"I-I'm fine." You assured him, your hips bucking slightly against him. He hummed, his other hand grabbing at the fabric of your robe, pushing the heavy material off your shoulder. It fell easily, bunched up around your waist, revealing your nightdress underneath.

His hand dipped between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours. His fingers ghosted over your slit, his eyes darkening at the way your lips parted and your eyes fluttered shut.

Your hands gripped at his shoulders, digging into his flesh, your nails clawing down his arms, causing him to hiss. Your skin was glistening with sweat, the light of the candles bathing the two of you in a soft glow.

Your breath was ragged, a blush spread across your face, reaching down your neck and chest, visible through the low cut of your nightgown. You looked perfect, and he found himself pulling you into a deep kiss, his fingers easing inside you as your lips collided.

You moaned softly, a breathy little sound that had his cock aching. The softness of your skin was like velvet, so different from his. He couldn't stop himself from burying his face in your chest, taking in the smell of you. Everything about you was so warm and inviting, and he couldn't wait to finally be inside you again.

Your legs spread further apart, allowing him more access, and he cursed under his breath, burying his face further into your soft breasts.

You were like a goddess, kneeling in his lap, taking care of him and more. And you deserved no less than to be worshiped. He looked up, catching your eye. Your gaze was filled with heat and passion, and something else, something soft, a look reserved only for him.

"My job is to protect you, and our young ones," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Every one of these scars is a testament to that."

"I know, my love." You breathed, your eyes falling shut as you grew closer to your peak.

Your thighs shook, and he watched as your head tilted back, exposing your throat. He took the opportunity to attack your neck, kissing and nipping at the delicate skin, leaving small marks in his wake.

"But, I will always come back to you, no matter what." He promised, his eyes meeting yours, the love shining through. "Now, cum for me."

He curled his fingers and pressed his thumb against your sensitive nub, and you couldn't hold back anymore. Your mouth fell open, a silent cry leaving your lips, and your body shook. Daemon groaned, feeling you tightening around his fingers, his cock twitching, wanting to feel your warmth.

He slowly pulled his fingers out of you, and brought them to his lips, licking your arousal off of his fingers, and letting out a pleased hum. You bit your lip, watching as he cleaned his fingers, enjoying the way he was watching you.

"You certainly do heal quickly." You teased, moving to stand up, only to have him pull you back down on top of him.

"And you always know exactly how to care for me." He grinned, keeping a tight grip on your hips. "Now, why don't you let me return the favor?"

You sighed, leaning in, pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead, "your wounds.. we can't-"

"Oh, they're nothing." He chuckled, his hands moving up and gripping the hem of your nightgown.

"You're so reckless." You chided, lifting your arms, letting him pull the nightgown off, leaving you bare before him.

His eyes wandered over your body, taking in the curves and marks, all the places that had changed. The swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips, the softness of your belly, and the heat of your core. He loved it all, every inch, and every curve, because it was you, and you were his.

He ran his hands over your skin, a soft moan leaving his lips, a needy whine coming from yours. He grinned and pressed his lips to yours, kissing you deeply. You reached down and untied his breeches, pushing them down, and letting his cock spring free. He groaned as your hand wrapped around his length, stroking him slowly.

"You are so much better than any maester," He breathed, leaning back in the chair, enjoying the way you played with his hard cock.

You stifled a giggle at his words, releasing him and positioning yourself, hovering above him, resting your hands on his shoulders for support and avoiding his wounds. He kissed you sweetly, a sigh escaping him as he felt your heat against his tip.

He ran his hands over your hips as you sank down on his length, a soft gasp escaping your parted lips.

"There, now I'm all put back together again." He sighed, rocking his hips into you, making you groan.

You raised your hips slowly, then sunk down again, setting a steady pace and feeling pleasure race through your body. Daemon helped you ride him, his hands on your hips, his moans mixing with yours. You moved one hand from his shoulder, gripping the back of the chair, and the other moved to tangle in his hair, pulling lightly, drawing a deep growl from him.

You made soft sounds as you moved, your moans and sighs filling the room, as well as his grunts and groans, and the obscene sounds of your hips moving together. A dance that the two of you had perfected over the years, where both of you sought the pleasure you knew so well.

You could feel yourself growing closer to your peak, and by the way he was looking at you, you knew he wasn't too far behind. You reached down and pulled his lips to yours, kissing him hard, and panting against his lips.

"Faster," he breathed, gripping your hips tightly, guiding your movements, his eyes meeting yours.

"I'll hurt you," you murmured, but he shook his head.

"Like I said before, I'm not some fucking invalid," he grinned, thrusting into you hard.

You gasped, your arms wrapping around his neck, he hissed as you accidentally grazed one of his wounds, but he didn't care, focusing instead on the feeling of you clenching around his cock.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, peppering gentle kisses over the scars on his skin there, his hold on your hips tightening as you bounced in his lap. His eyes were half lidded, enjoying the way you felt around him. Your skin was slick with sweat, your scent filling his nose, making him dizzy with lust.

You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his, feeling your whole body growing hot. Your fingers were digging into his skin, trying not to hurt him, but getting harder every second.

You could see blood seeping through the bandages on his chest, and a moment later, Daemon hissed in pain. You stopped moving, opening your eyes, and looking at him with concern.

"Are you okay?" You asked, moving to climb off his lap, only to have him hold you tighter.

"Don't stop," he pleaded, a desperate look in his eyes. "Please."

You paused for a moment, and nodded, picking up your pace, feeling him thrusting up into you. The room filled with the sounds of your moans and grunts, the chair creaking beneath you, and the slap of skin on skin.

Daemon gripped your ass tightly, his hips moving faster, his cock hitting deeper inside you. You could feel your climax creeping up on you, and it seemed that he could too. His eyes were fixed on you, watching the pleasure take over.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice strained, and you obeyed, locking eyes with him.

The room was spinning, everything fading away except for the feeling of him inside you, the look in his eyes, and the heat coursing through you. You held each other tightly, and the pleasure exploded within you, his name a desperate cry on your lips.

He followed a moment later, spilling his seed inside you, his cock pulsing. The two of you stayed like that, holding each other, your foreheads resting together, the room filling with the sounds of your heavy breathing.

You slowly lifted your hips, careful as you separated from him, wincing slightly as his softening cock slipped out of you. Daemon groaned as the head of his cock popped out of your wet cunt, a string of his seed and your arousal still connecting the two of you. You reached down and wiped his seed from your thighs, the mixture coating your fingers.

"Now, I really have to clean you up." You giggled, standing up, your legs wobbly, and walking over to the washbasin, cleaning your hands, then bringing a clean cloth back to him.

"If I knew I would have such a dedicated nursemaid, I would have gotten wounded sooner." He joked, a grin spreading across his face.

You gently pushed his hands away, shaking your head and wiping his cock, and cleaning up the mess the two of you had made, a soft chuckle leaving you, "Now I have to sew you up again."

"Worth it." He shrugged, wincing slightly.

You sighed and shook your head, going back over to the washbasin and wetting the cloth, walking back to him, and dabbing at his chest and arms, trying to get the blood from the torn wounds.

"I told you it wasn't a good idea." You teased, gently running the cloth over the cuts and scrapes on his chest and shoulders, making sure the wounds were clean.

"It was a good idea," he retorted, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, "I would gladly go through the pain and torment if it meant I could have my way with you."

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, replacing the bandages and checking the stitching on his wounds. He was right, it was nothing serious, just a few torn sutures.

"There," you murmured, stepping back and admiring your work. "Much better."

Daemon grinned and pulled you into his arms and you gently rested your head on his chest. You traced your fingers over his old scars, and the bandages that covered the newer ones, your eyelids growing heavy. He stroked your hair, a soft hum leaving him, reaching for your discarded robe to cover the two of you.

"We'll have to do this more often," he mused, a lazy smile tugging at his lips, as you shifted your head, placing a gentle kiss over the wound on his chest.

"Absolutely not," you replied, a teasing tone in your voice, "you're not allowed to get hurt anymore."

He scoffed, and held you tighter, kissing the top of your head, "I make no promises."

"I thought as much." You smiled, curling up closer to him. "Just promise you'll come back."

"Always." He murmured, closing his eyes and resting his head on yours.

You sighed, letting sleep take you, not wanting to move just yet. It wasn't long before the soft sounds of you and Daemon snoring filled the chambers, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you safe. Like he always did, like he always would.

[enviedear]

𓆰𓆪 what a waste, army dreamers

jacaerys velaryon

- ˏˋ 🎧ྀི 1.3k words, no use of y/n, no specified house, childhood friends to lovers, team black victory!au ˊˎ -

in which the war ends in favor of the realms’ delight and life attempts to return back to what it was before the war—only, you pray a naive oath of love—spoken in haste before the fight grew old—still rings true.

the red keep almost feels like a figment of your imagination. the castle, still reminiscent of your first moons in these halls, and shockingly unchanged by the recent war. you met the seasons again and again away from these walls, waiting for the war to end—a mere girl the last you strode these halls, but the memories are as vivid as ever. glimpses of the past seem etched invisibly in the stone around you, coaxing you back to a time when the world was simpler. before the war had upended everything.

your household's return to the capital had been met with all the formalities expected of a family in favor with the crown. your father, newly appointed to queen rhaenyra’s council, had brought you along.

the red keep was your home once more, yet it felt strangely uncharted and distant—much like the young prince you had once known so well. jacaerys.

he had been a constant in your life, his presence as usual to you as the castle itself. you grew together, shared secrets, and once, when the fight was still young, he had confessed something you're unsure you'll ever be able to forget—“i think i’m in love with you.”

it had been spoken so softly, you remember. the same softness you recall him showing when his duties kept him from you. but his eyes, dark and brimming with a genuine kindness unparalleled by any other, are what you remember most.

those words had hung between the both of you, hearts heavy by the sentiment. you had left him that night with a promise to speak on the matter when the war was over. a practical choice, you had told yourself. but the war had taken longer than anyone anticipated. by the time it was over, everything had changed. he had changed. youth had changed—turned into the morbid realities of maturity, and with it, ended your puerile prayers for the prince.

you hadn’t dared seek him out since your return. so much time had passed, too many things left unsaid. Most of all, you weren’t sure you could face him again without surrendering entirely to what might have been. transfigured into a ghost of the past.

despite your efforts, you know that the castle walls are not large enough for you to evade him forever. no matter how hard you try.

you're standing in front of your chamber door, hand resting on the cool brass handle. the day had been long, filled with courtiers and formalities, and all you've yearned for is a moment of peace. still, you stand there, frozen in place by the steady beat of footfalls. undeniably heading your way.

you hadn’t sought him out. wouldn't have dared.

but he had sought you.

the footsteps echo softly from behind you, and you let out a tense breath. you don't have to turn around to know who it is. his presence still feels as keen as your own shadow.

your name falls from his lips, voice low and rough around the edges. you turn slowly, heart hammering in your chest, and meet his gaze.

jacaerys stands there, just a few paces away, his expression a mix of emotions you can’t read. the moonlight from a nearby window casts soft shadows on his face, underlining the sharp angles and his deep, tempestuous eyes. they've always been able to see through your defenses.

“my prince.” you rush, his title slipping out before you can stop it, habit now.

he withdraws, the reaction so slight you might've missed it if you weren’t watching so closely. “don’t.” he starts, voice softer now, almost pleading. “not when it’s just us.”

you hesitate, a flicker of uncertainty crossing your face. for that moment, everything feels suspended. stuck in that delicate space between what was and what could have been. a space you're all too familiar with.

he takes a tentative step closer, gaze fixed on you as though he fears you might vanish if he moves too quickly. the warmth of his presence is a bright contrast to the cold stone surrounding you, and you find yourself drawn to him, despite the years and the changes that have come between you.

"you're well, i hope?" you ask, the words escaping before you can reconsider. it’s a question laden with too much civility, but it’s all you can manage in the face of his lingering brown eyes.

jacaerys offers a small, rueful smile. "it has been… a challenge." he admits. "but i’ve managed, as has the realm. and now, seeing you here—"

he stops himself as if searching for the right words. you can see the struggle etched across his face, the inner turmoil battling with the calm exterior he tries so very hard to maintain.

"seeing me?" you prompt, gently, eyes softening as you look at him. the years have changed him, but the boy you once knew is still there, just beneath the surface. still sweet and delicate with his words, and playful and jovial in actions.

he exhales slowly, and the breath seems to release the tension in his shoulders, only slightly. "it’s strange." he decides finally. "to see you again after so long. i did not expect—" he shakes his head, frustration evident in his voice. "for it to be this difficult."

the openness in his tone catches you off guard, there's a swirl of bittersweet confusion swimming in your mind.

"it has been difficult for me as well." you confess quietly, your gaze dropping to the floor. "i do not know if you still—"

"still what?" he interrupts, taking yet another step closer. his eyes search yours, filled with a hope that appears fragile and fervent. "if i still care for you?" he finally lets his smile peek through, "i do. i’ve thought of you in every moment and prayed for you in those inbetween."

the sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache, a bittersweet pang that is both reassuring and painful. you look up at him, meeting his eyes with a meld of apprehension and longing.

"i never thought you would." you confide, a hint of a smile touching your lips despite the nervous flutter in your chest. "i conceded to the belief you'd come to forget me."

he reaches out, closing the minimal distance between you, his hand brushing yours in a tender, almost hesitant touch. "i never could." he whispers, voice steadying as he holds your gaze. "i was hurt at the gullet, you know. the maester's said it was the mercy of the gods that let me live." a pause, "but it wasn’t. it was you. i heard your voice, saw your face. no gods, only you. i knew i just had to wait."

your pulse quickens at his words. all at once, you feel the warmth of his hand against yours. such a gentle pressure and still, it seems strong enough to bridge the gap that had grown between you over the many moons apart.

"wait for what?" you question, nearly heady for his words.

he looks at you with a vehemence that makes your heart race, gaze unwavering. "for you." he says softly. "i told you i thought i loved you, and yet it wasn't the truth. i always knew it was as true then as it is now. my love for you seems to come easier than breathing and it always has."

your breath hitches as his words hang in the air, a promise and a confession all at once. the warmth of his hand on yours feels like a lifeline, and for a moment, everything else falls away.

"i don’t know what to say." you admit, voice soft. "it all feels more like a dream."

jacaerys’s eyes soften, and he ambles closer, his hand still gently clasping yours. "it's no dream, issa prūmia." he murmurs, his voice a tender caress. "let me show you that i meant every word. from every moment i spent waiting."

unable to stop yourself, you reach out and cup his cheek in your hand, inclining at the feeling of his warm skin beneath your fingertips. his eyes soften even further at the gesture, a small smile dancing at the corners of his lips.

"i've missed you." you whispered, fingers slipping up to his dark hair. you let yourself card your fingers through the soft tresses—just as you would moons prior.

jacaerys leans into your touch, closing his eyes briefly—as if savoring the moment like a hearty meal. and when he opens them again, they’re gleaming with the same utter adoration you remember so vividly.

[ozai-the-bonsai]

Could you write for Daemon targaryen like currently after all those nightmares in harnehal he finds a prisoner of harnehal as the only person who brings him peace him falling in love with her and trying to be better person he still fights for team black obviously rahaenya is definitely not happy with these arrangements especially seeing him all dedicated all in love some things he never have done for her but she have no option currently rather accepting his second wife though at the end when team black would be winning and fight at harnehal like aemond Vs Daemon she ask for reader's head happy ending at the end please or anything you wanna write I just wanna see Daemon happy in love at end please

Finally I have time for my hobbies again! Sorry I left you waiting for ages, this term the exam season was tougher than what I have been accustomed to… Anyways, I have started writing some stuff and I wanted to post the intro instead of writing a full-length chapter 1 since it would have taken a couple more days (:

As a side note, I honestly have no idea where this story will be headed because I have no clear course planned, I had some little ideas and I just started writing them. Also I will be introducing stuff which is not in the asoiaf universe.

I am continuing to read Silmarillion from where I left off and let’s say the ideas about Daemon’s love interest are… inspired from what I have been reading (; Enjoy!

Memento Mori

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: strong language, I am not a native English speaker, reader is (or will be) described with long hair

This is a very short introduction! Also the chapter is from Daemon’s pov. The title is inspired by Memento Mori by Lamb of God (the song has been a great inspiration for the story so far)

The dungeons of Harrenhal were cold, wet and lonely.

He had no idea when, how and why he had gone down there – one moment, he was in his chambers and the next, he was opening his eyes to the mossy stone walls of the dark dungeons with a torch in his hand. The line between dreams and reality was becoming thinner each day he spent in this cursed castle.

As Daemon walked past the empty cells, he tried to shake off this unsettling feeling lingering around him, dancing on his neck on its tippy toes, making him wonder whether he was indeed alone.

I doubt Simon Strong keeps prisoners down here, he thought while wiping the water from his forehead which was dripping from the broken ceiling. Maybe he has decided to lock up the witch?

Just when the Rogue Prince – correction, the King Consort – was about to turn back and leave the depressing, humid and somewhat eerie atmosphere of the dungeons behind, a soft humming reached his ears.

A soft, sweet humming of a song coming from one of the cells at the very end of the darkness.

“What kind of prisoner is Simon Strong hiding here?” Daemon asked, his voice created echoes as he waved the torch in front of him, trying to cast some light.

The humming stopped immediately, as if the sound itself was cut by a knife.

Daemon’s purple eyes widened upon seeing that the last cell was indeed not empty.

There was a young woman inside, looking at him with her eyes full of curiosity. Her hair had an unearthly shine under the dim moonlight. She tilted her head to the side. “You can see me?” She asked, it was the same soft voice from a moment ago, though the sweetness was no longer there to be felt.

Daemon raised an eyebrow at her direction. “Do people not see you?”

The young woman shook her head, her movements – no matter how simple they were – felt almost too harmonious. “Not normally, it is not intended that I am seen.” Stopping for a moment, she eyed Daemon from head to foot. “You are not really here, are you?”

The raised eyebrow quickly turned into a frown. “What do you mean? I am standing in front of you.”

She shook her head once again. As her soft whisper filled his eyes, Daemon started falling into the nothingness, again, for the unknown-th time ever since he had come to Harrenhal.

“Wake up.”

***

When he woke up, trying to catch his breath, Daemon found himself lying on his bed, as always. Anytime he had one of those weird dreams – he wasn’t even sure if he should call them dreams anymore – his consciousness would find its way back to his bed.

Unless he was daydreaming, which were considerably the worse.

“Who the fuck was that weird woman?” Daemon muttered to himself as he stood up, dressing up in his regular robes. The feeling in his stomach was telling him that he had to go down there, to the dungeons, to find that woman. If he were to wait until dawn, he feared she might be gone.

What was it that she said again? It is not intended she is seen?

Leaving his chambers with a torch in his right hand, Daemon shook his head to the thoughts flowing through his mind, causing his silver hair to move. “Weird woman,” he muttered to himself as he walked through the dark corridors of the castle with haste. “She somehow reminds me of the witch.”

The dungeons were as dark and wet as he remembered from the dream. A cold wind was wandering besides him, kissing the mossy walls and licking Daemon’s skin, sometimes whispering wicked words in his ears. Even the wind was odd here, in Harrenhal, but he had somewhat got used to it – hearing its eerie whispers whenever he walked alone during the hour of the wolf.

“Show yourself,” Daemon spoke with a strong voice which created echoes as he stood in front of that very cell from his dream. “Your king commands it!”

“Huh, king?” The same soft voice answered from the dark corner of her cell. The moonlight had left its shining spot, leaving the torch in Daemon’s hands as the only source of light in this entire corridor of the dungeons. “I answer to no king.”

A condescending scoff left Daemon’s lips as he came closer to the bars made of steel, separating him and the weird woman. “You do live in Westros, do you not?” Daemon asked, not really waiting for an answer. “As long as you breathe in this land, you do answer to the King.”

A chuckle came from the darkness. “I have been breathing in this land before your ancestors flew across the Narrow Sea, Daemon Targaryen.”

Taglist: @throughgoeshamilton @mirandastuckinthe80s @xicesam @mariamyousef702 @eddiemadmunson @dont-try-pesticide @sweetybuzz25 @hc-geralt-23 @schniiipsel @ttae-yong @syrma-sensei @asiludida164 @kaitieskidmore1 @irmavanity-blog @pax-2735 @trickrtreatart @shanzeyxsyed @random-human02 @scarwicht @xcallmetaniax @instabull @niiight-dreamerrrr @my-dark-prince @stargaryenx @abaker74 @babywolff @sonnensplitter @bi-narystars @softtina @sadmonke @avalyaaa

[paulyenvol6]

Ruined

Hiii I'm back :))) I finished my exams and I have a lot more time to write now which I'm looking forward to. I have this one shot that I started in December and just finished writing so I hope you enjoy it <3

Jeyne, a poor common girl, has made the mistake of being caught stealing by Daemon Targaryen. Now she must face the consequences.

Contains: rape, non-con, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, oral (m receiving), fingering, degrading, virginity loss, crying, choking, gagging, anxiety, detailed description of pain and fear, possessiveness, objectification, words like slut and whore, very dark themes, kind of a plot twist

Read with caution!

Wordcount: ~6.73k

Masterlist

It was a warm evening.

Way too warm for the rogue prince's taste and thanks to his heavy armour he was sweating so much that he wished he could just take it off and have a cold bath. But of course he was way too pragmatical to complain about if to himself so he shifted his attention back to the busy market before his eyes.

The sound of laughter, chatter, the screams of children and music filled the air and in any other case perhaps the good mood would've spilled over to him so that he felt excited and animated as well but not tonight. Not when he knew he had to stay here for so many countless minutes more. The thing that bothered him the most was probably the fact that he felt so useless. It wasn't like he was defending his city in brave fights or served as a bearer of justice, no he was walking around beneath that draining sun while watching over commoners who went about their daily tasks such as buying vegetables or spending the evening in a tavern with their friends. He felt almost pathetic like that.

Nothing was happening except a few men hitting each other with bottles of ale and a singer whose ugly voice and incapacity of hitting the right notes had left the audience so unsatisfied that they had started to throw little stones at him. Daemon hadn't even intervened. He was beneath that, he found. He was meant for the battles. When all he could see or taste was hot blood and the adrenaline shot through his veins so quickly that he became dizzy. Seven hells, right now he thought that he was rather meant to be in a pleasure house having his cock sucked than rotting away on his post by the market.

To pass the time Daemon started to think about Dorysa, the blackhaired beauty from Pentos who everyone called Scarlet Fever because of her signiture deep red lips that were such a tempting contrast to her dark skin. She was a whore in his favourite pleasure house in the street of silk and had established herself as one of his favourites. What would he give to be buried inside of her now…

While he daydreamed his eyes lazily wandered over the scene. He yawned open-mouthedly and then his gaze fell on a person with reddish hair that looked like it was glowing in the moonlight. Perhaps that was the very reason why Daemon didn't immediately let his eyes wander further but instead watched her. Because her hair was beautiful, a blonde-gold with an orange tone in it. He smiled and then just wanted to turn his attention to the rest of the people again when suddenly he realized what it was she was doing right now.

This little wench had just stolen something! That was why she had sneaked around so strangely. She had taken something from the merchant's booth and now intended to slip away as inconspicuously as possible. Daemon narrowed his eyes and then without giving it a second thought made his way to the girl. While he approached he stared at the back of her head but when he was only a few feet away she turned around and widened her eyes when she noticed his armour. Swiftly and sleekly as a cat the girl turned to the side and ran towards a little alley that led into the more gloomy and decrepit streets of the city.

The trader shouted a loud "Come back you little bitch!" but Daemon didn't pay attention to him. Instead he followed the girl as quickly as he could and passed the rest of the trader's booths until he entered the alleyway as well. It was dark and he couldn't see a lot but he was able to hear her fast steps on the stone ground. She was fast, yes, but Daemon was faster. She barely made it around a corner when he managed to grab her by her upper arm and stop her. The girl squeaked in surprise and started to hit and push at his upper body at once but his grip was like iron and she didn't stand a chance against him.

"Let me go, seven hells!" she cursed and Daemon watched her helpless attempts while examining her more closely.

Her eyes were somewhere between green and hazel but in the dim light he wasn't sure. She had soft features, high cheekbones and soft-looking lips that were drawn into a pout at the moment. And then there were her blonde-reddish hair of course that fell straight to her chest which rose and fell rapidly right now. Then his eyes wandered up to her face again and he could read her expression as both determined and fearful.

"I didn't do anything, let me go at once," she hissed and squirmed in his grip.

"You stole something."

"I didn't, I swear!" Daemon scoffed and then forcefully reached into the pocket of her linen dress. The girl tried to push him away and hide what laid in her pocket but he managed to grab it and triumphantly held the necklace in the air.

"You didn't?"

She dropped her gaze and thoughtfully chewed on her lower lip.

"Please. I'll give it back, but please don't chop off my hand."

She looked so pathetic and whiny that Daemon had to surpress a smirk. He wouldn't get blinded by her show though so he pulled her closer.

"You know that you have to get punished for this. It's the law, little one."

Her eyes literally begged him and he saw her buttom lip tremble.

"Please, my prince. Please have mercy."

He chuckled quietly. "You're not well educated, girl. Because you should know that I'm not a merciful man."

She tried to fight him again and pushed at his arm in order to make him loosen his grip but of course Daemon just watched her amused.

"What's your name, little one?"

"Jeyne," she whispered almost inaudible.

"Jeyne…," he repeated. "You did something very stupid there, didn't you? And I will have to do something about it."

His voice was low and raspy, almost intimidating and a shiver ran down Jeyne's spine. All of a sudden he started to walk and dragged her with him. She tried to escape and started to shout for help but of course no one would dare help her against the prince of the city.

"What are you doing, let me go!!" she screamed but Daemon simply ignored her complaints and went about his way. She didn't know where he was taking her and that made her feel nervous and panicky. What if he would chop off her hand? That was what the gold cloaks usually did with thieves and this was the rogue prince who was famous for being especially cruel and brutal. Or what if he would kill her?

Jeyne pulled and turned in his grip, hit him with her fist against his chest but he only tightened his hand around her arm while not even looking at her. It was so dark that she couldn't see where he was taking her at first and since she was blind with fear and fright, she had no eyes for her surroundings. Jeyne only realized where they were when Daemon stopped in front of a wooden door which he opened smoothly and dragged her with him.

"What are you doing? Let me go, please."

She hated how weak her voice sounded but at the same time Jeyne was unable to hide her panic. She had no choice but to follow him and then he stopped again once he stood in front of the inn keeper. It was the raven's rest, of course. A place for the more worthy population of king's landing and therefore a place for the prince.

"What is this, what are we doing here?" she demanded to know but was ignored once more.

"My prince. How can I serve you?" The man asked not even looking at the girl he had dragged with him for a second.

"I just need a quiet place. A room preferably."

The inn keeper nodded and bowed his head so low that he almost bumped his head against the counter.

"Of course. You will have the best room of all. Only the best for my prince."

Daemon was immune to his false friendliness and just nodded graciously. Then Jeyne felt herself getting pulled again and her captor roughly and without caring if she got hurt dragged her up the stairs.

"Stop it, what are you doing? Please, I don't want to…"

She squirmed and refused to follow him but if only she was a little stronger because she wasn't able to do anything to fight the rogue prince off. A few seconds later she found herself in front of a door and then in the blink of an eye they were in a room that was quite comfortable and big for an inn.

The walls were made of rough-hewn stone and darkened by years of soot from the hearth below. It was lit, filled the room with a comfortable warmth and the scent of burned cedar got into her nose. There was also a small writing desk and two chairs and a four poster bed that was the center of the room. But that was not where Daemon was heading now because he forcefully pushed Jeyne on one of the two chairs and then towered over her.

"P-Please don't kill me. I swear it upon everything I have, I will never steal again," she whimpered and looked up pleadingly to him with those deer eyes that drove Daemon insane.

"You swear it upon everything you have? You have nothing, little flower. You are nothing but a common stupid little girl who was unwise enough to get caught by me."

"Please," she breathed again and twitched when the prince took hold of her chin.

"You don't think criminals should get punished for their crimes?"

She nodded with wet eyes and her hands anxiously gripped the chair below her.

"They should. But please… Please just don't kill me."

He laughed out and it confused her so much that she forgot about her fear for a moment.

"I'm not gonna kill you, little girl. But you do know what's the punishment for stealing?"

"Yes," she whispered with a trembling buttom lip.

"Say it," Daemon commanded.

"You chop off their hand."

She droped her gaze and just wished with her whole heart that she had stayed home earlier.

"Yes. Do you want that to happen to you?"

She shook her head so quickly that her hair was flying through the air. "N-No, please not."

Daemon smirked and then straightened up to walk around the room.

"Well, that's unfortunate."

"J-Just lock me in a cell for a while…. Or I could work for the merchant I stole from."

He tilted his head at her and then his hand connected with her jaw again.

"No," he hummed and Jeyne felt her heart drop to her legs.

"You're gonna serve me in another way, little flower."

She freezed, couldn't form a thought in her head from feeling so scared when his finger grazed over her skin.

"You're a lovely sight, sweetheart. Has anyone ever had you?"

Jeyne couldn't answer. She feared that she might start to cry if she opened her mouth so she pressed her lips tightly together while the king's brother watched her curiously.

"Has your flower been plucked, little one?"

Her heart was pounding so rapidly that she thought she might die and Jeyne dug her nails into the palms of her hands in an attempt to get rid of some of the fear and chaos in her stomach. She replied to him by shaking her head slightly and Daemon chuckled contently.

"I thought so. A pure little innocent thing like you wouldn't give herself to a man before marriage, isn't that right? Though you're very far away form being innocent."

Jeyne squeezed her eyes as she felt his hand traveling down to her neck and then his fingers stroke the thin and sensitive skin there.

"You really are a little flower. So vulnerable and pretty. And so ready to be plucked."

Her fear was now overshadowed by a panic creeping up in her belly that spread all over her body and made her see white.

"Please, no, my prince, don't do it, please. I'm begging you, just don't – "

Jeyne squirmed on the chair trying to fight him off but was caught off when he wrapped a hand around her throat.

"You know better than to do this, girl," he sighed and his green eyes flashed with anger and amusement which was an odd combination.

"You deserve this. You broke the law. You took something that isn't yours and now I'm gonna take something that isn't mine but I'll make it mine. Consider this your punishment."

A croaked gasp left her throat and her face started to redden while he tigthened his hand around her neck. She tried to peel his hand off by pulling at it but Daemon made her suffer a little longer before he loosened his grip. Jeyne greedily inhaled the dry air in the room and a single tear ran down her face.

"On your knees. Now," he hissed but she painfully shook her head trying to activite any kind of pity or humanity in the prince.

"Please, my prince, I'm supposed to save myself for marriage… And I'm scared…," she cried and Daemon forcefully pulled the girl to the stone floor. Her knees achingly brushed over the floor but she really had bigger problems right now so she ignored the sting.

"You should be grateful I let you off this easily. I could have your hands for what you did. And you're lucky to be taken by a dragon, little flower. It's an honour for a filthy little common girl like you."

Jeyne tried to stand up to flee from him but he just grabbed her hair and pushed her down again.

"Ohh sweetling, there's no need to make this that hard."

"Fuck you," she spat angrily. "Let me go, I don't want this."

Daemon brushed over her hair in a gentle way and it only made her even angrier. "Shh. Be quiet and open your mouth."

Her mouth tensed and she determindely pressed her lips together.

"I'm not gonna open my mouth for you, you little bastard," Jeyne hissed but then she let out a gasp when Daemon smacked her across the face.

"One more disrespectful word out of your slutty mouth and you'll regret ever raising your voice to me."

His voice sounded so cold that something inside tightened and her next words got stuck in her throat.

"Good. Now open your mouth."

That, Jeyne wouldn't do. She would never let him enter her mouth let alone be used to his liking.

"No," she breathed which earned her another slap.

"Do it now. You forget that this is your punishment for a crime that you've committed. You'd be smart to obey me or you'll face much worse and more painful conequences."

Daemon's fingers suddenly enclosed around her nose so the air entering her body was cut off. In a matter of seconds Jeyne realized why he was doing it but she remained stubborn and refused to open up for him.

"Open, little flower. You have no choice."

When she finally accepted that she would have to open her mouth soon because she'd suffocate otherwise Jeyne parted her lips just a tiny bit so she could swallow some fresh air but to her misfortune Daemon seized his chance and pushed two fingers past her lips.

"There we go, sweet girl. Oh and you have such a warm perfect fucking mouth. I know it will feel so good around my cock."

He had grown more eager now with the prospect of inserting himself into this heavenly warmth so he quickly and singlehandedly loosened the belt and then his pants to free his already half-hardened cock. But once his manhood was exposed he felt a sting in his hand and pulled it away from the girl.

"Fuck," he cursed watching the blood leak from the spot where she had bitten him.

Jeyne took advantage of the situation and quick as the wind jumped to her feet and made her way to the door. This was her only chance to escape, she would rush downwards and then through the streets of king's landing. No matter where, just away from Daemon.

But the thoughts about her plan were cut off when she was suddenly pulled back before she even could reach the door. A desperate and frustrated cry left her mouth and she felt how the prince dragged her down to her knees again. Then he clenched his hand around her chin and the angered expression on his face made her fear the consequences of her attempt.

"Stupid little slut. You think you can escape from me? I will fuck your little hole, no matter if you're willing or not. You've got yourself in this position, don't forget that."

He forcefully opened her jaw and pushed his cock past her lips. It was so sudden and powerful that she was unable to fight back and Daemon let out a deep groan.

"Oh seven hells."

He had his eyes closed and fully ignored the way Jeyne tried to move away from his member. He was heavy and veiny and tasted a little salty. She had never seen a cock before let alone had one in her mouth and the fact that he and not her future husband was the first one to do these things with her brought tears to her eyes.

But that was not the only thing bothering her. Daemon bruised her throat at a quick pace and hit the back of it every time which left her gagging and choking. She wanted to get away and make him pull back but Daemon held her head in place while taking what he wanted.

"Yeah, that's a good girl. You have a good fucking mouth. Who would've thought?"

Jeyne let out a cry and pushed against his thighs in order to get him to leave her alone but Daemon just laughed about her attempts.

"You're gonna take it, sweetheart. And you know you deserve it after what you've done. You can be glad that I haven't chopped your dirty little hands off."

He was so deep inside of her mouth that his balls pressed against her face and Jeyne felt like throwing up. She choked and felt tears rolling down her face but of course the prince didn't pay any attention to it. He just growled to himself and looked down to the kneeling girl while smirking crookedly.

Daemon didn't last long. He had found a liking in the little common girl and was more than pleased with the way she felt around his cock and so after merely a couple of minutes that had felt like hours to Jeyne he hissed sharply, threw his head back and then his seed shot down her throat. She gasped surprised and instinctively tried to make his cock slip out but but Daemon wanted to make sure that she swallowed everything so he held her head with both hands and sighed contently as he looked down to her.

"Oh seven hells," he moaned and ran his right hand over her soft hair.

He still wouldn't let go off her so Jeyne desperately looked up to him which almost made his cock swell again. And then he finally loosened his grip on her head and she immediately brought distance between them to cough and deeply inhale fresh air. She was a sight, Daemon thought. Her hair was messy and stood in all directions and her eyes looked glossy and like she was far away with her thoughts. His assault had made her cheeks turn red and of course the wetness on her face was well visible.

"Come here," Daemon spoke a little softer now and reached out to grab her arms.

"N-No," she coughed and hit his arm but he just picked her up as if she weighed nothing and carried her to the bed.

"You wanna do this the hard way, huh?" he spitted and threw her on the mattress.

Instead of pinning her down at once Daemon stood next to the bed and towered over her watching her with arched eyebrows. For a moment Jeyne was too frightened to try and flee again so she looked up to him with wide eyes instead.

"You have two options now, babygirl. I'm either gonna prepare your tight cunt for me or I'll just take you like this which will be a lot more painful for you. It depends on you. If you continue to be such an ungrateful bitch I swear I'll shove my cock inside you and press your head in the cushions so I don't have to listen to your pathetic crying and screaming."

To say she was frightened was an understatement. Jeyne couldn't get a word out and just silently watched him while he climbed onto the bed. Daemon thought that he perhaps had broken her now because she didn't fight back when he crawled to lay on top of her. Yet he wanted didn't want to give her too much space to resist which was why he took both her wrists in one of his big hands and pinned them above her head. A single tear rolled down her flushed cheeks which Daemon wiped away with his pointer finger.

"Don't cry, sweetheart," he whispered. "I like seeing your tears way too much."

His smirk made her let out a sob but he quickly surpressed it by pressing his lips on hers. In the meantime his hands came down to find more naked skin and soon he couldn't wait any longer. He had barely seen anything of her so he clenched his hands around the fabric covering her chest and ripped it apart. Jeyne jolted and her hands instinctively covered her breasts which Daemon commented with a dissatisfied scoff. He pinned her hands down once more while regarding her upper body.

It was too much for her, the way his eyes flashed and this mischievious look on his face that screamed: 'I'm thinking about all the things that I want to do to you.' Jeyne squeezed her eyes as though it would make her disappear and only opened them again when she felt a big hand cupping and then kneading her left breast. His hand was cold and rough and she felt herself getting goosebumps.

"You have some pretty tits," he growled and even if it was supposed to be a compliment it only made the lump in her throat thicken. She felt the urge to run and push him back and wash his touch and scent off her body.

"Please," she whimpered because although she knew that Daemon was as cruel as a man could be she hoped that she would be able to move a little something in him.

"Please don't. I'm scared."

Her voice was so thin and quiet that he had to tilt his head in order to hear her. His hand slowly approached her body and Jeyne tensed fearing what he would do. But he gently stroke the side of her face and held her almost as if she was made of glass.

"Shhh," was all he said and then Jeyne shrieked again as she felt how Daemon ripped her dress further so it loosely hang around her belly. He took advantage of her surprise and pulled it down until her whole body was bare underneath his gaze and it was so much to take in that the prince needed a second to collect himself.

"Gods be good," he hummed and started to slowly draw circles on her stomach. "Aren't you a pretty little thing? Can't wait to make this body all mine."

Before Jeyne was able to protest he had forced a hand between her legs and she didn't stand a chance when Daemon spread them. Suddenly she was filled with a new determination to make him stop which probably was caused by her body realizing that she was in great danger right now because her legs started to kick him and her whole body twitched and turned. He reacted quickly though.

"Stupid slut," he cursed and pressed with his one hand on her hips while his other squeezed her neck. "I thought I made myself clear."

She wasn't able to keep up her fighting for long and soon she fell back on the bed again. Daemon wasn't done with punishing her though because he threatingly flared his nostrils without saying anything which only made her feel even more anxious. His hand stayed around her neck while he went back to spreading her legs by pushing a knee between them. Jeyne's eyes filled with tears as she felt the coldness of his skin against her thighs. She mumbled something that he couldn't understand but it sounded like a desperate cry that made his eyes darken with lust.

This was the moment when Jeyne understood something. This was exactly what he wanted. He got off on seeing her cry and struggle. The thing he enjoyed the most about all of this was the power in it. She was a poor common girl without any power in this world. There was nothing she was able to do against him and Daemon would never face justice for his actions which he knew. Because he was Daemon Targaryen, commander of the city watch and brother to the king. He could do whatever he wanted and Jeyne could do nothing but endure it. By crying and begging she only fueled his desire because it made him aware of the power he held over her at this moment.

Jeyne was snapped back to reality when his hand cupped her sex. She wanted to scream and cry and let out her desperation but she forced herself not to. She simply didn't want to give him the satisfaction and she definitely didn't want to give him what he wanted. So her lips were pressed together and the only sign of her fear were the tears spilling from her eyes every few seconds. She was still and stiff when his finger ran up and down her slit to find that she was dry as a desert.

"Poor girl," Daemon whispered and his free hand enclosed around her chin. "You don't like that?"

Jeyne didn't know if she was supposed to answer and she especially didn't know if she wanted to answer. But eventually her frustration took over and she rapidly shook her head.

"N-No," she said with her shivering voice.

He nodded as if he actually understood and his finger wandered up to her pearl. The girl's lower lip trembled and Daemon precisely watched her face while he started to rub it in tight circles.

"N-No," she repeated and pushed at his arm between her legs.

"Yes," he answered and didn't seem to care about her attempt to get rid of him. "Wanna see this cunt taking my fingers. You can be happy about it. You know I initially wanted to give you a special treat with my tongue but you have missed your chance by behaving like a bratty bitch."

Jeyne didn't know if he had actually punished with this but she didn't think about it for long because suddenly Daemon pushed a finger inside of her hole that was still far from being soaked. She had definitely already experienced more painful things but still it felt aching and uncomfortable so she jolted away from his hand.

"No, you're gonna take it," he breathed against her hand. "You're gonna take it like an obedient whore. And then you're gonna take my cock. The only fucking reason why I'm doing this is so you won't soak these sheets with your blood once I shove my cock inside of you."

His thumb now pressed into her bundle of nerves and Jeyne hated the way she felt a heat rising in her cheeks. Why did her body betray her like this? She despised everything about what was happening here right now but no matter how hard she tensed and tried to move away from him soon she heard a wet noise every time Daemon's finger moved inside of her. Of course the prince noticed it as well.

"What's that, mhm? You like this, don't you?" he chuckled and added a second finger.

For a moment Jeyne tensed and felt a painful stretch in her core but he didn't hesitate for a second and cruelly moved the two digits to scissor her open.

"I thought you despised this. And now I suddenly have you dripping for me? You're a filthy cock-hungry slut. Worthless and pathetic. Only good thing about you are your holes."

It actually sounded like he hated her and despite feeling just the same way about him Jeyne had a dark and bitter feeling in her stomach. She was so scared of this man who was a lot stronger than her and was able to do anything he wanted to her right now. No one would save her or come looking for her here.

Her body stiffened which Daemon felt in the way she clenched around him and he slapped her cunt roughly before going back to fingering her. He was eager now, blind with the desire for her tight hole that he was sure would feel so good clenching around him. She was already hugging his fingers so perfectly and he could only imagine what it would do to his cock.

He continued his assault on her pearl and in her hole for a few more minutes but then Daemon grew too impatient. He drew away from her core and when his hand came down to wrap around his shaft Jeyne eye's sprang open.

"N-No, no, no, please."

She didn't care about begging now, didn't care if she was giving him what he desired rather than being able to make a difference. Fear clouded her senses and she just had to put everything into making him stop. She only now realized how big he actually was and how uncomfortable this would be. His fingers had been nothing in comparison.

"Please," Jeyne pleaded and tears fell down to her cheeks. "Please, it's so big and it's gonna hurt so badly, please… I don't want it, don't make me."

Daemon sighed and a smirk appeared on his voice while he leaned down to press a kiss on her brow.

"Oh sweet girl…," he cooed and ran the tip of his cock over her pearl. "Do you think this will hurt more than getting your hand chopped off?"

Jeyne only whimpered in surprised and shrieked when his hand made contact with her cheek.

"Answer me," he ordered.

"N-No I-I don't think s-so," she replied to his question and closed her eyes in desperation when his hand soothingly caressed where he had hit her.

"That's right. So you should be grateful I'm doing this."

"B-But please…. P-Please be g-gentle. I'm scared."

Daemon pouted sarcastically and kissed her cheek. "Oh I will, babygirl. Why do you think I prepared you for me?"

Jeyne didn't know whether he was mocking her or actually telling the truth but there was no time for her to think about it further because then his cock applied pressure on her hole and he started to work his tip inside of her. It hurt so much that she held her breath for a moment. Perhaps the wetness leaking from her hole made this better but she still felt like he was ripping her apart. She couldn't even say anything and complain. All she could do was stare up to him with wide eyes while Daemon worked himself inside of her inch by inch.

"Fuck…. Oh fucking hells, that's right," he moaned with closed eyes. "Gonna tear my fucking cock off, gods be good."

Jeyne just hoped that it wouldn't take him long to finish so she was freed from this unbearable pain as quickly as possible but she couldn't rely on that so she closed her eyes while forcing herself to breathe. It hurt like hell and she felt like her insides were being tortured but she would do this. She had experienced a lot of shitty things in her past and this one wouldn't bring her down. 'Just breathe,' she told herself. 'Don't cry and don't beg because this is exactly what he wants.'

Another part of her urged her to just let out all of her emotions because perhaps this would make him finish faster but Jeyne couldn't let him humiliate her like this. A little amount of dignity was actually left inside of her and she rather would want him to continue his assault a few more minutes than give him the satisfaction to see her so vulnerable and weak.

He was fully inside of her now and Jeyne had to surpress a sob. He was so big that she felt his veins grazing her walls and she didn't know how his cock fitting inside of her was physically possible. Her core was pulsating and all of her senses were on alert because of the intrusion. She dug her nails into the palms of her own hands, anything to direct her attention to something else rather than the intense pain in her center.

Daemon on the other hand dropped his head to his chest and enjoyed feeling her tight walls hugging his cock. He inhaled a few times before backing out of her a little and then forcefully pushed back inside. Jeyne couldn't surpress a gasp and new tears formed in her eyes.

"Yes that's right," he grunted. "What a good fucking cunt. Knew you had to be good for some things."

His degrading words suddenly filled her with anger and she opened her mouth to hiss something at him but Daemon was faster. He pressed a hand on her mouth surpressing whatever it was she had wanted to say and watched her dangerously.

"Can't listen to your annoying voice anymore. Just stay fucking quiet and lay still. S'all I ask of you."

He now started to fuck her at a steady pace that made her eyes widen every time he filled her to the brim. It was so far from feeling good that Jeyne wondered how women were actually enjoying this. Or was this simply because Daemon didn't want her to feel good? His hand on her mouth loosened a little and a smirk formed on his face.

"Don't you hold back, little one," he whispered lowly and ran his thumb over her lip. "Wanna see you cry those pretty tears. I know it hurts, angel. Let me hear how much."

With a sharp thrust in her core he forced a little whine out of her and her facade crumbled.

"N-No," she cried again and she turned her head to the side just so she wouldn't have to look at him anymore. But Daemon hummed disapprovingly and he connected his hand to her chin to adjust her to his liking.

"You can't escape from me, sweetling. You're gonna take it. You're gonna take all of it because you don't have a fucking choice."

His thrusts became more intense now and Jeyne had to bite her bottom lip in order to hide the pain she was feeling.

"Gonna fill you up with my seed. Make your pretty little body swollen and claim you. You're mine from now on." His hand started to toy with her breasts and nipples while his other was occupied with holding her hips now.

"Every time another man will take you you will remember that it was me who took your innocence. It was me who defiled and ruined you. You'll remember my touch, my hands on your body and my cock in your cunt."

He picked up his speed even more and Jeyne was too exhausted to hold anything back so she twitched and whined every time his cock bruised her walls. Her core ached and burned and all she wanted was to get a minute of peace but she knew better than to try and stop him. His grip on her hips and chest was firm and Jeyne just closed her eyes praying that he would release soon.

And he did. After another few minutes he let out little growls and his thrusts became sloppy and then Daemon finally collapsed on top of her and pressed her into the bed with the weight of his body.

"Fuck…," was all he managed to grunt before he stopped pushing into her and laid still on top of her.

Jeyne stiffly waited and counted the seconds until he would finally release her but he took his time. Panting heavily he thrusted into her again to make sure his seed stayed inside of her and then he pulled himself out. It burned at first and she pressed her legs together but soon it faded and for the first time in what had felt like hours her core was able to relax a little.

She turned her head to the side so she didn't have to look at him and this time Daemon actually let her. He sighed deeply and then slowly rolled himself off her.

"Oh gods be good. Who would've thought that this was exactly what I needed tonight."

It sounded like he was speaking to himself so Jeyne didn't bother to answer him and instead stared at the wall next to her. Daemon grabbed his clothes from the floor and got dressed while he watched her with a smirk that she couldn't see. Once he was done he approached the bed again and Jeyne who heard his steps coming closer cramped.

"I'll let you go, little girl. But only because your cunt was so fucking tight."

He slapped her arse twice without Jeyne looking at him and then straightened up. She anxiously waited and just prayed that he would finally leave the room but it was so quiet in the room that she only heard her own heavy breathing.

"Do not get ungrateful now, you little whore," he whispered dangerously. "You will be a good girl and properly say goodbye to your prince while looking at him."

Jeyne felt numb from the fear taking over her and slowly turned her head although everything inside her tensed up.

"Goodbye, my prince," she breathed and waited for his reaction.

Daemon drew his mouth in a smirk and then his hand came down to her arse one more time.

"There you go. And if you'll steal again make sure you'll do it during my watch."

With these words the rogue prince finally left the room. Jeyne waited and listened to his steps that became more quiet until everything was silent. Only then did she get up and put on the clothes that were ready for her on the table. She smiled softly and then rushed to the door to open it energetically only to look into her husband's face that was drawn with a crooked smile.

"How did I do?" he whispered and Jeyne chuckled.

"Almost too good," she breathed and Daemon gently pushed her back until they were back inside the room.

"I feel like I should be concerned by your desire to have me chase you and then pretend to take you against your will, darling."

She rolled her eyes and wrapped her arms around his back.

"Noooo don't overthink it," Jeyne giggled and kissed his cheek.

"How did I do as a common girl?" she then asked.

"You know exactly how well you did," Daemon hissed with small eyes and held the side of her face.

"Would you be open to do it again?" Jeyne begged him with her eyes and took his hand into hers.

He pretended to think but deep down she knew that he wouldn't refuse her. He never could.

"Maybe," he eventually sighed and leaned down to kiss her.

[theonottsbxtch]

A FUTURE WORTH LIVING | CS55

an: this was a request from @carlossainzapologist and RAHHHHH they’ve given me so many ideas chat be ready to be blown up on here please enjoy knight!carlos

wc: 3.6k

The castle walls were always cold at night, the chill seeping into her bones no matter how many fires roared in the hearth. She stood at the balcony, the silk of her gown whispering against the stone as the wind tangled itself in her hair. Below, the training yard was empty, save for one figure—Carlos.

He moved like the ocean, each swing of his blade fluid and unyielding. Moonlight danced along the edge of his sword, casting fleeting shadows that seemed to mock her. She had watched him countless nights like this, a silent penance for the sin of her love. The knight was hers in duty, bound to protect her with his life, but not in the way her heart so desperately craved.

She clenched the railing, the cool stone biting into her palms. Tomorrow, she would stand before an altar, draped in gold and jewels, and vow her life to a man she barely knew. A prince who was everything a kingdom could hope for—noble, strong, diplomatic. And yet, she could barely remember the color of his eyes.

Carlos, on the other hand... She could sketch the curve of his jaw from memory, trace the faint scar that cut through his brow with her fingertips. But he had never once looked at her as though she were anything more than his charge.

She turned away, unwilling to let the tears fall where they might be seen, even by the night.

“Your Highness,” his voice broke through the stillness, low and rough, sending a shiver down her spine.

She hadn’t heard him climb the stairs. “Carlos,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady.

He stood in the doorway, his armor glinting faintly in the moonlight. “It’s late. You should rest.”

She laughed softly, bitterly. “Rest will not come easily tonight.”

He hesitated, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You’ve...much to think about, I’m sure.”

Her heart twisted at his careful tone, the way he avoided her gaze. “Do you ever think about what it might be like to leave all of this behind?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Carlos stepped closer, and for a moment, she thought he might say something—something that could shatter the fragile balance they had maintained for years. But instead, he bowed his head.

“My duty is here,” he said, his words as unyielding as the steel he wielded. “With you, always.”

And wasn’t that the cruelest part of all?

She turned back to the balcony, desperate to hide the tremble in her lips. His words echoed in her mind, a hollow comfort and a deeper torment. With you, always. But never in the way she longed for.

“Duty,” she murmured, tasting the bitterness of the word. “And what of desire, Carlos? Do you ever think of what you want?”

The question hung between them like a blade poised to strike. She didn’t expect him to answer; he never did. He was a master of restraint, trained to subdue his every impulse, his every want, for the sake of the kingdom.

But this time, he faltered.

“I have no right to want,” he said at last, his voice tight with something she couldn’t quite name.

She spun to face him, her heart pounding. The stoic knight who had stood at her side for years, unflinching, unyielding, looked...fractured. His jaw was clenched, his hands trembling at his sides, as though holding himself back from something he couldn’t afford to let loose.

“Everyone has the right to want,” she said, taking a step closer. Her voice was steadier now, emboldened by the crack in his armour. “Even you, Carlos.”

He shook his head, “It’s late, Your Highness,” he said, his voice cold again, the mask he wore sliding back into place. “You should go to bed.”

Her heart stuttered.

“I…” She swallowed, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. “Carlos, I—”

“Please,” he interrupted, his voice a little softer but still firm. “It’s been a long day. You need rest. Tomorrow, I’ll be here to take you to your wedding.”

The words stung, sharper than any blade. Your wedding.

Her chest tightened. She nodded, but it was a hollow motion, an empty gesture. “Of course,” she whispered, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. “I will go to bed.”

Carlos didn’t move, didn’t speak, as she turned away, her steps heavy as she walked past him and into her chambers. His silence followed her like a shadow, and when the door clicked shut behind her, the walls seemed to close in.

She collapsed onto her bed, the weight of the night pressing down on her chest. The tears came then, hot and relentless, streaking down her face. She buried her face in the pillow, her sobs muffled by the soft fabric, but the pain was no less real. How many years had she spent in this prison of her own making? How many nights had she wondered if he felt the same? And now, she had the answer.

He had never loved her. Not like that.

The cruelest part was that she had always known it. He had always kept his distance, had always put up that invisible wall between them. But tonight—tonight, she had hoped for something different. A sign. A glimpse of what could be. But instead, he had pushed her away, as he always did. As he was bound to.

And tomorrow, she would marry a prince. Not Carlos.

The thought was suffocating.

She cried until the tears were spent, her body aching with grief. The room, the bed, the very air around her felt like a tomb. Eventually, exhaustion overtook her, but sleep was fitful, filled with dreams of a life she would never have.

When the morning came, bright and cruel, she woke to the sound of birds outside the window. The sun was already rising, casting its light on a future she was powerless to change.

The day had come.

She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her chamber, staring at the reflection of the woman she was supposed to be. The dress—gold and white, sparkling like the dawn—felt like a weight, a gilded cage around her body. Her hair, braided intricately, was pinned perfectly in place, but her heart was a mess of tangled threads she couldn’t untangle. She had spent the last few hours preparing, her hands trembling with the knowledge of what was to come. The crown, the prince, the vows.

But as she looked into her own eyes, she saw only a woman who had never been allowed to choose her own fate.

Her father’s voice echoed from outside the door. “It’s time, my daughter.”

She closed her eyes, fighting back the tears.

When she stepped into the hall, the air seemed to thicken with the weight of expectation. The guests were already seated, whispering amongst themselves, all of them dressed in their finest clothes, their faces a blur of curiosity and anticipation. The music began to play softly, and her heart raced in response.

She could feel every eye on her as she made her way down the aisle, each step feeling heavier than the last. The golden carpet stretched out before her like a path to a life she had never wanted but had been told to accept. Her father’s arm was warm and steady at her side, but his grip felt more like a shackle than a reassurance.

And then, she saw him.

The prince stood at the altar, tall and regal in his embroidered cloak, his expression composed but his eyes glimmering with the excitement of their union. He was a handsome man, noble, with a smile that promised safety, security. But it was a smile she had never truly felt for.

The thought of marrying him—of giving herself over to someone who had always been a stranger to her—gnawed at her insides.

She caught sight of her people sitting in the pews, the nobles, the courtiers, their faces filled with eager expectation. The kingdom was relying on her. They all expected this—her duty to marry and secure the future of their land. And she had always known it was her responsibility, her burden, to uphold this legacy. But today, as she walked closer to the prince, closer to the altar, something inside her broke.

This wasn’t her life to choose. This was a life written for her before she had even taken her first breath.

Her heart pounded as she neared the altar. The prince’s eyes were fixed on her now, his smile widening. He reached out, eager to take her hand, to finalize the union that had been arranged for years. But something inside her snapped.

She looked to her father, his face a mask of pride and expectation. And then, she whispered—her voice trembling but resolute, despite the tears that threatened to spill.

“I can’t.”

The words were quiet, but the silence that followed felt deafening. Her father’s face faltered, the confusion and anger flashing in his eyes as the entire room fell into stunned silence.

“I can’t do this,” she said again, louder this time, her breath shaking. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Before anyone could stop her, she turned. Her gown swished in the air as she fled from the altar, her heart pounding with every step, every beat screaming to be free. The room erupted in chaos, gasps of shock and whispers of disbelief. Her father’s furious voice called after her, but she didn’t look back.

She ran down the aisle, past the stunned guests, toward the doors. The weight of their eyes was suffocating, but it wasn’t enough to make her stop.

But then, as she reached the doors, she heard it—the sound of footsteps, fast and urgent. A figure pushed through the crowd, his heavy armour clanking as he moved with determination.

Carlos.

Her breath hitched as he came to a stop in front of her, his face flushed with exertion but his eyes filled with something softer—something she hadn’t dared to hope for.

He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t need to. The world had stopped, leaving only the two of them.

“Carlos,” she whispered, her heart thundering in her chest.

He looked at her, his gaze gentle but firm. “You’re not alone,” he said, his voice low, raw. “I’ll be here. Always.”

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she allowed herself to breathe, to feel something that was her own.

He reached out, taking her hand with a tenderness she hadn’t dared dream of.

“Come with me,” he urged quietly.

Without a second thought, she nodded, her heart finally free of the chains that had bound it for so long.

Carlos led her swiftly through the palace, his hand firm around hers as they moved with purpose. The chaos of the wedding behind them still echoed in the corridors, muffled voices and heavy footsteps trailing in their wake, but they were already a world apart.

He knew every hidden corner of the palace. Every secret passageway and forgotten alcove. He had trained here for years, had wandered these halls long before he had become her protector. Now, as he led her through a narrow, unlit hallway, his grip tightened, a silent promise that he would never let her go.

They reached a small, inconspicuous door at the end of the hall, tucked away in the shadow of a grand staircase. With a glance over his shoulder, Carlos pushed the door open, revealing a small room that had been untouched by the outside world for as long as either of them could remember.

The walls were lined with old tapestries, their colors faded with time, and the floor was covered in a thick rug. There were no windows—no light except for the soft glow of torches on the far wall. The air was thick with dust, but it felt safer than any grand chamber in the palace. Here, in this forgotten corner, they could be hidden from everything, from everyone.

He closed the door behind them, the click of the lock sounding final.

For a moment, they both stood in silence, catching their breath. She was still in her wedding gown, the fabric bunched around her legs, her chest rising and falling with each breath. His hands were still warm from the grip he had kept on her, his fingers now twitching with the need to touch her again.

Carlos took a step closer, the heat between them building. His eyes searched hers, full of questions, but also something deeper—something he had fought to conceal for years.

She swallowed, her voice barely a whisper. “What now?”

Carlos didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out, his hand gently brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His touch was hesitant, as if he were afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly.

“I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. “I didn’t mean to make you run. But I couldn’t let you do this, not when I knew you weren’t ready.”

Her heart skipped at the weight of his words. He knew her. Truly knew her.

“You should’ve let me go,” she whispered, her voice strained. “You should’ve stayed out of it. This is not our fight.”

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “It’s always been our fight, Your Highness. I’ve watched you—” His voice faltered as if the confession had come too suddenly. “I’ve watched you give everything for this kingdom, for your people, for your father. But it was never your choice, was it? Not once. And I couldn’t bear to watch you live a life you didn’t want.”

The words were like a dagger to her chest, but they were also freeing. For the first time in her life, someone saw her, truly saw her—beyond the princess, beyond the duty. He saw her heart.

“I don’t want to marry him,” she said, the words coming out with a rush of emotion she hadn’t allowed herself to feel until now. “I never did.”

Carlos stepped closer, his breath mingling with hers. “Then don’t. Not now. Not ever.”

She looked up at him, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name. “But what do we do now, Carlos? What’s left for us?”

He didn’t hesitate. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to spill from her eyes. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you. Whatever you need, I’ll be there. Always.”

And in that moment, everything that had been left unsaid, all the years of longing and silence, came crashing down.

Carlos leaned in, his lips brushing against hers for the briefest of moments, tentative, searching. She gasped, her heart racing as she finally let herself feel everything she had been holding back. She kissed him back, her hands moving up to his chest, tugging at the fabric of his tunic, desperate to feel him closer.

The kiss deepened, their bodies pressed against one another as though they were two halves of a whole, finally coming together. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her flush against him as his mouth claimed hers with a fierce urgency.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, her breath coming in short gasps as the heat between them intensified, the room spinning with a mixture of passion and desperation.

She had imagined this moment a thousand times—dreamed of it in the silence of her heart—but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. The way his hands burned against her skin, the way his lips moved over hers with a hunger that matched her own.

Carlos pulled back for a moment, his forehead resting against hers, both of them gasping for air. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“I’ve always wanted this,” she confessed, her voice trembling.

And without another word, they kissed again, this time with a fierceness that spoke of all the years they had spent apart, of all the moments they had lost. In that hidden room, within the walls of the palace that had confined them both, they were finally free.

Just as their kiss deepened once more, a sharp, urgent knock at the door shattered the fragile moment between them. The sound echoed in the small room like a warning bell.

She pulled away immediately, her heart leaping into her throat as she scrambled to straighten herself. The panic rose within her, hot and suffocating. What if it was her father? What if the whole palace had come after her?

Carlos, too, immediately stepped back, his expression flickering between concern and irritation. He moved toward the door swiftly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though it wasn’t drawn. His eyes met hers for a brief moment, and in that glance, there was no need for words. They both knew they were far from safe.

The knock came again, louder this time, followed by a low voice from the other side.

“Carlos? Open the door. It’s Lando.”

Her heart skipped. Lando—one of the knights she recognised from the court. He had always been polite, professional, and loyal to her family, but what was he doing here?

Carlos hesitated for only a moment before he reached for the latch and opened the door. Lando stood there, his expression tense, eyes scanning the room quickly. He wasn’t wearing his armor, but he was still dressed in the colors of the royal guard, his dark cloak billowing slightly behind him.

“Carlos,” Lando began, his voice low but urgent, “I’ve heard the rumors. Your princess...she’s gone?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away, his gaze still fixed on Lando, weighing the situation.

“Yes,” Carlos said, his voice steady but tinged with something like defiance. “She’s with me. No one else knows of this.”

Lando nodded, glancing quickly at her—still in her wedding gown, eyes wide with fear—and then back at Carlos.

“Good,” Lando said, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “I’m not here to make trouble. I’m here to get you both out.”

The words struck her like a bolt of lightning. “Get us out?” Her voice trembled, the reality of what that could mean slowly sinking in. “Where? How? They’ll come for us. The entire palace…”

Lando closed the door behind him with a soft thud, cutting off the room’s only escape from the chaos outside. He leaned against the door, his hands steady. “I have a plan. I know the back routes. I can get you on a train, to the border. The prince and your father will have no idea you’ve gone. But we need to move now, before they realise what’s happened.”

Carlos turned to her, his eyes dark with unspoken emotion, but this time there was no hesitation. He wasn’t waiting for her to choose anymore.

But she was frozen, her mind racing. The weight of everything was bearing down on her—her family, the kingdom, her future. She had run away from her wedding, run away from the life she had been promised. It wasn’t just a momentary flight of passion. This was real, and there would be no going back.

Her heart was torn between the life she had been forced into and the man standing in front of her. She had always known she was meant for something more, but this—this escape—felt so final. So dangerous.

The room seemed to close in around her, the walls pressing against her chest as she breathed in sharp, ragged breaths.

“I can’t... I can’t do this,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

Carlos took a step toward her, his hand gentle on her arm. “You don’t have to decide now, but we don’t have time. They’ll find us, and they’ll make sure you marry him. You’ve already decided you can’t go through with that. So what are you going to do? Stay here, be forced into a life you never wanted?”

The words stung, but they were true. She had always been the dutiful daughter, the princess. She had always done what was expected. But this—this was hers.

She looked at Lando, then back at Carlos. The decision was there, right in front of her.

The chaos of the wedding, the pressure of her family’s expectations, the silence she had lived in for so long—it all came rushing to the surface. She didn’t have time to think anymore.

Fuck it.

The thought shot through her mind like a spark to kindling.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice steady now, her decision final.

Carlos’ eyes softened, relief flooding through him. He reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly. “You won’t regret this.”

“I already have,” she replied, a wild grin breaking across her face. “But this... this is my choice.”

Lando smiled, and with a quick nod, he moved toward the door. “We’ll need to move fast. You two better follow me.”

Carlos took her hand, guiding her toward the door, but before they stepped into the unknown, she paused for a moment.

“Carlos,” she whispered. He turned to her, his hand resting on her back. She looked at him with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. “Are you sure? Will you stay with me? I... I don’t want to be alone in this.”

Carlos stepped closer, his voice firm. “You’re not alone. I will always be here.”

And with that, they followed Lando through the dark corridors of the palace, the sound of their footsteps fading into the distance.

They were no longer bound by duty, by royal expectation, by anything but their own desire for freedom. And in that moment, they realised that together, they could forge a new path—one they chose.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby

[killersandy]

Power of the Moonlight Stones

Another TPOTMS art by me.

[antinousletmehit]

Hello pookie

I hope your having a good day, anyways, I saw you were asking for requests so I figured I'd give you one even though I'm sure your already getting many, also no pressure to actually do this or anything I don't want you to feel like anyone will be disappointed if you don't do this, but if you were looking for some inspiration or an idea...

(I know it seems out of the question to suggest a Telemachus x reader when you are already doing a story on that (which is very good btw))

Oh well, if you are looking for ideas - Telemachus x fem reader who is a servant at the palace. Well, there's my two sense.

Have a great day <3

୨୧┇pairing: Telemachus x fem!reader

୨୧┇note: I love Telemachus chat

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

The palace was quiet, its grand halls wrapped in the heavy silence of midnight. Telemachus tiptoed past the sleeping guards, his sandals barely making a sound on the cool stone floors. His heart raced, not from fear of being caught, but from excitement. He knew you were waiting for him. Out in the garden, hidden among the olive trees, you leaned against a gnarled trunk, the moonlight casting a silver glow over your features. When you saw him, your face lit up with a smile that made his stomach flip.

“You’re late,” you teased, crossing your arms.

“Blame Athena,” Telemachus whispered, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “She wouldn’t stop lecturing me about responsibility.”You laughed softly, the sound like the gentle rustling of leaves. “And here you are, sneaking out with me. Very responsible, my lord.” Telemachus rolled his eyes, though his smile widened. “If you keep calling me ‘my lord,’ I might have to stop meeting you.”

“Oh, is that so?” you said, stepping closer. “What should I call you, then?”

“Just Telemachus,” he said, his voice softening. “When we’re out here, I’m not a prince. I’m just… me.” You nodded, your smile turning gentle. “Alright, Telemachus. Shall we go?” The two of you slipped through the garden and out into the open fields beyond the palace walls. It wasn’t the first time you’d done this, your secret nighttime escapades had become a routine over the past few months. You’d explore the countryside, climb hills, and sit by the shore, talking about everything and nothing.

Tonight, you ended up on a hill overlooking the sea. The stars sparkled above, their reflection dancing on the dark waves below. You sat down on the grass, and Telemachus joined you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “You know,” he said after a moment, his voice hesitant, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this…free before.”

You glanced at him, your brow quirking. “Free?”He nodded, picking at a blade of grass. “When I’m in the palace, I’m always being watched, judged. Everyone expects me to be like my father, to grow into this great hero. But out here, with you… I can just be myself.” Your expression softened, and you reached out to touch his arm. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself, Telemachus. You’re already enough.” His breath hitched, and he turned to look at you. The way you gazed at him, your eyes full of sincerity, made his chest feel tight. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

Instead, you smiled and leaned closer. “Can I show you something?”

Telemachus blinked, confused. “Show me what?” Without answering, you tilted your head and pressed your lips to his. For a moment, his entire body froze. His mind raced, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that he couldn’t quite process. This was his first kiss, his first real kiss. And it was with you. When you pulled back, he was still staring at you, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed. “I—I—uh—” You bit back a laugh, watching him flounder. “Telemachus? Are you alright?”

“I—yes—no—I mean—” He ran a hand through his hair, his voice cracking slightly. “Did you just—did we just—”

“Yes,” you said simply, your smile teasing but kind.

“Oh,” was all he could manage, his brain still trying to catch up. You reached out and gently touched his cheek, bringing his attention back to you. “Was that okay?”

He finally found his voice, though it was quiet and a little shaky. “It was more than okay.” Your smile widened, and you leaned back, propping yourself up on your hands. “Good. Because I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” Telemachus stared at you, his heart pounding so loudly he was certain you could hear it. “You… you have?”

You nodded, glancing up at the stars. “You’re kind, and thoughtful, and you have this way of making people feel safe. How could I not?” He didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he sat there, watching you with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

Eventually, you turned back to him, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “Telemachus?”

“Yeah?” he said, his voice faint.

“You can breathe now.”

He let out a shaky laugh, finally exhaling the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Right. Breathing. Good idea.” You laughed with him, and the sound filled the night air, light and full of joy. As the two of you sat under the stars, Telemachus couldn’t help but think that, for the first time in his life, everything felt exactly as it should be.

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

Snow Drop Part 1

Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Description: Jacaerys Velaryon finds himself taken by a pretty handmaiden who he catches watching him reading every evening in the library at Dragonstone. Jacaerys assumes the maiden takes an interest in the books, but what if it's the prince himself that keeps her returning to the library?

Author's note: first part of my Jace series, which will be loosely based on Snow White.

Warnings: Female reader.

Shards of moonlight entered the arched windows, casting shadows across the flagstone floors of the library of Dragonstone. Lanterns attached to dragon shaped hangings lining the walls cast a warm glow over the cold, grey stone walls, curls of smoke dancing from the flames. A figure melded with the shadows of the darkened hallway outside the library. The castle maid peeped from behind the arched oak door on the threshold of the library. She found herself, not for the first time, observing Prince Jacaerys as he turned the pages of an ancient tome. A frown furrowed his brow and downturned his lip, and Y/N found herself wishing she could smooth his expression. She longed for him to smile at her, but immediately rebuked herself for her presumptuous thought. Since she had fled from King's Landing to Dragonstone, eager to show her loyalty to the true Queen, she had found herself mesmerized by the young Prince. Try as she might, she could not tear her gaze away from him, as he passed her in the hallways, or she would observe him reading in the library every night, from the safety of the shadows. Her awareness of the foolishness of her fascination was not enough to prevent her eyes from following him, or her heart stuttering at the sight of him, at the sound of his voice. While she lived, her mother had gently chastised Y/N for her preoccupation with tales of princes and princesses, of castles and romance. Prince Jacaerys seemed to embody the princely qualities of honour, loyalty and gallantry, which she had always believed to invest royalty with the mandate to rule. The gentleness and respect that he always directed towards the Queen and his cousins, as well as the female servants, was evidence of an elevation of moral character which raised him above all other men she had met. One interaction she had had with him, in particular, had catalysed her senseless admiration for him.

When she had first begun her duties at Dragonstone, she had been skittish and nervous to be in the presence of royalty, having been previously confined to the lower levels of the Red Keep. Her shy and nervous manner had caused her to drop an empty flagon when attempting to remove it from the table of the Council Room. At the loud clatter which resounded through the room, Ser Alfred Broome rose from the table in indignation and began shouting at her in a booming voice, which left her wincing and cowering.

“Stupid girl, you dare interrupt the proceedings of this Council with your clumsiness. Remove this mess!”

Nodding her head sharply in apology, unable to look him in the eyes, she began to pick up the spilled flagon and cups from the floor, ready to flee from the room, when she heard another voice intervene.

“You dare raise your voice to a lady, Ser? I would advise you to remember your manners and your position in this Council, and to address the members of the Queen’s household with respect.” He almost spat out the last word, in his anger, and Y/N’s eyes tentatively rose to meet those of her defender. She watched in horror as Prince Jacaerys turned from Ser Broome and began to walk with slow, measured strides in her direction, as if worried he would frighten her. Lowering himself to her level, occupied as she still was in gathering the evidence of her clumsiness from the floor, he met her eyes with his warm, brown ones. The gentle expression and reassuring nod he met hers with had her heart stuttering, as he began to assist her in picking the remnants from the floor, their fingers brushing as he did so. Once all the cups and flagon were on the tray, he took it from her, to her surprise, and called for one of the manservants.

“This tray is far too heavy for a lady to be carrying, no wonder it fell. Please remove this to the kitchens.”

With one more gentle, reassuring smile in her direction, he returned to the head of the table, as she wandered from the room, in a half-dazed state.

Since then she had found herself unable to prevent herself from watching for him in the hallways, in case he passed her, and she returned to the library every night just to see him. She knew her actions were foolish, but she convinced herself that there was no harm in indulging her fascination with him from a distance. So it was, that she found herself watching as a lock of his curled, ebony hair fell into his eyes, and he turned the page. When he closed the book suddenly, she almost jumped, but she steeled herself, watching as he rose from the oak table he was seated at, leaving his book open upon the table, as he always did. Waiting a few moments after he had left before making her way into the library, Y/N walked quietly up to the table the Prince had been seated at mere moments ago. She cast her gaze down at the page he had been reading from, as she did every night, curious at what subjects held his interest enough to keep him returning to the library. Bending her face lower to examine a rich illustration of Targaryen history, her hair fell in a curtain around her. As she continued to gently turn the pages, becoming lost in the histories, she did not hear the soft tread of footsteps behind her.

When Prince Jacaerys had vacated his seat in the library, he concealed himself behind the door of the other entrance to the library, watching as the pretty maid who had held his interest from the first moment he had seen her cross him in the hallway, emerged from her hiding place at the other end of the library. Despite her quiet disposition and unobtrusive presence behind the door, he had heard her soft sneeze on one such night, and had been aware of her presence ever since. Curious at why she was hiding, but nonetheless unwilling to frighten her by revealing his awareness of her presence, he had determined to simply continue to read. Upon leaving the library the first time he had observed her watching him, he had secreted himself behind the other door to the library, as he had left the room, and watched as she emerged into the room and walked to where he had just been seated. He watched, in fascination, as she looked hesitantly from left to right, before looking down at the book he had been reading, and began to turn the pages. Ascertaining that it was probably the books the maid held an interest in, and that she was perhaps too shy or unsure to ask if she could borrow any, he resolved to leave the books he read out for her to read, should she so wish. Each night, as he would leave the library, he would leave the book he had been reading from open, so that she might read from it herself, since these books seemed to hold so much interest for her. Each night, he would silently watch as she turned the pages of the book, unable to repress his own smile as he saw a look of intent concentration on her face, as she became immersed in the histories of his House.

The first time he had seen the maid, he had passed her in the hallway and found himself looking back despite himself, struck by her pretty features. Rebuking himself for his behaviour, he had continued on his way through the ancient halls of Dragonstone, but had found himself looking out for her in the following days. Each time he would pass her and she would give him a small bow of her head, he would smile back at her. He could not deny to himself that he found the blush that would dust her cheeks as she scurried past him, as quickly as she could, inexplicably sweet. His anger at Ser Broome a few weeks ago at his harsh manner towards the girl was only partly propelled by his belief that all members of his mother’s household, especially those who had chosen to leave King’s Landing to come into her service out of loyalty, should be treated with respect. He was also partly motivated by a sense of protectiveness towards a lady whose gentleness and shyness left her cringing at Ser Broome’s outburst. Jacaerys had frequently struggled to repress his irritation at Broome’s attitude towards his mother, the Queen and the other women of the Council and the household. His rude behaviour towards a maid who had only been doing her best to serve them, and who was clearly frightened by him, was the final straw.

He had attempted to approach the girl with caution, lest she think that he meant to antagonize her in the same manner as Ser Broome, immediately offering her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. As he began to help her to collect the fallen cups, he regretted to see that her hands trembled, making a mental note to rebuke Brooke further, after the Council session. Removing the tray from the girl’s shaking hands, he had immediately sought out a manservant to take charge of it, surprised that such a heavy load should have fallen to her in the first place. He felt an uncomfortable feeling In his chest as he saw the girl half run from the Council, fearing that he might have embarrassed her by pointing this out, having only intended to aid her and defend her from Broome’s harsh rebukes. Nevertheless, she had continued to greet him affably when she passed him, always respectfully curtseying and bowing her head, to which he lowered his head in respectful greeting. She had not seemed to fear him, as she did Ser Broome and the other raucous members of his mother’s Council, although the fact that she would never enter the library when he was in there, waiting for him to leave before she entered, could suggest otherwise. Tonight, he was determined to find out if such was the case, and to offer her the use of the library, should it please her.

Slowly approaching her, in an attempt not to startle her altogether and have her flee from him immediately, he was a pace behind her before he spoke.

“The histories of my house are of ever growing interest to myself as well. Ah, I see you have been reading of Jahaerys and Alysanne, worthy rulers.”

He was surprised when she whipped around in shock at his voice, emitting a small shriek before curtseying frantically with an apologetic “my apologies, my Prince. I hadn’t meant to disturb you or be presumptuous.”

He realised his approach towards her had only served to alarm her, as she turned to flee. Reaching his arm out quickly he arrested her flight by gently wrapping his hand around hers, turning it over in his hand.

“Apologies, my Lady, I had not meant to startle you. You have not disturbed me and there is no presumption. I meant only to enquire as to whether you might want to borrow a few copies that interest you, should it please you.”

Seeing that her look of alarm had turned into one of confusion, he continued.

“All members of the Queen’s household are welcome to make use of the library, particularly when they seem to have taken such a keen interest in our own histories,” he added, with a gentle smile.

Seeing that she was beginning to relax in his presence and was no longer likely to run from him, he slowly lowered her hand back down to her side.

Looking up hesitantly at him, she bowed her head once again. “Thank you my Prince, you are most gracious. I am grateful for your kind offer….you are sure it would not be an imposition? I should not like to borrow a book you were reading.”

“It would be no imposition at all. You are also free to enter the library when I am present, you will not disturb me. Please feel free to borrow any book that should interest you.” Seeing that she looked flustered at the realisation that he had been aware of her presence the entire time and seeking to alleviate her embarrassment, as he saw her cheeks burning, he tilted his head respectfully in her direction before taking his leave. As he made his way through the dark, flagstone halls of Dragonstone, back towards his own chambers, he was unable to repress a smile at the thought that the pretty maid with the shy disposition and the interest in Targaryen histories might return to the library again. Except, this time, she would not do so clandestinely. Perhaps she might converse with him or, at least, he hoped that such might be the case.

[almondmilktargaryen]

Duty & Sacrifice (Part Three)

Summary: Aemond is married with two kids to Floris Baratheon, as it was his duty. But it's when he ventures into Flea Bottom in the night that he faces his sacrifices.

Couple: Aemond Targaryen/Fem!Reader

Category: Flangst

Content warnings: Mourning child loss (written by someone who's not a parent), lying

Word count: 4.6k

Also on my Ao3

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four ✍️

Just as when he left Flea Bottom, the guards do not look twice at Aemond as he walks through the Keep. They do not see his face, nor the two cloaks he wore (Criston gave him his to hide the blood). No, all they see is his boots as they bow upon passing. The only words they utter are, “My prince.” Aemond faces forward. His eye does not stray. And his head stays up.

He turns sharply after climbing the stairs, finding his chamber doors in the east wing. The guard outside mimics the expected behavior before Aemond pushes himself through.

Out of all things unexpected in one night, Floris being absent was jarring. She sticks to a routine, just like him. With the candles already snuffed out, the smell of smoke had been replaced by the open air from their balcony. She should’ve retired hours ago.

Perhaps the gods wanted to leave him alone after… all of it, reminding him how alone he truly was. Still, Aemond looks around, peering past corners and squinting into dark areas at the far ends of their chambers, straining his vision with the distance as he feels the chains in his chest. They weighed down his heart and lungs as he staggered and lifted the bedcovers. Caution camouflages with his grief and takes hold just as strongly. Floris could be anywhere.

The weight, the chains stacked on themselves. Aemond discards the cloaks and mixes them in their shared dirty clothes. The view of King’s Landing taunts him; the capital he once saw from a safe distance nearly two years ago. Even in daylight, the people were nothing more than specks of dust. None of them could hurt him. He never thought it would be the reason, once again, why he felt this way. It was only more proof that he has not changed, still stupid. Three and ten, self-loathing, and stupid.

Luc used to represent his self-loathing. Now he sees Alyssa.

She was warm whenever he held her to his chest, like the sun washing over the cityscape. She was a blaze as fiery as her hair. Now she’s snuffed out like the candles in his chambers, but this time far away from home.

Aemond grips the barrier of the balcony as he falls. The stone scratches his skin as he clings to it like a cliff’s edge, yet he sinks down and down. A heave escapes him, squeezed out of him as the imagery of it all floods back, every angle pouring in as he convinces himself there was something he could have done. Before the alleyway, before Chataya’s. Surely, there was a step he missed. He had to have, so he retraced it all while shivering, like winter was here.

The door creaked open, making Aemond’s head spring up like a deer hearing a twig’s snap. He plugged his grief, picking himself up in the shroud of darkness and rubbing his face.

“Aemond!” Floris’ silhouette is barely in view, but he still recognizes it as she pushes her bangs from her forehead. Her rapid breaths grow louder with each step toward him before she’s fully in the moonlight. She’s in her nightgown. The black one from her mother that matches her hair, both now in crumpled waves. “Where have you been? Daeron has been in a state demanding to see you.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

A hand remains in her hair, the other on her hip. “He won’t stop crying. A nightmare, maybe? I put him to bed hours ago, and the handmaidens said he woke up screaming.”

“I’ll go to him.”

“Wait.” A palm meets his chest, square in the center. “What’s wrong?”

Aemond stares into the dark of their chambers just above her head before falling to her blue eyes. It was wiser not to speak.

The tips of her fingers are cold as they brush under his eye. Her short nails barely scrape his unmarred cheek. The wetness shines under the moon as she turns her palm to him.

He pulled out his usual excuse, putting a hand over his patch. “Eye pain.”

“Eye pain?”

“Yes.”

“Your upsets usually force you to rest, not tears.” She observes the residue before wiping it on her gown. “I haven’t seen it this bad since Baelon’s last name day.”

“Well, it happened. It comes in waves. Or sometimes a moment’s fit.” Another way to cover himself in the future. He’s discovered grief rises in him at inconvenient times. Gods love to torture. “I can’t control when they occur, Floris.”

“I never said you could. I just—”

“I need to see Daeron.”

The children sleep in the west wing of the Keep now. After what happened to Jaehaerys, Aemond insisted their rooms be away from the royal quarters. He made sure there was a guard at their doors day and night. Jaehaera included. Tonight, however, there were two guards outside Daeron’s door, appearing dazed and confused. Yet they still had the sense to bow to their prince.

Aemond opened the door to find five handmaidens completely helpless. But like the guards outside, Aemond was also confused when finding his son not screaming. His body only bounces in place like he had the hiccups. His head was down and he gripped his little golden blanket.

“He’s tired out his throat, my prince,” one handmaiden says. Her voice shakes.

Daeron looks up when hearing the title. His little eyes are puffy from crying so hard, and Aemond’s heart, merely hanging by chords, can still twist in on itself as he watches his boy’s lip quiver.

“Leave us, please,” Aemond says.

“Forgive us, my prince. We tried our best.”

Daeron rubs an eye with the heel of his hand. “Papa, my… throat hurts.” His voice sounds like he swallowed gravel from the training yard.

“I’m sure, sweetling. Hold on,” Aemond turns his head to the group. “My son is thirsty. Please, one of you fetch him some water. Add some essence of nightshade to help him sleep.”

Their curtsies blend with their departure. The door shuts behind him.

The candle on Daeron’s bedside table revealed the redness across his face, hot and sticky with tears. Aemond walks to the foot of the bed. He’s careful not to let his weight go too suddenly, recalling the height difference this time between this bed and Baelon’s. He’s not hesitant though with stretching out his arms. “Come here,” he says.

Daeron springs from his covers, leaving behind the small golden blanket as he crawls into Aemond’s lap. He hugs him at the neck while Aemond holds him at the waist. It’s a long hug, something they both need. He smells like outside, earthy yet sweet. He lets himself feel the boy’s fragile ribs steadying themselves. His father was here now. There was no need to worry. So they took in air as they needed it—with ease. When he pulls back, Aemond grabs the spare handkerchiefs left behind. Daeron still sniffled, but refused to blow his nose. Aemond pinches it instead.

“What’s upsetting you so much?”

“Am I to be Lord of Storm’s End?”

“What?”

Snot dribbles on the handkerchief. “I had a dream.”

Aemond cocks his head. “Tell me about it.”

“I had a dream that… that we went to Storm’s End to see Uncle Royce. But I was alone. And-and—”

“It’s alright.” Aemond rubs his son’s back. “It’s alright.”

“You wouldn’t let me fly Morning. I couldn’t get back home.”

Aemond gave pause as he listened to Daeron. The boy’s lip quivers again as Aemond’s thoughts swirl, shushing his son as he remembers Helaena. Aemond clears his throat. He smiled down at his son. “I know what this is,” he says with an exhale. “Come with me.” He holds him close as he stands up, walking across the rooms to settle at his window, the other side of King’s Landing before them. Aemond used Daeron’s fleshy arm to point. “What’s that building there?”

“S-Sept?”

“That’s right. The Grand Sept. Your Aunt Helaena is there. You never got the chance to meet her.” He petted Daeron’s head, white fluffy hairs that swept to the front and covered his forehead. He looks back up at Visenya’s Hill. The sept’s cylindrical corners and golden domes draw eyes to the center of the city. One of them held three bejeweled urns with their ashes inside, and Aemond dares not sniffle. “She would have dreams like yours, except she would often be awake. They would overwhelm her all the same. We didn’t understand them.”

“What happened?” He doesn’t look up at Aemond when he asks, only straight ahead at the sept. Meanwhile, Aemond blocks the memories; gore and blood still trailed the back of his mind if he ventured far enough. His leg bounces as he exhales slowly through his mouth, sounding like a haunting wind. Daeron didn’t notice. Aemond couldn’t gather an answer. What could he say? His sister went insane. She killed herself. He found her on Maegor’s spikes. She blamed herself for something that was his fault, and he never got to apologize.

“She lost her sons in the last war. Your cousin Jaehaera’s brothers.”

“Were they soldiers?”

“No, no.” He’s perfectly between Jaehaerys and Maelor in age. The ages they remain for the rest of time. He skips that. “But she loved them so much, losing them was too much to bear for her.” He rests his chin on Daeron’s head, just catching the tear streaking down his cheek before it dripped onto his son’s scalp. Observing the sept again, he longed to be ignorant of such despair. He shook Alyssa from his mind (as best as he could) to come back. “That’s how I feel about you.”

Daeron relaxed a little, his back touching Aemond’s chest. “But what about—” he coughs. “Uncle Royce.”

Aemond ignored the name. “These dreams can be very vivid. About things we already know. Your uncle named you heir, so you will be Lord of Storm’s End one day, yes. But you will go when you are ready.” He kissed Daeron’s head, inhaling his scent as he tried sniffling subtly. “We will ensure your brother receives proper training in royal proceedings as king. Your mother and I will ensure you’re prepared as a lord.”

Daeron doesn’t speak. He picks at the leather of Aemond’s jerkin.

Aemond, in return, hugs him tight with both arms. He gets close to his ear. “You’re not leaving me for a long, long time. Is that what you needed?”

He finally nods. His little white sideburns tickle his nose.

“Good. Because it’s the truth.” He picks him up again. “Now, time for bed.” His sniffling boy buried his head into his neck as he cuddled close, his fingers wrapped around the back. It was painful to do so, he could admit, but he still pried him off. His fingers slipped off him like broken stitches as he made him settle back in bed. He was reluctant, but gave him the golden one, avoiding the black stag sewn in the corner. He kissed the boy one more time before walking to the door.

“Papa?”

“Hm?”

“Uncle Royce. Where is he?”

“I assume at home.”

“But in my dream, I didn’t see him there. I said I was alone.”

Aemond blinks rapidly. “Perhaps… you didn’t venture far enough to find him.”

He rubs the satin edge of the Baratheon blanket.

“He loves you very much, Daeron. He wouldn’t leave you alone.”

“I know. I just don’t feel like he’s there.”

Aemond said nothing, only watched his son. His purple eyes, swollen and exhausted, darted up at Aemond briefly. They eventually went back down as he pulled his bigger blankets over his lap. Aemond could feel there was something else there, more his son wanted to say. And Aemond, for all the love he bears for his children, didn’t want to hear it tonight. So, he slowly turns on his heels.

“Papa?”

He suppressed his curse. “Yes?”

“Was… Aunt Helaena… were all her dreams true?”

Aemond swallowed thickly as he saw his wife do hours before he left for Flea Bottom. The truth is painful to keep down as he hears Helaena’s voice speaking of rats, then Jaehaerys’ head rolling on the floor just hours later. Still, Aemond looks his son in his beautiful purple eyes as he sternly says, “No. Now go to bed.”

Daeron doesn’t move for a moment, but eventually lays down. Neither of them say goodnight.

Finally, Aemond exits and heads back to his room. Keeping his head up, he pushes down his anguish with each step. He’s not out yet.

Floris barely waited for the door to close before she pounced. “Where have you been?” She is now the starkest thing in the room, all the candles alight again and casting a deep orange across their chambers and she is as dark as tonight’s sky. Only her cream skin contrasted with her hair and attire.

“I told you,” Aemond said. “At a meeting with the City Watch.”

“Her arms crossed over her small belly. “For two hours?”

“Yes.”

“When have you had a City Watch meeting last two hours?”

“Just now.”

“Aemond.”

“Floris, please.” He walks past her, cornering himself on the damn balcony. He lacks the courage to even glance at the city, choosing the brush below instead.

“What did this meeting consist of?” Her voice gets closer.

“My business with the City Watch.”

“Our baby boy wailed for his father.” Aemond can hear the way she bares her teeth. “And wherever this City Watch meeting occurred in the Keep, you were nowhere to be found.”

“It was a meeting in the city.” He spat out the first retort in his mind. “A dire meeting.”

“What could be so dire that you could not tend to your own son?”

“Someone killed a baby.”

The brewing storm halted with a catch in her breath. Her suspicion, though, is still strong around her. Aemond could smell it like rain in the air. He didn’t speak further. Rather, he found the nearest chair and fell into it. The barrier’s small columns blocked the city, similar to a cell as he thought of the woman he loved near the Old Gate. He cannot tell which one is the prisoner, as he pressed his temple with two fingers.

Floris crouched in her gown. Her gaze was heavy as Aemond did everything to keep from letting unnecessary information slip from him. “We took care of the killer. That’s what matters.”

Floris’ pale hand meets the crook of his arm. A thumb doesn’t brush back and forth like it did when his mother succumbed to her fever. The other arm does not wrap him in closer like it did when his nightmares of war jolted him and woke them both. Her thick brows didn’t slant in sympathy. They were straight and stern. “Whose baby was it?”

“What?”

“Whose baby was it?”

Aemond rips his arm away, the leather of his sleeve squeaking sharply from her grip. “What relevance is that?”

“Because you’re a kinslayer.” It rolls off her tongue so naturally.

“I’ve told you not to—”

“It’s what you’re known for, Aemond. I don’t understand how one baby would concern you.”

Aemond slams a fist on the arm of the iron chair as he stands, turning his back to his wife before facing her again. “You know I lost my nephews in the Dance.”

“After killing another.”

“Don’t!” His fingers curl into a fist. It’s when his father crosses his mind that he throws the force against his hip and lets out a shaky exhale. “Floris.”

“With your brother’s bastards rotting in the alleyways, I just don’t understand the difference.” She picks herself  up, pushing with her knees  and holding her belly. Aemond doesn’t help her.

“Because she wasn’t a bastard.” He spits out the words. Another lie, but he doesn’t care.

“Then whose baby was it?”

The chamber doors groan slowly. Aemond doesn’t move from his wife, but refuses to answer. Even as he sees her anger boil her skin and streak her cheeks, he keeps his mouth shut and watches the doors.

“Forgive me, my prince. Princess. I do not mean to disturb.”

“Cole.”

Even in a tunic and linen breeches, he stands like he wears his Kingsguard armor: feet apart, hands collected at his front. No blood in sight, and his hair is disheveled as if someone tore him from bed.

“Leave us,” Floris snaps over her shoulder.

“Cole, what news?” 

He delays in reply, clearing his throat. “Once again, we require your presence, my prince.”

“With what?” Aemond slips around Floris before she can stop him.

“With, uh, burial arrangements.”

Aemond stood still, frozen.

“If the baby has a family, they can decide for themselves,” Floris says. “I don’t understand why such matters require my husband.”

“The family is quite… distraught, princess. As a mother, I’m sure you can understand the idea of such pain.”

Floris’ eyes falter slightly to the floor before glaring back at Criston

“The maesters have wrapped the body and prepared her for her final journey.”

“I’ll go,” Aemond says.

Floris snatches Aemond at the arm. “No!” Her heels skid on the stone floor.

“Do you wish to see the child’s body yourself?” Aemond snaps back at her. “For proof she’s real and your husband has a heart?”

He expected Floris to let him go, in every sense of the phrase. But her small fists only coiled tighter around his forearm. Everything hard about her expression fractured before him. The blue in her eyes glisten brilliantly as she shakes. “Please, Aemond.”

“It won’t take long, princess. I assure you. Your husband will be back soon.”

“Don’t leave.”

Aemond sighs. But he looks his wife in the face as he pulls his arm from her hold a second time. He walks to Criston.

“Please.”

It falls on deaf ears.

Neither speak a word as they make their way through the Keep, nor create any sense of urgency with their footsteps. The only ones who look them in the face are a number of Gold Cloaks, either nodding or appearing extra sullen.

They don’t exit through the front doors. No disguises with them now. Instead, the pair navigate through Maegor’s tunnels to find their escape, opening one (of many) secret doors. The scale of Aegon’s High Hill meets them, the white waves of the Blackwater and a bobbing rowboat just below.

“How did you do it? Is Alyssa—”

“Not now.”

Criston jumps down first, landing on a small area of flat rock. He scales down the small mountain with ease, and Aemond follows with enough distance to not disturb each other’s footing. They hug the jagged walls and Aemond keeps his eye focused down on his own feet, his impaired sight working against him more than ever, with only moonlight just barely revealing shadows here and there. Criston even turned around to help him with some of the hill’s slimmer edges, but he refused, wanting to retain his focus. Over time (and with an absurd amount of patience), they meet at the bottom. They let the steep decline guide them to the small beach, meeting the rowboat.

“We have paid some Gold Cloaks to act as alibis in case your wife wants to inquire. They have already spread the word to others.”

The pools of Floris’ Baratheon blue eyes stick with him. She barely faltered upon word of her father’s fall in battle, nor a tear shed at his funeral. She maintained a grace fit for an unmoving force like her. Yet it was Aemond who pushed her tonight. He pushed her to tears. “And the maesters?” He inquires while clearing his throat. “What you said back there, that was true?”

Criston stretches his arms out to steady the boat. “Watch your step,” he tells him. But before Aemond can even take a step, he’s holding out his hand. Aemond looks down at it.

“I can get in fine on my own, Cole.”

“Just…” He gestures again and keeps it out until Aemond reluctantly takes it, one palm meeting the other. Criston guides him in and continues holding tight as the wood creaks under his boots. He doesn’t let go until Aemond sits down, the boat wobbling. Then Criston steps in on the other side, the Blackwater just missing his ankles, rocking the boat all the same. He grips the edges as he steadies it before reaching down.

Even the late night couldn’t hide the bundle of white waxy cloth, the small bloodless being that he held himself just hours ago. He can still feel the phantom wriggling in his arms from her twin’s screams. Now she is here, still. Still and cold as Criston handed her over. But even as the wind blows, Aemond hovers over her to shield her from the chill. He whispers to her as he does.

“I asked Maester Orwyle to wrap her, so we have another alibi should we need it. With her… injury…”

Aemond traces over her eye. Where her eye would be.

“There was no reason to suspect she was anything but a peasant child.”

“And Royce?”

“The less you know, the better.” Criston then pulls their weight with the boat’s oars as Aemond’s fingers brush the outline of his daughter’s face. The noise of moving water surrounds them as he pictures her. He pulled her into the world first, and he never thought bringing his third child into the world would affect him as deeply as his first two. He never imagined she would leave the world the way she came: wet and screaming.

It wasn’t until Criston docked the boat on the other side of the bay that he thought about asking where he—they—were being taken. He still stood unsteadily when stepping out, eyeing the breathing mountain amongst the young trees: his Vhagar. White birds that were perched on her spine flew when she picked up her head. She doesn’t yawn as she normally does when she wakes up, leaving Aemond to wonder, again, just what they’re doing here.

She peers from her high vantage point, neck fully stretched out as her acid green eyes peer at them both, watching them trudge through the brush of her dwelling. She sniffed the air harshly, sounding like a long hiss if Aemond wasn’t looking. Criston continues pushing the vegetation aside (as he had clearly done before, given the faint imprints of feet in the lush grass). It’s not until they make a circle around her that he sees the pyre; a shadow of dry black timber. Thick logs made the foundation as smaller sticks crossed each other to make the bed.

“She was a Targaryen,” Criston says. “She deserves a proper sendoff.”

Aemond clings to the cloth, securing her against his chest as if he is concealing her under his cloak all over again. He stares at the stick bed, and Vhagar lying behind it. Her chest rumbles, something like a hum that causes the earth to tremor under them. Her neck cranes down for a closer look, and Aemond can see the slashes in her pupils as he feels the creaking of her ancient joints when she tries standing.

“Lykirī, Vhagar.” Aemond tries adding some force behind his High Valyrian.

She doesn’t listen. One foot forward, and the ground quakes. Roots and leaves shiver. The length of yellow teeth come into view as she takes another sharp breath.

“Lykirī!”

Still nothing. Her snout is inches from his forehead as her sniffs are smaller and more rapid. Her pupils drop to his chest, then back to him as she nudges him. Aemond has to step back to replant himself, but doesn’t order her to be still. His hold on Alyssa remains firm, closer to his chest than her mouth. She closes her lips, and the vibrancy of her eyes disappears when they do the same. Aemond’s forehead meets her snout, and Vhagar is silent as Aemond keeps his sobs down. He clenches his teeth hard and his jaw already aches from the tension.

Eventually, Vhagar steps back, leaving Aemond to walk to the pyre. He was not sure how long it took him to get there. Neither Criston nor Vhagar spoke. The strain from his temples to his eye, and now his jaw, made every step feel glacial. But eventually he did. He couldn’t imagine the sticks being more comfortable than that cot, but he didn’t pick her back up. He swallowed the snot and bile, meeting in the middle of his throat as he stepped back. Criston stood next to him. Vhagar looked at him.

“Dracarys.” He orders it as pathetically as he did before.

Again, she doesn’t follow him. She opens her mouth with no dragonfire. Her massive head twitches to one side, looking at him as she did the first time he ordered her to fly at Driftmark. But just as Aemond can feel the ache in her bones, she can feel the chains in his chest.

Neither of them wants to do this.

Aemond takes a breath, swallowing something like courage. “Dohaerās, Vhagar! Dracarys!”

Her head drew back with another hiss and her pupils thin out before her eyes close. Her neck curls back and she stretches her jaw. It’s always slow. Even the green color that lights up her mouth. He would be convinced that the pyre lit at the same speed, but Aemond fell into the grass; his knees giving in like the wood did under the intense heat.

Criston is still there as Aemond sobs freely, the sounds of it drowned out by the cracks of sticks and logs. He holds Aemond tightly as he buries his face into Criston’s shoulder. “It’s beautiful,” he tells him. “She’s ascending to the heavens where she belongs. No one can hurt her anymore.”

Aemond blocks his nose in the cloth of Criston’s shirt, sucking in air through his mouth so he doesn’t smell any of it. He remembers how Helaena wailed when she held Jaehaerys, his body limp and the blood soaking into her dress. The woman he loves screamed the same way. The cry of emptiness, a gaping wound inside. Aemond doesn’t have the lungs to scream like that. He just thinks of Helaena on the spikes. “I have to go to her,” he finally says. He pulls away, and Criston’s silhouette is nothing but a bleary shadow. “I have to before—”

“You know she doesn’t want to see you.”

“It doesn’t mean she won’t need me. We still have a child to take care of.”

“She has a child to take care of. You have three. Two of them are here. Another will be in the coming months, and your wife does not need the extra stress of questioning your whereabouts.”

Criston now sandwiches Aemond’s face between his hands. He doesn’t scream at him, but the force of the bones in his hands is hard against his skull.

“Don’t make me build a pyre for your fifth child, Aemond.”

His voice catches in his throat. Neither mother of his children wishes to see him now. Helaena once felt the same, but Aemond’s mistakes called him and Aegon to war, leaving her to grieve on her own. He turns to the pyre, a green haze that occasionally spits at the sky. The smoke burns his nose, making his eye clench shut against the sting. In that darkness, he remembers his mother and the knife to Rhaenyra’s eye. She understood sacrifice. And it was now his turn.

Criston stands up. His outline is still blurry and black, but Aemond can just see his hand outstretched for him. “Your family needs you.”

Aemond remembered his role. And he took Criston’s hand.

Taglist: @paprikaquinn @immyowndefender @teal-anchor @dixie-elocin

[slytherinshua]

⟡　MY JEWEL 　( 휴닝카이 )

genre royalty au , forbidden romance , fluff , servant!fem!reader x prince!kai   cw not proofread   wc 787   request @jihyokat for kai + gleaming gemstones for the 3k event   note this fic being the first event one kinda broke my writers block id say??? it's been a while since i've even touched my google docs and written a sentence, but this was super fun to write and these tropes are always some of my favs to work with hehe. i hope you enjoy lexi!!   net @kstrucknet @moadiarynet

You were no princess. Growing up in poverty, you were always detached from high society and royalty. Riches, luxury, exquisite food and elegant clothing— all were foreign to you. But it changed when you were hired by the royal palace as a maid and ran into Kai almost immediately by accident. 

Being so unused to the winding hallways of the castle that seemed to never end, you quite easily got lost on your first day at the job. What was supposed to be a simple task of delivering a basket of fresh fruit to the kitchens turned into a 30 minute tour of random halls on probably the opposite side of the palace. How else would you have ended up in the prince’s quarters?

Despite your rocky start, you seemed to have extraordinary luck that day, running into the prince himself who found the whole ordeal quite amusing (and you, quite adorable). Prince Kai kindly offered to show you the way to the kitchens, and anywhere else in the palace until you memorized the routes yourself. And you, eager to not endure the same embarrassment again, took him up on it. 

Not a single thought crossed your mind on how inappropriate such a thing might be, talking and walking casually with royalty so soon. Kai didn’t seem to mind, and you didn’t begin to question it until much, much later. Six months to be exact. After that first meeting, you had gotten quite close with the young prince. It was only when you started to feel strange fluttery feelings whenever you were around him that you realized just how bad the situation was.

You were staff. Kai was legions ahead of you in status. Not even taking into consideration the opinion of the public, just by maintaining a relationship with him, you were certainly breaking basic code of conduct. There was no future with him to be seen, whether as a friend or lover. So, you decided it would be best to cut it off before it became more painful.

Unfortunately, you were already in too deep. So was Kai.

“It’s a gift,” Kai explained quietly. “For you,” he added as clarification, as if it wasn’t already obvious. It shouldn’t have been, given the circumstances. 

It was late in the night and Kai had summoned you to his chambers. Privately, of course. He knew the repercussions you might face if people found out, and he was mindful of that. You were grateful for his precautions, although in the back of your mind you were on edge by all of it. How beautiful Kai looked, moonlight shining across his face. The delicate silver necklace with a shining precious sapphire set in the middle of it resting in the palm of his hand. The way your heart was thumping in your chest, the urge to fall into his arms getting stronger by the second.

How much you loved him was dangerously growing each day. Your mind reminded you of how little hope there was to be with him, but your heart did not care. You were sane away from him, but as soon as he was in front of you, no thought or reason reached you. Your heart behaved autonomously, and Kai directed every decision it made.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, truly mesmerised at the sight of the gem. It almost glowed with its clarity, and you could see the light of the moon reflected off of its polished edges. Kai moved closer, wrapping the chain loosely around your neck. He carefully fastened it, securing the precious stone to its rightful place: decorating your neck. 

“There. Just as I thought. You look stunning, Y/n,” he said earnestly, taking a hold of your hands. The warmth of his palms made your heart jump, and his words gave you feeble hope.

“I love you.”

You had said it before, and you decided you would say it again. A million times over if you could. No matter how wrong. No matter how forbidden, or unheard of. You were uttering those words to the prince of the nation. You. No one else. And that gave you a sense of belonging that only Kai could bring out of you.

As long as he trusted your place by his side, why should you let the arbitrary rules of the world tell you otherwise? He was the only thing that mattered, and you would only take his thoughts into consideration.

For once, you fully accepted the flurry of feelings; the connection between you and Kai that was so unexpected but felt so right. Your hearts beating in sync, fully devoted to one another. 

He was your jewel, and he shined his brightest only for you. 

txt taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @90steele,, @ddeonudepressions,, @cham3li,,

@wolfmoonmusic,, @98-0603,, @weird-bookworm,, @candewlsy,, @blossominghunnie,,

@amara-mars,, @wccycc,, @seunghancore,, @ujisworld,, @sobun1est,,

@bananabubble,, @talkingsaxy,, @sxmmerberries,, @talking-saxy,, @nicholasluvbot,,

@cupidslovearrows,, @50-husbands,, @hursheys,, @stannwjnss,, @gong-fourz,,

@nonononranghaee,, @forever-atiny,, @stantxtforabetterlife,, @loserlvrss,, @lexeees

[novaursa]

Caught by Fire (the absence)

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the reality

- Next part: the fallen

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

The air on the balcony was crisp with the lingering chill of the evening, a gentle breeze rolling in from Blackwater Bay. The flickering torches lining the Red Keep’s walls cast an amber glow against the cool marble, their flames swaying lazily with the wind. The city stretched beyond, its lights dotting the darkened landscape like fallen stars.

You stood near the balustrade, your hands resting lightly on the cool stone, staring out at the water as if lost in thought. The faint rustling of your gown was the only sound accompanying the distant hum of the city below.

Otto Hightower had not intended to find himself here. In truth, he had been pacing the halls in an effort to dispel the thoughts that had plagued him ever since his conversation with the king. But fate—or perhaps his own weakness—had led him to you.

For a moment, he hesitated in the shadow of the archway, watching you in silence. The way the moonlight touched your silver hair, the way the wind played with the edges of your gown—it was a sight that unsettled him in ways he refused to acknowledge.

Despite his better judgment, despite Viserys’s warning, Otto stepped forward.

"You seem troubled, Princess," he said, his voice low and measured as he approached.

You turned slightly at the sound of his voice, your violet eyes meeting his with a hint of surprise before softening. "Lord Hightower," you murmured. "I did not hear you approach."

He inclined his head. "That was not my intention, though I seem to have intruded regardless."

You gave him a small, tired smile. "Not at all. I was only thinking."

Otto moved closer, coming to stand beside you, though he kept a respectful distance. He followed your gaze toward the city below, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. "And what occupies the thoughts of a Targaryen princess so late in the evening?"

A long pause. You exhaled softly, your fingers tracing absent patterns on the stone railing. "I miss my father."

Otto turned his head slightly, his gaze lingering on you. It was a simple admission, yet it carried the weight of something far heavier.

"He has not been gone long," Otto said carefully, though he knew how little comfort that would bring. "Yet I understand the absence of a loved one can feel far greater than mere days."

You nodded slowly, your expression unreadable. "The Red Keep feels… different without him. The halls are quieter, but it is not a peaceful quiet. It is as if something is missing."

Otto considered his words before speaking. "Prince Daemon has always been a force unto himself. His presence commands attention, whether one desires it or not."

You gave a quiet, knowing laugh. "That is an understatement."

A comfortable silence settled between you both for a moment, the cool breeze ruffling the edges of your gown and Otto’s cloak. He should have left then—should have turned and walked away before his presence here became something more than a simple conversation. But something about your quiet melancholy held him in place.

"He will return," Otto said eventually, though it was not a reassurance he wished to give. "Daemon is not a man who stays away for long."

You looked at him then, your gaze searching. "Do you believe that is a good thing, my lord?"

Otto hesitated. The truth was complex, tangled in his own personal feelings about your father and his constant disruptions to the realm’s stability. But standing here, with you looking at him like that, his answer was not so simple.

"I believe that only you can decide what his return will mean for you," Otto said, his voice quieter now. "He is your father. That bond is not so easily broken."

You studied him for a moment before nodding. "Thank you, Lord Hightower."

Otto inclined his head, though he felt a strange unease settling over him. "It is merely the truth, Princess."

Another pause. Then, after a moment, you turned your gaze back to the city, your expression distant once more. "The court watches me closely now that he is gone. I can feel it in the way they speak, in the way they linger when they think I do not notice."

Otto exhaled slowly. "That is the nature of court. Every absence creates opportunity, and there are many who would seek to take advantage of it."

"I will not be their pawn," you said firmly, your fingers tightening on the railing. "I will not be bartered away like a trinket simply because my father is not here to shield me."

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line. "No, I do not believe you will."

Your gaze flickered toward him again, curiosity evident in your eyes. "You say that with certainty."

He met your eyes evenly. "Because you are your father’s daughter."

There was a beat of silence before you laughed softly, shaking your head. "That is either a compliment or a warning."

"Perhaps both," Otto admitted, a small smirk ghosting across his lips.

You tilted your head slightly, considering him. "And what of you, my lord? Do you watch me closely as well?"

Otto’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly, though he masked it well. It was a dangerous question—one he could not answer honestly. He chose his words carefully.

"My duty is to the realm," he said steadily. "And that duty includes ensuring that those of royal blood are… protected."

"Protected," you repeated, amusement flickering in your eyes. "That is a very diplomatic way of answering."

"It is the only way I can answer," Otto said, his voice quieter now.

You watched him for a moment longer before nodding, as if you had reached some silent conclusion of your own. "I should retire. The hour grows late."

"Of course," Otto said, stepping back slightly, allowing you the space to leave.

As you turned to go, you paused briefly, looking over your shoulder at him. "Good night, Lord Hightower."

"Good night, Princess," he replied, his voice softer than he intended.

He remained on the balcony long after you had left, the cool wind now feeling almost biting against his skin. He had gone against his better judgment tonight, against the king’s warning, and yet… he could not bring himself to regret it.

For better or worse, the game had already begun. And Otto was no longer certain whether he wished to win or simply to remain close enough to see how it would all unfold.

The chambers of the Hand of the King were quieter than usual, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. The air inside was thick, not with smoke but with the weight of Otto Hightower’s thoughts. He sat at his desk, though the parchments before him remained untouched, the ink drying on decrees he had yet to seal.

He should have been reviewing reports, drafting correspondence, and preparing for the next council meeting. Instead, his mind was elsewhere—far from the Red Keep, far from the tedious concerns of the realm. His thoughts were with you.

You had left the capital at first light that morning, embarking on the grand tour of the realm. It was the very same charade Rhaenyra had suffered through not long ago—a spectacle for the lords who clamored for your hand, each hoping to outdo the other in charm, wealth, and empty words.

Otto had watched you leave from the upper levels of Maegor’s Holdfast, standing behind the intricate stone lattice of the tower. He had not gone to the courtyard to bid you farewell. That was not his place. Instead, he had remained there in silent observation as your retinue departed, your silver hair gleaming in the early morning light, your dragon casting a shadow over the city as it took flight.

And now, in the solitude of his chambers, he found himself deeply unsettled. It was a rare and unwelcome sensation.

A knock at the door broke through his thoughts. He straightened, clasping his hands together as the door opened to reveal Queen Alicent.

“Father,” she greeted, stepping inside without waiting for permission, as she often did in private.

“Alicent,” Otto said evenly, though there was a weariness in his tone. “What brings you here at this hour?”

Alicent closed the door behind her, smoothing the folds of her deep green gown as she sat opposite him. “I might ask you the same. You did not attend the midday meal.”

“I was occupied,” Otto replied, though they both knew it was a weak excuse.

Alicent studied him carefully, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “You are troubled.”

Otto exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly in his chair. “There are always troubles in court, my dear. It is the nature of politics.”

“This is not politics,” Alicent said quietly. “This is about her, isn’t it?”

Otto’s fingers curled slightly where they rested on the desk, but he did not immediately respond.

Alicent tilted her head, watching him the way she used to as a child, when she was trying to decipher his thoughts. “You knew this would happen. You knew Viserys would insist she find a match.”

Otto let out a slow breath. “Knowing does not make it any easier to witness.”

Alicent’s expression softened, though there was something else in her eyes—something calculating. “If this troubles you so, why did you not try to stop it?”

Otto let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “You overestimate my influence, Alicent. Your husband made his decision, and once his mind is set, there is little anyone can do to sway him.”

“Yet you tried,” Alicent observed. “You counselled caution. And when that failed, you held your tongue.”

“I had no choice,” Otto admitted, his voice quieter now. “The king forbade any suggestion that would further provoke Daemon. The mere thought of aligning myself with her in such a way was enough to make Viserys dismiss the notion entirely.”

Alicent leaned forward slightly. “And yet, here you sit, brooding like a man who has lost something he never truly had.”

Otto’s gaze snapped to hers, sharp and warning. “Mind your words, Alicent.”

His daughter did not flinch. She only regarded him with that same quiet intensity, her fingers laced together in her lap. “You care for her,” she said, though it was not a question.

Otto remained silent for a long moment, his jaw tightening. “It is irrelevant.”

Alicent shook her head, leaning back in her chair. “Perhaps to you. But not to me. And not to her.”

At that, Otto stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Alicent gave him a knowing look. “I have seen the way she looks at you, Father. She does not look at the other lords in court that way.”

Otto inhaled sharply, forcing his expression into careful neutrality. “It does not matter what she feels. The king has decided her future, and she will be married before long.”

Alicent sighed, studying him as if she were disappointed in his restraint. “And you will let that happen?”

“What choice do I have?” Otto asked, his voice quieter now. “Would you have me defy Viserys? Would you have me risk everything—for what? A fantasy?”

Alicent was silent for a moment, then finally said, “You have always been a man of reason, Father. But even the most logical men falter when faced with something they truly desire.”

Otto exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples. “She is Daemon’s daughter, Alicent. That alone makes this impossible.”

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Daemon is not here. He abandoned her the moment he let his pride drive him from court.”

“That does not change the fact that she is a princess of the blood,” Otto said firmly. “She was never meant to be mine.”

“But she could be,” Alicent murmured.

Otto looked at his daughter then, truly looked at her, and saw not just the queen, but the girl who had always seen past the masks he wore. And for the first time in many years, he did not have an answer.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Otto straightened, returning to the practiced composure that had carried him through decades of courtly maneuvering.

“I have made my peace with the king’s decree,” he said stiffly. “And so should you.”

Alicent studied him a moment longer before letting out a soft sigh. “Very well, Father. But remember this—there are some things even a king cannot dictate.”

With that, she rose gracefully, smoothing her gown before making her way to the door. She paused only once, glancing back at him. “I do not think she will choose any of them.”

Otto did not respond, merely watching as his daughter left the chamber. When the door clicked shut behind her, he leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling as if searching for answers in the stone.

But there were none to be found.

The small council chamber was filled with the familiar sounds of shuffling parchment, the scratching of quills, and the faint murmur of hushed discussions among the gathered lords. The morning sun streamed through the high windows where King Viserys sat, fingers drumming idly against the armrest of his chair.

Otto Hightower was in his usual place beside the king, his expression composed, though his thoughts were anything but. He had spent the past two weeks in silent torment, balancing his duties while trying—and failing—to banish thoughts of you. Each day, he forced himself to focus on governance, on law, on matters of state. But every time he entered the council chambers, he found himself bracing for the inevitable—the first reports from your tour.

And now, it seemed, that moment had come.

Viserys exhaled heavily, adjusting his crown as he glanced at his gathered council. “Two weeks,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “Two weeks, and we’ve heard nothing from Dragonstone. Not a single raven, not a single rider. Not even a drunken rumor.”

The lords exchanged glances, but it was Lord Jasper Wylde who spoke first. “Prince Daemon has never been one to send reports of his movements, Your Grace.”

Tyland Lannister leaned forward, smirking. “Silence from Daemon is more troubling than noise, I’d say.”

Otto steepled his fingers, his voice even. “If Prince Daemon wished to make a move against the throne, he would have done so the moment he left. His silence suggests that—for now—he is content to remain in Dragonstone.”

Viserys sighed, shifting in his seat. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he is only biding his time. Regardless, we must stay vigilant.” He turned to Otto, his gaze weary. “If Daemon is silent, what of my niece’s tour? Have we received any word from her progress?”

Otto’s throat tightened ever so slightly, but his composure remained steadfast. He had prepared for this moment, even as he had dreaded it. “A raven arrived this morning from Lord Baratheon,” he reported smoothly. “The princess was received at Storm’s End several days past. Lord Borros held a feast in her honor, and his sons, as expected, made their admiration known.”

Viserys chuckled, shaking his head. “As expected, indeed. And what of her thoughts? Did she show favor to any?”

Otto hesitated briefly before shaking his head. “The princess is said to have been gracious, but… noncommittal.”

Jasper Wylde smirked. “Much like Princess Rhaenyra when she endured the same parade of eager suitors.”

“That hardly surprises me,” Viserys said, though there was a flicker of unease in his tone. “She was raised by Daemon—she has his stubbornness. But surely she must see reason. Storm’s End is a strong seat, and Borros’s loyalty to the crown is invaluable.”

Otto kept his expression unreadable. He knew well enough that your father’s absence had left you wary of courtly games. If you had shown no favor to any lord, it was not due to uncertainty but to something far deeper—a resistance to being bound by duty alone.

“The princess will proceed to Bitterbridge next,” Otto continued, moving the discussion along. “Lord Caswell has prepared an extended stay, during which she will meet several lords from the Reach.”

Tyland Lannister chuckled. “The Reachmen will be more insufferable than the Stormlanders. They pride themselves on their courtly manners, but they are as ambitious as anyone in Westeros.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his brow. “I had hoped this process would be smoother than Rhaenyra’s. But it seems my niece is just as determined to make it difficult.”

“She is ensuring she chooses wisely, Your Grace,” Otto said carefully, though he did not know whether he was reassuring the king or himself.

Viserys gave him a wry look. “You would say that.”

Jasper Wylde leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Perhaps she is waiting for a more unexpected proposal.”

Otto felt his spine stiffen, but he did not turn toward Jasper, nor did he let his expression shift. Instead, he merely adjusted the parchment in front of him and said smoothly, “The princess understands that her match must serve the realm.”

Jasper’s grin widened. “Of course, of course. But one must wonder if she will decide what serves the realm best—or if we will.”

Viserys exhaled sharply, waving a hand. “Enough. We will wait and see. Let the tour continue as planned. If she shows no favor in the end, we will reassess.”

Otto nodded, though his thoughts were still caught on Jasper’s words.

An unexpected proposal.

Otto did not allow himself to dwell on the thought. It was dangerous. Foolish. But as the meeting continued, he found his mind straying nonetheless.

And for the first time in his life, Otto Hightower was not entirely certain which outcome he feared more—that you would choose someone… or that you wouldn’t.

Otto Hightower sat at his desk, quill poised over parchment, yet the words before him blurred into meaninglessness. His fingers tightened around the quill as he exhaled slowly, willing himself to focus.

It had been two moons since your departure from King’s Landing. Two moons of carefully worded reports, of lords parading before you like peacocks, of endless speculations whispered through the court. And now, at last, you were returning.

But with whom?

Had you chosen someone? Had you allowed yourself to be ensnared by honeyed words and courtly promises? Had some young lord, arrogant and foolish, managed to steal your favor?

He should not have cared. He should not have allowed himself to care.

And yet.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

The door swung open, and Lord Jasper Wylde stepped inside, his ever-present smirk firmly in place. Otto barely lifted his gaze, unwilling to indulge whatever mischief Jasper had undoubtedly come to bring.

“You look troubled, my lord,” Jasper drawled as he lowered himself into the chair opposite Otto’s desk. “As if you’ve just learned the realm is on the brink of war.”

Otto set down his quill, rubbing his temple. “Do you ever knock simply for the sake of knocking, Wylde?”

Jasper grinned. “And miss the chance to witness your discomfort firsthand? Never.”

Otto exhaled sharply, shifting in his chair. “If you’ve come to waste my time, I suggest you find another victim for your amusement.”

Jasper leaned back, his fingers lacing together. “Oh, but this is too delicious to ignore. The princess returns on the morrow, and you—our ever-stoic, ever-composed Lord Hand—are sitting here in quiet agony, wondering if she brings a betrothal contract with her.”

Otto stiffened, but his expression remained impassive. “The matter is of political significance. Her match will affect the realm.”

Jasper chuckled, shaking his head. “Spare me the pretense, Otto. We both know this is not about politics.”

Otto’s jaw clenched slightly, but he did not take the bait. “Have you heard any word of her decision?”

Jasper hummed, as if considering the question with great care. “Rumors only. Some say she entertained Lord Baratheon’s sons longer than expected. Others claim the Reachmen were most impressive in their courtship.” He paused, watching Otto carefully. “And yet, not a single whisper of a betrothal contract. Strange, isn’t it?”

Otto’s fingers tightened against the armrest of his chair. “It is possible she merely needed more time to deliberate.”

Jasper laughed outright at that, shaking his head. “More time? She has had two moons, Otto. If she had wished to choose, she would have. But she hasn’t. That must intrigue you.”

Otto remained silent.

Jasper’s grin widened, his tone turning mockingly thoughtful. “You know, I can’t help but be reminded of something.”

Otto sighed, already regretting allowing this conversation to continue. “Must you always speak in riddles, Wylde?”

Jasper smirked. “Do you remember the fortune teller?”

Otto went rigid.

Jasper leaned forward, his eyes glinting with mischief. “The one I practically had to drag you to in the lower city?”

“I remember,” Otto said tersely.

Jasper grinned. “And do you remember what she said?”

Otto’s silence was answer enough.

Jasper let out an exaggerated sigh. “Let me refresh your memory, then. She said the woman meant for you would fall from the sky into your arms.” He tilted his head, amusement dripping from every word. “Now, I may be mistaken, but didn’t the princess quite literally fall onto you?”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Jasper chuckled. “Truly, you should commend the gods for their sense of humor.”

“This is absurd,” Otto muttered, standing abruptly and turning to the window, as if the sight of the city would grant him patience. “You put too much stock in drunken fortune tellers and nonsense riddles.”

Jasper only smirked. “Perhaps. But the court does love a good tale. Imagine if they are reminded of this one.”

Otto turned sharply, his gaze cold. “Be careful, Wylde.”

Jasper held up his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of spreading once more such scandalous whispers.”

Otto exhaled slowly, willing away the irritation burning beneath his skin. He was too measured a man to let Jasper’s provocations affect him. And yet…

She had fallen into his arms.

It had been a coincidence. Nothing more.

And yet, as the sun dipped lower beyond the city walls, Otto could not shake the growing unease in his chest.

By this time tomorrow, you would be back in King’s Landing. He would have his answer.

And the gods, in all their cruelty, would have their laugh.

The bells of the Red Keep tolled, their deep chimes echoing across the city as the people of King’s Landing gathered along the streets to witness the return of the princess. The black banners of House Targaryen billowed in the breeze, the sunlight catching on their crimson sigils as the procession wound its way through the main thoroughfare toward the castle gates.

Otto Hightower stood beside King Viserys on the steps of the Red Keep, his expression composed, hands clasped firmly behind his back. The entire royal court was assembled, their finest silks and velvets catching the light as they awaited your arrival.

Viserys exhaled beside him, adjusting the heavy weight of his crown as he watched the approaching procession. “It’s been two moons, Otto,” he murmured. “It feels far longer.”

“The absence of a Targaryen is always felt,” Otto replied smoothly, though his voice lacked its usual detachment.

Viserys nodded, but his gaze flicked toward Otto, studying him briefly. “You’ve been quiet on the matter.”

Otto glanced at the king, his expression unreadable. “The princess’s future is yours to decide, Your Grace.”

Viserys chuckled, shaking his head. “You make it sound as though she has already chosen. If only it were that simple.”

Before Otto could respond, the gates of the Red Keep swung open, and the first of the banners crested the courtyard.

The princess had returned.

The mounted knights of the royal escort entered first, their silver armor gleaming in the afternoon sun. Behind them, your retinue followed—a caravan of finely adorned carriages bearing the sigils of the noble houses that had hosted you throughout your journey. The horses’ hooves clattered against the cobblestones, and the murmurs of the gathered court grew louder in anticipation.

And then, at last, you appeared.

You rode at the front, astride a proud black mare, your posture regal as you guided the horse with practiced ease. The silver of your hair shone like molten starlight, cascading over your shoulders, and your violet eyes swept over the assembled court with quiet command. The faintest breeze caught the fabric of your cloak, embroidered in the red and black of House Targaryen, making you look every bit the dragon you were born to be.

Otto swallowed, his fingers tightening behind his back.

You were unchanged—and yet, something was different. There was a certainty in your expression, a steel in your gaze that had not been there before. You had left as a princess on a tour of obligation, and now you returned as something more.

Viserys took a step forward, a broad smile spreading across his face as he raised his arms. “Welcome home, niece!”

The gathered court murmured their approval as you dismounted gracefully, handing the reins to a waiting stableboy before ascending the steps to where the king stood.

You curtsied, though there was nothing meek in your movement. “Your Grace.”

Viserys beamed, clasping your hands. “It does my heart good to see you returned safely.” He studied your face carefully. “And? Have you come back with news of a match?”

The courtyard fell into hushed silence. The lords who had once petitioned for your hand stood among the crowd, their eager expressions barely concealed beneath courtly decorum. Even the ladies of the court leaned in slightly, awaiting your answer.

Otto did not move, though his heartbeat had betrayed him the moment Viserys asked the question.

You held your uncle’s gaze for a long moment before tilting your head slightly. “I have met many lords, Your Grace. Each one has shown me courtesy, and many were most… persistent.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the court. Even Viserys chuckled, though there was something guarded in his eyes. “And yet, you have not answered the question.”

Your lips curved slightly, though it was not quite a smile. “Because I have not yet decided, Your Grace.”

A collective murmur spread through the assembled lords, some exchanging glances, others whispering among themselves. Otto’s jaw tightened, though he kept his expression carefully neutral.

Viserys sighed, though his frustration was tempered by amusement. “I should have expected as much.”

You turned slightly, your gaze flickering briefly toward Otto before sweeping over the court. “This is a decision that cannot be made lightly. I will give my answer when I am certain.”

Viserys exhaled but nodded. “Very well. I will not press you—for now.”

The gathered courtiers seemed to take this as their cue to resume their pleasantries, and soon the tension gave way to murmured greetings and welcome-back offerings.

Otto watched you closely as you exchanged words with Rhaenyra, who had stepped forward to embrace you. You laughed at something she whispered, your posture relaxing slightly in her presence.

Jasper Wylde stepped up beside Otto, his smirk practically gleaming. “No betrothal announcement,” he murmured. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Otto did not grace him with a response.

Jasper chuckled. “Tell me, Otto—do you believe in fate?”

Otto’s gaze did not waver from you, but his voice was cold and steady when he spoke. “I believe in patience, Lord Wylde.”

Jasper’s smirk widened. “Ah. And in this case, they may well be the same thing.”

As the court moved inside for the evening’s welcome feast, Otto found himself standing at the edge of the gathering, his hands still tightly clasped behind his back.

The princess had returned.

And her answer had not yet been given.