#will queen is a prince among men

[so-caffeinated]

Chapters: 4/? Fandom: Arrow (TV 2012), Ficon Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Will Queen/Amelia Prescott, Jules Queen/Alex Castillo, Ellie Queen/Sara Diggle, Nate Queen/Penny Bookwalter, Ameliam - Relationship, Julex - Relationship, Elara - Relationship, BookQueen Characters: Will Queen, Amelia Prescott, Jules Queen, Alex Castillo, Ellie Queen, Sara Diggle, Nate Queen, Penny Bookwalter, Oliver Queen, Felicity Smoak Additional Tags: AU, Tropes, trope bingo, Playing with words, Smut, Angst, Fluff, Drama, FiCoN - Freeform, Canon What Canon, this verse may never end and i'm cool with that, Roommates, Amnesia, Sex Pollen, Royalty, Rock Star, only! one! bed!, Fake Prostitute, geographic isolation, professors au, Reincarnation, the smart one tutors the popular one, old west au, both of us are kidnapped, oops this is your phone, Coffee Shop, noir, Secret Baby, Fake Dating, soulmate, time travel (which feels redundant given... ficon), Rivals to Lovers, spy vs spy - Freeform, you're sick or hurt and i gotta take care of you, Apocalypse, stranded by the weather Series: Part 7 of Forever Is Composed of Nows Summary:

There are so many ways the next generation of Queen kids might've fallen for someone. Here are a few of them.

With this posting, the Ameliam amnesia story is complete! To start it from the beginning, click here. 

[kevindavidday]

idk prince jean moreau just sounds right

[peachysunrize]

Corrupted by God ⥃ Prince Aemond Targaryen

Summary: after the battle of Rook’s Rest, Aemond comes back to King’s Landing as the heir to the throne with a newfound determination to make the Queen of the Seven kingdoms his queen as well.

Pairing: Prince Aemond Targaryen x Aegon’s wife/queen reader

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, dark content!!!!!!!!! angst, post Rook’s Rest, post s2e4, p in v, porn with a very little plot, breeding, emotional manipulation/heavy manipulation, dark!Aemond, a bit dubcon, Aemond has a hugeeee god complex, mentions of Aegon’s injury, rough sex, reader is not a Targaryen (the pic was pretty so I used it lol), tell me if i’ve missed something. English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 2.5k+

A/n: pleaseeeeee read the warnings! This was requested by my beloved @sylasthegrim ! I hope I did your idea justice and hope you like it<33 Reblogs & comments are most appreciated🩷

A god among men, that’s how Aemond feels when he closes his eye and lets Vhagar float in the air, flapping her wings once in a while to get to King’s Landing faster. He remembers the nights he prayed to the gods to give him strength, to change his destiny, and to give him a happy life, but today, with his she-dragon soaring through the clouds, he took his faith in his own hands and became a God himself.

A delicious ache in his muscles seeps through his bones, but it is nothing compared to the rush of euphoria he feels as he imagines himself on the throne with his uncle’s head beneath his foot and his queen by his side.

His queen, you, oh how he has done all of this for you. He has turned into a monster, soaked his hand in the blood of his kin while he thought of you, and how he deserves to have a queen befitting him and his reign.

He knows what he must tell the council and his mother, something that surely aligns with Cole’s words, but what he has to say to you has been worded out for so long that he cannot believe his plan has finally reached so far to this point to utter them to you.

He sighs as he feels his pants tighten — at the thought of you and the weight of the Conqueror's crown — and to his luck, the city comes into his view, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth while he guides Vhagar atop Visenya’s hill. He catches the sight of two Dragonkeepers and a horse ready for him, watching how they scurry away from the old she-dragon and wait for her to land.

Vhagar’s body shakes the ground as her feet keep her body secured, and Aemond rubs her scales softly before he climbs down the ropes of his saddle, jumping on the grass before he shushes the dragon again, mumbling a soft ‘Lykiri’ against her snouts.

He doesn’t spare a glance at the Dragonkeepers, he moves past them to the guard who hands him the reins of the horse, and Aemond swings his leg over the saddle before guiding the horse down the hill, bolting through the streets of the city.

The wind blows through his hair as he rides the horse to the Red Keep’s gates, lords and ladies move out of his way quickly, making room for their prince so he can lead his horse to the yard. The guards are fast on their feet to reach for the reins, stopping the animal so Aemond can step down.

He jumps down, patting the neck of the mare before he strides forward inside the castle, the court is already fussy with anticipation of what has befallen their king, but Aemond has one person in his mind that he wishes to seek out.

“Aemond!” The sound of his mother stops him on the stairs, and he looks up to see her running towards him with shock and disbelief on her face, “what’s happened?”

“We took the castle,” he says calmly, almost dismissively, “our king graced us with his presence on the battlefield. We won.”

He tries to move past Alicent with a shrug, but she grabs his arm tightly, forcing him to look her in the eyes before she asks what has been bothering her ever since Sunfyre took the sky earlier that day. But with the look Aemond gives her, she closes her mouth silently, nodding before she departs towards the main entrance of the castle, waiting for the hand to come back to the city.

Aemond scoffs and takes long steps toward the royal chambers on the upper floors, passing the servants who shield themselves from his gaze as he goes past them. 

He knows the path leading to the queen’s chambers like the back of his hand; through the stairs and Maegor’s tunnels — He has walked each way for many nights just to stay behind your doors and listen to your sweet voice talking to your daughter or handmaidens.

Aemond remembers the day you were wed to his brother, covered in a beautiful white and golden gown that brought out your curves to his eye. He was infatuated from the moment he laid his eye on you, and after such a long time, that infatuation has turned into something more primal and possessive, something that he thinks his brother does not deserve, that is befitting of Aemond and not the drunken fool who’s your husband.

Each step he takes adds more to the post-battle euphoria he’s experiencing — now that he’s the heir and the most powerful man, he deems himself fit to not just rule over the kingdom of ash and bone that is about to endure more battles, but to have his queen by his side. What better woman than the already beautiful creature that lies in an attached chamber to the king’s?

A ghost of a smirk forms on his face with each second that he walks within the hallways that lead to your chambers, his chin held high and his fingers itching with excitement in his leather gloves as he locks them behind his back.

Aemond licks his bottom lip, his blood rushing down to his core at the thought of the sight of you heavy with his child and the Conqueror’s crown atop your head. His queen, even the sound of it in his head seems right.

When he reaches your door, he pushes it without knocking, finding you already pacing with a wet handkerchief clutched in your hand.

Sweet sweet lady, the queen of his dreams, he basks in the way you carry yourself with worry for your husband. What a good wife he wishes to say, but no, a good wife to his idiot brother is not much better than a slur.

But to him? Oh, how much of a phenomenal bride-to-be you’d make for him, someone who is kind and deserving of his reign.

“My queen,” he says, standing straight when your head snaps in his direction, concern weaved into your features already. He takes in a deep breath as his eye runs over your form — a red long-sleeved gown with black dragons embroidered on it, your hair wild and free from your usual braids.

“Aemond!” You rest your hand against your heart as you take a few steps towards him, “What has befallen us? Aegon, he—“

“Shh,” he gently shushes you, his gloved hands coming to rest on your elbows, holding your body close to his, “we have won the battle. The castle has fallen and the false queen can no longer have a ground army.”

“That is great!” You utter, “But— what of our king? My husband? Aemond, is he alright?”

He smiles gently, a smile that does in fact reach his eye. There is a malicious look he has that it seems you fail to notice, because even his mother hesitated to let him go easily, but you? No, your soft and loving nature could never go past his mask.

“He is…”

“What? Please, Aemond is he—“ 

“No, no,” he replies quickly, one of his hands coming up to rest on your cheek, “he fought well, and he is alive,” he caresses your cheek as his eye meets yours, thinking how beautiful you look all worried about your husband, soon you’d be looking worried about him and not his brother.

“But…”

“But what? Is he hurt?” You grip his forearm tightly, looking up at him with tears stinging your eyes, “Tell me, please, Aemond, what’s happened to my husband?”

“He’s alive but on the brink of death. The traitor Rhaenys… your grace, such stories are not meant to be heard by a gentle soul like you—“

“I wish to know! What have they done to my husband?!” You demand him to tell you, and Aemond sighs deeply, but the buzz of excitement makes him even more determined.

Sweet lamb falling right into his trap.

“He took the skies quite suddenly, I had little time to meet him in the air. Meleys and her bitch of a rider had their claws in our king, and however fearsome he is, he could do naught.”

With each word that falls from his lips, more tears drop from your lashes, and he feels how numb you’re slowly getting in his arms.

“Sunfyre and Aegon… they survived Dragonfire, but—“

“Gods be good!” You gasp, a sob wrecking your body as he tries to shush you, a gloved finger reaching to wipe away your tears gently.

“I found him; burnt, broken but breathing,” he kisses your forehead, smirking against your skin, “he told me — had me promising him — to make haste and seek you out, to take care of your every wish.”

“Thank the gods!” You ask him, craning your neck to look into his eye, “What else did he say?”

He can’t answer you, not when you look at him with such a yearning, eyes full of tears and longing for condolences. He smooths his finger over your eyebrows, creasing your frown before he leans down and presses another kiss to your cheek.

“I could not say, he was weary, but…” his other hand comes to cup your face, “he told me to answer to your every whim, and that you should stay by my side until he has healed and help me rule.”

“But shouldn’t I take care of him?” You ask, eyes narrowing as he gently backs you up towards your bed, “Aemond, what are—“

“My queen, do you trust me?” He asks as he trails a path from your cheek to the column of your throat with his nose, “I will take care of you, all of your needs. That is what our king wanted, how cruel would we be if we do not obey his commands?”

“We would break his heart,” you whisper, inhaling sharply when he hovers his lips against yours, “we should do as he asks.”

“Hmm, yes, we should,” he closes the gap between the two of you, his lips moving along yours slowly for he feels how you quiver and meet his lips hesitantly.

He kisses you gently at first, hands moving down towards your waist to pull on the strings of your gown, long gloved fingers working on it until the red fabric loses its grip around your waist. Aemond pushes the gown off your shoulders, caressing your skin with the back of his hand before he lets your dress pool around your ankles.

His lips move against yours passionately, his tongue exploring your mouth for the first time, and he lets himself get lost in your taste — sweet with a tinge of lime, hinting that you’ve had lemon cake earlier.

He pushes you onto the bed after he helps you out of your shift, leaving you bare to his hungry gaze. He pulls his gloves off by his teeth, dropping each on the floor next to your discarded clothes, soon to be followed by his belt and dagger.

He can hear the rumbles of his men walking back to the city, but now all his attention is on you, and how he has to take what he has promised himself. 

Aemond doesn’t take his clothes off, he would if he were a lesser man, but now, he’s determined, ready to take the promised prize and faith the Gods have granted him — but no god is intelligent enough to set you as his prize. It’s always been him and his schemes.

He pushes his leather pants down enough to free his aching cock, swiping his finger across your wet slit, eliciting a moan out of both of you as he keeps rubbing your pearl firmly, basking in your whines of pleasure.

His free hand strokes himself to full hardness, thinking of your upcoming wedding night and how he’d take you in front of the council on the bedding from behind, chaining you to him like the religion that has chained his mother to the Seven.

You fist the bedsheets, back arching as soon as he covers your body with his and guides his cock to your soaked entrance. He watches how your lips part in a silent plea when he breaches your cunt, groaning as soon as your walls envelop his length.

“Oh, Aemond—“You reach for him desperately when he sheathes himself inside you completely, not letting you adjust to his size for more than a mere second before setting up his pace, bullying his cock deep inside you with each smooth stroke.

It’s empowering to see you all nude and luscious on your bed taking his cock like you were shaped just for him to do so — maybe you were made for him, molded into this perfect lady to be desired and cherished by him.

“Aren’t you the most beautiful queen the realm has ever seen?” He asks, his eye is hazy with lust as he fucks you harder, finding deep pleasure in how he’s fully clothed and you are bare as the day you were born. He takes pride in having you putty in his hands.

He cages you under him, his lips slotting against yours once more as he licks his way into your mouth while he slams his shaft inside your tight cunt with abandon.

“Gods, oh– I’m— ah!”

“You only have one god, my darling, and that is me,” he groans against your lips, his leather coat brushing against your heated skin while the tip of his cock nudges against your sweet spot that has you seeing stars, “Worship me at your altar, just as your husband wanted.”

You come with a cry of his name, sending him over the edge with your sweet moans of euphoria. He bruises himself to a halt, emptying his sack with ropes of his cum inside you, making sure to make the next king of the Seven Kingdoms with his queen.

The way your face scrunches in pleasure has him almost coming again, knowing it was him who gave you such a blinding peak that has you shaking in his arms.

The sounds of footsteps rushing past your door to the King’s chambers have the two of you scurrying and parting from each other. You are clumsy with how you put on your dress with Aemond’s warm seed dribbling down your thighs, but your husband’s home, your king.

Aemond tucks himself back into his pants, following you out of your chambers into his brother’s only to find the maesters and his mother already there, tending to his burns and wounds.

“Aegon, my love—“ he doesn’t listen to what you say as you try to make room for yourself among the men, wanting to reach for your husband.

“Someone has to rule in his stead,” Aemond exclaims as he leans on the headboard of the bed, looking down at his handiwork before he catches your eyes as you smile with teary eyes at him, nodding to Alicent in encouragement.

“The gods have blessed him with intelligence for he would make a fine ruler, and he shall take care of me, just as our king desired.”

[sl-ut]

too sweet

pairing: rhaenyra targaryen x fem!targ bastard!reader

description: y/n heritage was plain as day–she was a targaryen bastard forced to work in the brothels just to scrape by, so when the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms calls for her illegitimate kin to join her in dragonstone, it is nearly impossible to ignore.

warnings: hotd typical warnings, reader’s appearance slightly described (hair colour and its mentioned that she had lost weight due to malnutrition but that's it), slight smut like literally just the beginning, slight reference to rhaenyra as mommy but not really she’s just a mother with maternal instincts and im horny mbmb

words: 4.2K

date posted: 05/09/24

The lower streets of King’s Landing had quickly dwindled into a dangerous cesspool of violence, hatred, and poverty in the months following the death of King Viserys II. The line of succession had been a heavily debated topic across the nation ever since Queen Aemma lost her first boy, even among the common folk, and especially after the Hightowers usurped the throne in favour of Prince Aegon before Rhaenyra could even attempt to lay her claim.

In truth, Y/n felt no loyalty to either side of this war. She was, afterall, one of the many Targaryen offspring left to rot in the streets of Flea Bottom, and though she felt morally tied to Rhaenyra solely through her sex, she also knew that the world was designed for men and men alone, so there was no possible way that Rhaenyra Targaryen could ascend the throne without some sort of political pushback. Her loyalty, at this point, was something to be earned from either side, but now with Prince Aemond acting as Regent, it was almost impossible to feel any sort of loyalty towards the Greens with how poorly the common folk were being treated, and though Rhaenyra’s attempts to share food among the masses in King’s Landing was most certainly nothing more than a ploy to earn their fealty, it was working. 

Y/n had lost a considerable amount of weight in the few weeks since rations had been cut back even further, and many of her regular customers had complained that her curves and plush thighs had thinned out, and anyone who gripped her tight enough could easily feel the grooves of her bones beneath the once pillow-soft flesh. Her silver-white hair appeared to be dull in colour, and her skin was more tender than ever before–not only was she more susceptible to bruising due to her malnutrition, but her clients were also rougher when they came to her; men were could hardly afford her services anymore, so they were taking her as they pleased whenever they could. Despite the neglect to her physical form, she still needed to perform her duties at the brothel each night, and had to hold her tongue in disgust each time any member or affiliate of the royal family requested her services. Y/n knew that, if she were to remain in King’s Landing for much longer, she would end up starving to death, so long as she was not brutally murdered first. 

So, when she overheard two of her clients whispering about Rhaenyra’s call for all Targaryen bastards to flee to Dragonstone, she only hesitated for a brief moment before packing the few belongings she had into a moth-eaten sack and fleeing to the shore along with many of her brothers and sisters. On the journey, they shared their stories–who they were, who they may have descended from, why they had answered the Queen’s call… Each and every one of them were there out of sheer desperation, and many of them could not even be certain that they had any Targaryen blood, they were there based on rumours and hope of escaping starvation, even if it meant that they were going to be eaten alive by one of the largest dragons in the world. 

Y/n had always been complimented for her Valyrian features, silver hair and purplish eyes, but nothing had prepared her for the unearthly beauty of Queen Rhaenyra. She was the pinnacle of how a Targaryen should appear in physicality and in presence. The moment she set foot in the regal library of Dragonstone, she commanded the attention of everyone inside, and as she argued with the dragon keepers in High Valyrian, Y/n could feel her heart beating against her ribcage. Her mere existence made Y/n nervous, similarly to how one might feel in the presence of a god, the woman watching in awe as the Queen commanded a dragon to serve her, reaching out to lay her hand upon his snout and close her eyes, feeling the energy transfer between them. 

Her awe was quickly broken, though, as Vermax rejected the first man who stepped forward to claim him, then turning to spray fire at the remaining group rather than offer any acceptance. In truth, Y/n could not be surprised; she had willingly walked into the dragon pit in hopes of claiming a wild dragon, something that was rarely done by those with the purest of Valyrian bloodlines, let alone by someone who would never be recognized as a true Targaryen. She was only glad that she was able to flee and hide herself behind a large broken piece of stone before the dragon could swallow her whole. She could not remember how long she had been cowering behind the stone before she could feel the dragon’s presence behind her, feeling the force of his exhale around the stone. She finally pushed herself up on shaky legs, turning to find herself staring into the open jaws of Vermithor as he stared down at her. She trembled at his sheer size, her entire body scarcely comparable to the size of one of his long, sharp claws. Closing her eyes, she accepted her fate–this could not be any worse than the slow death of starvation she would have faced had she not left King’s Landing to begin with. This way, the pain would be worse, but her death would be instant, and her bones would not be left to rot in the streets. She let out a shaky breath, waiting for the heat of his fire, but it never came.

Instead, she felt her body fall back, landing against the jagged stone of the dragon pit from the force of his snout meeting her chest. Her eyes cracked open, peering up at him fearfully, only to be met by his curious stare. His jaws had closed, no long seeming to be interested in harming her as he laid his head down onto the ground, grumbling impatiently as he waited for her attention. 

She turned her gaze upwards, finding the queen staring down at her amidst the chaos and smoke. She wore a small smirk on her face, appearing proud that someone was finally able to claim the wild dragon. Y/n felt a warmth in her belly at her attention, chest heaving as Rhaenyra nodded at her, as if giving her permission to finally lay claim to the dragon that had chosen her to ride him. His nose was scaly beneath her touch, but his flesh provided her with a comforting warmth that was so different to the uncomfortable heat of the still-burning flames all around her. She carefully pressed against him, resting her head against his nose, feeling the connection form between them–she could feel his emotions, how he was quickly calming from her touch, and she wondered if he could feel her heartbeat slowly decreasing from its rapid pace. He nudged her to climb up his wing, slowly raising her to step back up onto the platform and meet the queen face-to-face. 

“What is your name?” Rhaenyra spoke, her tone firm but welcoming.

Y/n lowered her head, dropping into a poorly attempted curtsy, “Y/n, Your Grace.”

The queen nodded, “I must admit, I am surprised that you have been able to claim a dragon at all, let alone one such as Vermithor, but I cannot describe the relief you have given me today. You should be proud, having claimed the second largest, and arguably the fiercest dragon in the world.”

“I-I cannot tell you how this feels, Your Grace. I am but a common girl from Flea Bottom–this is my first time even leaving King’s Landing.”

“And now you are a dragon rider. How you have risen.” Rhaenyra smirked, dragging her violet gaze down the length of her body, “Come, you must be tired and hungry from your journey. I will have my ladies prepare you a bath and bring you new clothes. I need you strong, if you are to ride a dragon.”

Her night in Dragonstone had not felt real. For the first time since she was a small child, she had others taking care of her. The ladies were gentle as they massaged soap into her silver hair and dull skin, pressing rose-scented oil into her skin and braiding her hair into a style she had never had the pleasure of wearing–she typically could not afford proper hair care, as her clients tended to tug and rip at her silver curls while seeking pleasure, making it pointless to wear anything more than one simple braid. Her dress was simple, but still the finest quality she’d ever worn. It was black, with red stitching along the hem, almost as if Rhaenyra was claiming her as a member of the Blacks, which she supposed she likely was. Her mouth watered at the sight of the food, forgoing the utensils on the table and instead ripping pieces of meat apart with her bare hands, moaning at the taste and savouring every last lick of flavour, washing it all down with the sweetest red wine she had ever tasted. 

She was on her second plate when Rhaenyra came to her chambers, silently slipping through the secret passage and motioning for the handmaidens to leave the room. 

“I hope it is up to your standard,” She spoke, smirking as the girl flinched in surprise at the queen’s voice, “I’m afraid we have had to give up some luxuries in order to prepare for the coming war, but I figured that you would be wanting for a proper meal.” 

“My queen,” Y/n spoke, wine dribbling down the corner of her mouth, “I cannot even remember the last time I have been able to taste meat at all, and I’m sure I’ve never been afforded something such as this.”

“I’m glad,” Rhaenyra took the seat across from her at the small round table, “I understand that you are tired and wish to retire soon, but I could not deny my curiosity. Tell me, do you know of your heritage?”

Y/n shrunk in her seat, unsure of whether her lineage may cause the queen any upset, “I cannot be certain, Your Grace, but I am told I come from either of two Targaryen men.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, “Your mother could not be certain?”

Y/n pursed her lips, “I did not know my mother. She died in her labours, I’m afraid, but her employer took in and put me to work as soon as I was old enough.”

Rhaenyra nodded, the solemn look in her eyes making her understanding clear, “I am sorry to hear that. I can understand the pain of losing a mother, though I was fortunate enough to know her for a while before she was taken from us.”

Y/n bowed her head, “I was only a young child when Queen Aemma died, but I remember my household mourning her greatly. I’m told she was the finest of ladies.” 

“Thank you, she was.” Rhaenyra gulped down the lump in her throat, “Enough about me, tell me of your lineage.”

Y/n nodded, “Some tell me that my mother was the bastard daughter of Prince Baelon, your grandsire. I’m told her hair was light in colour, not so much as mine, but her own mother was dark of hair. Others tell me that my father may have been…Prince Daemon.” She watched as the queen raised her brow, “I’m told he was a regular customer of my mother’s before she fell pregnant, though I cannot be certain where my Valyrian blood comes from.”

Rhaenyra sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, “I am aware of my husband’s indiscretions, but do not fear. We cannot be to blame for the misdoings of our parents.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Y/n smiled at her softly, “Forgive me for asking, but I was under the impression that Prince Daemon was here with you, I had assumed that he would be more present in the claiming of the dragons.”

Rhaenyra frowned, “Daemon has claimed Harrenhal in my name, or so I’m told. In truth, I was so determined to find riders for my remaining dragons because I am not certain whether he fights for my claim or his own. I fear he still resents me for my father replacing him as his successor, and the last time we spoke he did not seem to be very pleased with me or the way that I wish to conduct this war.” 

“I am sorry to hear that, Your Grace.” Y/n frowned, “My apologies, I never should have asked.”

“Nonsense,” Rhaenyra swiped a singular tear from her cheek, “You are one of my dragonriders now, blood of the dragon. You are privy to the internal quarrels of my council if you are to risk your life for my cause.”

Y/n nodded, unsure of what else to say. She opened her mouth, uncertain of what was about to come out when Rhaenyra stood, staring down at her with sharp violet eyes. 

“My apologies for keeping you, my lady. I shall let you rest now, I need you at your best to begin your lessons in the morn.” She hesitated for a moment before finally rounding the table and pressing a firm kiss to the crown of her head, then finally fleeing through the secret passage that she had arrived through, leaving the girl stunned at the affection she had just received from the Queen. 

In the following weeks, Y/n’s bond with Vermithor had grown more than she could have possibly imagined. She was far from fluent in High Valyrian and still had much to learn in the art of dragon riding, but she was now able to use basic commands with her mount and was growing more confident while flying. 

She had also found herself acting as a confidant for the queen, at first mostly for political matters–Mysaria had been very helpful in the beginning when it came to pulling the commoners to her side, but Y/n had lived through the cruelty forced upon the masses by the Greens, she was able to give Rhaenyra a first-hand perspective. Then, she began coming to her for other matters, even just to talk, though Y/n understood how lonely she must feel among her counsel of men, especially now that she was forced to deal with the icy attitude of her own son, who had been entirely against the recruitment of the Targaryen bastards and now seemed to be punishing his mother for giving not one, but three fully grown dragons to those who had no rightful claim to them. 

Y/n found comfort in the three other bastards that had joined Rhaenyra’s team. Hugh was a gentle soul in a tough vessel, always prepared to fight and protect those he cared about. He had quickly become quite close with the younger woman, viewing her almost as a younger sister (which they very well could be, for all they know). Ulf was, well, Ulf. He was rough around the edges, exactly the type you would expect to find in the lowest and poorest areas of Flea Bottom, the type to hang around brothels and bars for the majority of his life, spending the only coin to his name on booze and only the cheapest of whores. Addam was quieter than the other two when dealing with the queen and their newfound duties, but seemed to be the most endlessly confident man that Y/n had ever met. He was loyal to his core at the very least, but like the rest of them, he was nothing more than a commoner whose fate lay in the hands of those born into power, though he certainly had much more faith in Rhaenyra than the other two, mainly because of her greater amount of trust in him considering that he was able to claim a dragon without any help or even any effort–while the others had all come to Dragonstone to bond with a dragon, Seasmoke had chosen Addam on his own without prompt. Though, as much as he seemed to be the queen’s favourite amongst her new “army of bastards,” none were aware of the fact that Rhaenyra made nightly visits to Y/n’s chambers and would now consider her to be one of her closest confidants. 

Rhaenyra had found herself being quite clingy when it came to Y/n. Every night after she crept through the secret passageway, she would sit and talk for hours with Y/n regardless of what state the young woman may have been in. She sat with her while she studied High Valyrian, while she bathed, even while she slept sometimes, silently stroking her silver-white locks as her breathing slowed and deepened, perhaps overstaying her welcome for an hour or two before leaving through the same passage in which she had come. 

Y/n was among the few who could understand her frustrations. Everyone around her were men, none of whom considered her intelligent enough to lead their forces to victory; Daemon refused to correspond with her, despite the fact that he had travelled to Harrenhal in her name; her son resented her for bringing in these bastards and allowing them to claim dragons; her council rejected her ideas and undermined her rule as much as they possibly could. Y/n, however, was able to understand the sheer anger that she was feeling–to be ignored and criticised simply due to her gender. Rhaenyra knew fully well that everyone there would gladly turn their shields to Daemon should he press for his own claim to the throne, all except for her sweet Y/n.

The silver-haired queen could not be certain exactly when her affection for the young woman had grown past the point of decency. During their usual evenings together, Rhaenyra found herself reaching for her, laying a hand over her own or to scratch gently at her scalp or to stroke her cheek affectionately. It was something that Y/n had grown accustomed to, feeling Rhaenyra’s weight next to her in her feather-plush bed, her nimble fingertips soothing over her skin until she fell asleep. So much so, that the one evening that Rhaenyra did not come to her chambers, she found herself lying awake late into the night, waiting to feel the comforting, almost maternal presence of the silver queen. 

This longing for the woman’s wandering of the halls of Dragonstone, thanking the gods for the many lit torches lining the walls–otherwise, she would be left to wander a labyrinth of blackness with no hope of finding the queen. Rhaenyra had been spending a large majority of her time in the castle’s vast library, which is exactly where the new dragonrider found her, slouched over dozens of large, dusty books that had likely gone untouched for the last century.

The silver haired woman paid no mind to the new presence in the room, instead continuing to rake her eyes across the page mindlessly.

“Your Grace,” Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered up at the sound of the young woman’s voice, “You did not join us for supper.”

The queen sat back in her chair, rolling her neck to remove some of the kinks out, “My appetite did not find me this evening, I’m afraid.”

“And you did not come to my chambers,” This caused her eyebrows to perk up, her violet eyes drawing down her robe-clad body. Y/n shifted her weight from leg-to-leg, heat rising to her cheeks as her next admittance fell from her lips, “I admit, I found it difficult to find sleep without your presence.”

A small chuckle fell from Rhaenyra’s lips as a tired smile crossed her features, “My apologies, my sweet. How thoughtless of me to neglect you so.”

“Neglect,” Y/n muses, rounding the edge of the desk to lean against the lip just next to Rhaenyra’s seat. “I fear the only one of us that is facing neglect at your hand, Your Grace, is you.” Her fingers reached for the queen’s pale cheek, ghosting over the soft skin and admiring the pink that grew beneath her touch, “You look tired, and you have not eaten since breakfast–and do not even try to argue, I asked your handmaiden.”

“My sweet keeper,” Rhaenyra smirked, “I fear comfort is something I cannot afford at the moment, not until this war is won and I take back my rightful inheritance.”

“A war will not be won tired and hungry,” She retorted, “You must take care of yourself–or at least, allow others to care for you.”

This caused Rhaenyra to scoff, “I’m certain that my council would not care for me, even if they had to. In fact, I may be doing them a favour by allowing myself to waste away as such.” 

“Then allow me to care for you.”

Rhaenyra’s purple eyes widened in surprise, then settled into the familiar affectionate stare that she so often wore when dealing with the young woman, “Sweet girl, I fear you may be far too kind for this world. Or, for me, at the very least.”

“For the world, mayhaps, but I do not feel there is enough kindness in the world to treat you as you deserve, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra stood from her chair abruptly, her own hands coming to settle over the young woman’s cheeks. A glaze of tears appeared in her eyes as she stuttered for a moment, mulling over her words to ensure that her point was as clear as possible.

[rappaccini]

do we need to like. talk. about how grrm taking so long to complete asoiaf means the original subversion of daenerys targaryen's character has been basically lost.

because aside from the show massively fucking the ending up, you also have to consider the seismic shift of the perception of fantasy as a whole since asoiaf hit the mainstream and since more intersectional perspectives and deconstructions of white saviorism have risen in prominence.

like it's a good thing that we're collectively critiquing and sideeying dany's storyline for the questionable, orientalist and often outright racist elements, and that the girlboss dany idea is being challenged. but uh guys. take a look at grrm. do you really think he was setting out to write a paul atreides style deconstruction of white saviorism with dany. or is it not more likely that he put those things into his story by mistake and didn't realize those problematic elements were there until decades later-- especially since girlboss feminism didn't fucking exist when he started writing asoiaf. is it not more likely that he missed the points he was trying to make about dany being a foreigner interfering in eastern politics and the white savior vibe her story sometimes puts off is completely accidental.

people do not seem to realize what the climate of fantasy was when grrm was writing asoiaf in the 90s-00s. the moral grays and grimdark elements of modern fantasy were in part popularized by asoiaf. grrm wasn't subverting the idea of dany being a good ruler. dany being a good ruler was the subversion.

daenerys targaryen is a deconstruction and subversion of the almost comically evil sorceress-queen antagonist of a fantasy novel that would never be written today.

think through what dany looks like from the outside:

she's the daughter of the mad incestuous king who terrorized westeros only a generation ago, and she's back to get his throne for herself.

she's going to make her arrival by invading from the Savage East and killing the one true lost heir, the son of the prince everyone loves and wishes were king, who was raised among the people, who's a boy, who practices the faith of the seven and will marry a westerosi lady. and she's going to destroy the shining city that he's going to rule from.

she rides a black and red dragon that spits black and red fire. she has two other dragons with her and used blood magic to hatch them. she killed a house full of warlocks, has prophetic dreams, talks to mysterious sorcerers and witches and is linked with magic.

she comes from a family of incestuous, weird-looking, magic-using, dragon-riding conquerors who are the last survivors of an empire that conquered half the world and decimated and enslaved an entire continent by using dark magic, dragons and horrifying experiments. and her family in particular is infamous for having a tendency to go insane.

she's so beautiful men are throwing themselves at her. she dominated one husband and killed another. her dragon set poor sweet quentyn martell on fire when all he was doing was trying to honor a betrothal agreement. she has sex with both men and women where she's in control of the encounters. she had a sexual relationship with her brother*. she 'bewitched' the most powerful warlord in essos with her sexuality, convinced him to kill her brother for her, took over his following, and will come to westeros with control of the most deadly cavalry in the world who are already considered to be 'savages' -- and her association with them has already started rumors that she fucks horses because she's so insatiable.

she's infertile and sacrificed her one pregnancy (gasp, the Firstborn Son!) to hatch her dragons.

kinslayer allegations: her brother, her son, and her (fake) nephew. even her mother, to an extent.

she has very tanned skin, spooky silver hair (that's very short) and purple eyes, a tyroshi accent and wears revealing clothing that would scandalize westerosis.

she's the savior figure for a Foreign Religion that's spreading in westeros and competing with the faith of the seven.

she's either the savior figure for the 'barbarian' nomadic raiders, or the mother of their prophesized savior.

she's leading an army of foreign (brown) slave soldiers, sellswords and 'barbarians.' she's being advised by foreigners. her handmaids aren't Nice Noble Girls-- they're nomadic horsewomen who are stereotyped as unmannered and promiscuous.

and the westerosis in her camp are the ones westeros hates: pirates that just destroyed oldtown, westeros's beloved center of trade, faith and knowledge. specifically euron, who wants to marry her. the dwarf that killed king joffrey and escaped and is now back because he wants to burn down king's landing. an ugly westerosi lord from backwater bear isle who was banished for selling slaves. a westerosi knight who refused to accept the king's wishes for him to retire and ran off to serve the opposition... and probably marwyn, a controversial maester.

she destroyed the essosi economy, has sacked multiple cities, turned the ruling class out of their homes, crucified a bunch of nobles, and will probably burn the volantene tower full of nobles on her way west.

she's a woman, specifically a teenage girl, who has power in her own right, who wants to claim more of it. and who has no more powerful man to answer to.

(*edit: k this keeps coming up so i’ll clarify— yes, viserys was abusing dany. i’m not phrasing it as a ‘sexual relationship’ because i’m denying that. i’m phrasing it that way because of how it would be perceived to outsiders, the way all these other bulletpoints are being phrased. context, people.)

daenerys is the embodiment of everything westeros hates and fears to such an extent that even if she does everything right, or doesn't do anything at all, westeros will never accept her.

we spent five books following dany off on her own in essos because that plotline's all about giving you context before she arrives: here's the Evil Queen's backstory, so by the time she does what she does, the reader completely understands and empathizes with her, even if they disagree with her actions. and when all our heroes hate her, and she decides to strip them of their power like she did in essos with the slavers, we don't know what to do.

the subversion is: what if our view of this evil antagonist is xenophobic and sexist, and all the things we're scared of her for were taken out of context or twisted to villainize her. what if the foreign culture she's from isn't evil, and what if her slave army is actually freedmen who chose to follow her, and she opposes the legacy of slavery her family sources their power from. what if she's 'mad' because she's understandably angry and upset, and not ~craaazy~. what if the nobles she was killing deserved it, what if the system they depend on was evil and deserved to be destroyed. what if our system that we've been fighting to preserve isn't much better and needs to go too, even if People We Like are in charge of it. what if she's a teenager who doesn't always make the right decisions, especially when much older adults with their own motives are manipulating her.

the subversion is: what if the evil sorceress-queen who's going to invade our wonderful fantasy realm and bring all her big bad scary changes with it is a complex person with good intentions who actually has a completely legitimate reason to burn it all down.

so if dany genuinely does go evil when she gets to westeros... there's no subversion anymore because the trope is played straight. therefore, she won't. but it won't even matter. we'll know that dany isn't a monster, but nobody else will see her that way.

[luvsfics]

SERENDIPITY — house of the dragon

Jacaerys Velaryon x Stark!Reader

[ innuendo, mentions of war ]

Description: As Lord Cregan Stark’s most trusted adviser and sister, she had stayed by his side as the prince of the realm made his petitions for support of his mothers claim and to help aid their side in the war. Though, the prince had more of an effect on the younger stark sibling than the other.

series warnings: sexual descriptions, angst, adultery ??, death, violence, sexual tension, and more.

Series masterlist

Summer was ending and winter was approaching swiftly. With the wind howling each night, the air had felt dry and the sun had seemed to not have much of effect on the chill that was coming.

The sunlight had began peaking through the cracks of the curtains on the windows, shining in her eyes and awaking her from her slumber. She stretched her muscles and groaned quietly at the aching of her bones. The furs that covered her body had fell onto the bed as she rose from the pillows.

Her dark curls cascaded down her bare back, the ticklish feeling of her hair on her skin made her shiver. The cool air made her nipples harden. She slipped out of bed and shifted on her robe before stepping over the fireplace and lit up a fire with a piece of flint. The warmth of the fire began to heat up the chamber, making the girl smile in delight.

She opened up her wardrobe and her hands led her to a beautiful red dress, one of her favorites. She felt today may be a good day, so why not wear it.

She slipped off her robe and bared herself to the stone walls of her chamber, before stepping into her dress and tying the laces of the corset back. She took the fur coat and slid it over her shoulders.

A knock was sound at the wooden door, “you may enter!” The stark girl spoke. Entered her brother, Cregan and her dog, whom he gifted her when she was a mere girl, Grim, waltzed into her apartment.

“Well hello there, big boy!” She knelt down as the dog ran up to the. Grim had the appearance of a direwolf yet smaller, a reason Cregan had gifted her the pet.

“Good morrow to you too, sister.” Cregan laughed. Grim licked her cheek, she giggled at the wet, ticklish feeling of his harsh tongue on her cheek. “I apologize, I just like him more.” She said as she scratched behind the dogs ears.

“Well, I won’t debate with you about that, he is more cuddly than I am.”

“Come, we must go attend to the training lessons. It is always quite funny to see the boys get put on their asses by one another.” She said to which Cregan had a laugh over.

His arm in her hand, they walked through the castle together and stepped out into the chilly air of the outdoors. The winds were calm and the sun was shining down upon the horizon.

Swords clashed together as boys of winterfell trained with the experienced men. “Stand tall!” Cregan shouted at one of the boys whom was hunched over during his attack.

She ran a kind hand down her brother’s bicep before sitting down on a crate as she watched the training session. Some of the boys whom stood on the sidelines began whispering among themselves as they stared at the woman.

The winter beauty, she was known as, Sister of Lord Cregan Stark, the lady of winterfell, one of the most unobtainable women in the North, unless they want to feel the wrath of her brother.

Screeching could be heard in the distance. “Dragon!” Yelled men from the towers and the wall. The lady jumped from her seat and beside her brother.

Grim ran up to his owners, standing in front of them, ready to defend. “Come, boy.” Cregan said as he lead both his sister and the dog to the gates of winterfell

“Tis Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, ‘said he has word from his mother, the queen!” A man from above shouted towards Cregan. “Open the gates!” He nodded.

The wooden gates slowly opened, revealing a curly head of hair and a yellow dragon. The prince turned his head around to reveal his features. The lady had felt her face heat up, a curious thing indeed. No man had ever made her swoon.

And she was swooning. A heat had arose in her belly as he walked towards the siblings. Her lips parted as she stared the boy down, she had never seen a man who had been so beautiful.

Grim had nudged his head against his owners thigh, practically begging her to step out of her trance and stop embarrassing herself in front of royal blood.

She quickly shut her mouth and straightened herself before he approached the pair.

“M’lord.” The Velaryon prince bowed and took Cregan’s hand in a firm shake. “M’lady.” He took her and pressed a soft kiss on the top of her knuckles, perhaps trying to kill her right there and then.

“My prince.” Cregan bowed, she quickly followed in her brother’s path.

“Perhaps we should talk elsewhere.” Cregan said as the expression on the prince’s face began to sour before he spoke.

The lord of winterfell led his sister and the prince to his private chambers, his personal workplace of sorts. “Please, sit.” He offered as he pointed to the chair in front of the desk, making his own way around to his chair.

His advisor stood behind him, her hands entwined in front of her as her dog laid himself at her feet.

“War is approaching M’lord. I am here to gain your support for my mother’s claim, your father swore an oath to my mother when she was named heir.” The prince began.

The air was taken from the lady’s chest as she heard news of war. “War? Has the heir’s claim come into question?” She spoke up.

“More or less, the Hightowers, upon my grandsire’s death, usurped the iron throne and placed Aegon Targaryen on my mother’s seat.” Jacaerys sighed.

Cregan seemed puzzled and his expressions were unclear. He slumped into his chair, “My apologies, my prince, but I cannot just give my support without knowing full and well what the North as a whole will be supporting, oath or not.”

Jacaerys nodded. “I understand, my lord.”

“How about this, spend a few nights in the North and help me gain an understanding of this cause I am supporting.” Cregan said without a second thought.

“Very well, M’lord. I shall send word to my mother.” Jacaerys smiled.

[amber-laughs]

In my personal opinion a lot of people misunderstand the situation around Ned's battle at ToJ. Ned and his men fought and killed several men of the Kingsguard. But why? Why won't they let him get to his sister even though Rhaegar and Aerys are dead?

"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them, "and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them." "Our knees do not bend easily," said Ser Arthur Dayne. "Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him." "Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell. "But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee." "Then or now," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm. -Eddard X

Aerys is dead. Rhaegar is dead. Aegon is dead. Rhaenys is dead. And they know Prince Viserys is alive and unprotected at Dragonstone with a respected knight. Why not go to him? The next in line. Why stay and guard Lyanna? Because they're not guarding Lyanna. They're guarding their King. Jon Snow. They are the kingsguard and their knees do not bend easily. They cannot bend their knee to anyone other than Rhaegar's last living son. They know Lyanna is dying, they know Ned will take Jon away. They might even think Ned will kill him then and there, why not? His faction killed Aegon and Rhaenys. They aren't stopping a young man from seeing his beloved sister, they're stopping him from killing their rightful king.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

A collection of all my writing. ♡

My Fic Recs

Kinktober 2024

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x OC

Series Masterlist (ONGOING) (18+)

Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, Lady of Runestone, was not born of love. Nor passion. Nor even a sense of duty. She was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge. But even a child born of such darkness can find her way to the light. With her mother dead, and father flown across the Narrow Sea with a new wife, the girl is taken in by her Aunt, the Queen Alicent Hightower, to be raised among the little family she has left. There, she finds her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. The two spend long nights in the palace library together, studying the histories of both Old Valyria and the First Men, seeking to understand who they are and where they fit in the world. But finding that place proves more difficult than in the fairy tales they read. The seeds of disaster were laid long before they were born, and as tensions in the family rise, it seems as though their places may begin to diverge. Will they let themselves be pulled apart as the dragons dance?

Warnings: Mentions of rape, m/f smut, violence

Studious (Completed) (18+) Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Moodboard by @sapphirehearteyes

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI

Your marriage to the One-Eyed Prince is not as romantic as you hoped. The wedding night is beyond awkward and confusing, and afterward, your husband seems more than content to ignore you. But you keep finding yourself drawn to him, and the strange way he makes you feel. And though you don't know it, he is drawn to you as well.

Warnings: SMUT, p in v sex, masturbation (m and f) bad sex (these kids have no idea what they're doing), Aegon saying Aegon things, all the awkwardness in the world

What is Broken (Completed) Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant Sister-wife!Reader

Series Masterlist

The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...

Warnings: Angst, pregnancy and related symptoms, infidelity, childbirth

Inconceivable (WIP) Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Part I - Part II

Westeros has been at peace for nearly a year, and a wedding has been planned to celebrate the anniversary. King Jacaerys will marry his aunt, the only surviving child of the Greens, and unite both Targaryen bloodlines at last. It is a fairy tale ending, but this is no ordinary fairy tale...

Warnings: Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles... Angst, grief, forced marriage, more to be added

My Fair Lady's Maid (WIP) (18+) Prince Aemond Targaryen x Lady's Maid!Reader

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII - Part VIII - Part IX - Part X

Frustrated with his grandsire's tedious and thorough process of choosing him a "suitable" bride, Aemond makes a declaration that a lady's maid could be indistinguishable from a true noblewoman so long as she was sufficiently dressed and educated in embroidery, conversation, and the like. Otto takes this as a challenge, and gives Aemond four months to turn one of Helaena's lady's maids into a noblewoman.

Warnings: Aemond being an entire cunt

The Girl at the Table (WIP) (18+) Michael Gavey x Reader

Michael has a plan for Oxford: complete his degree at the top of the class, avoid the wealthy, spoiled pricks that make up the majority of the student body, and stay focused. The plan begins well, until a girl begins sitting at his study table.

Warnings: Smut, math

Monsters in the Garden (ONGOING) (DDDNE) (18+) Ettore x Reader

Part I - Part II - Part III

No one comes to your garden but you, not even Dr. Dibs. So what is the most dangerous man on the ship doing leaning against your doorway and watching you work?

Warnings: SMUT; hand job; kissing; blood; mentions of rape, murder, and violence; female genital mutilation; vague mentions of corpse mutilation

Storge, Philia, Eros, and Agape (WIP) Osferth x Reader

Series Masterlist

When he arrives in Coccham to join with Lord Uhtred Ragnarsson's band of righteous warrior, Osferth does not get the greeting he expected. Uhtred himself is very clear that he has only accepted the young monk to irritate his father, and the few warriors he is introduced to delight in picking fun at him. Still, it is better than the monastery, the Lady of the estate is kind to him, and the servant girl who leads him to his new chambers is... something entirely new to Osferth. Something that, perhaps, will help him understand what the Bible means when it speaks of love.

Note: This is a series of inter-connected oneshots that can be read together or on their own.

That Pointy-Eared Blond Bastard (WIP) (18+) Half-Vulcan!Aemond x Human(?)Reader

Graduation - Away Team - Red Alert - Holodeck - Pon Farr

You are Aemond's greatest rival at Starfleet Academy. Or you would be, if he cared enough to have rivals. Vulcans don't care that much. But Aemond is only half Vulcan. And you... you bring out something decidedly non-Vulcan in him.

A Companion (WIP) Otto Hightower x Young Widow!Reader

Series Masterlist

At the suggestion of Princess Rhaenyra, King Viserys Targaryen had commanded that his Hand, Otto Hightower, find a new bride. Preferably at the King's own wedding to Otto's daughter Alicent. While the Princess intended the suggestion as a form of revenge for Otto's machinations which led to the royal engagement, he intends to make the best of it. While he has always known that his late wife, Madelyn, is the great love of his life, he welcomes the idea of finding a tolerable companion. What he doesn't expect is you, a lady widowed far too young, who begins to spark feelings within him he thought long extinguished.

[so-caffeinated]

I’m really looking forward to talking more about this Ameliam amnesia fic, because there’s a definite point to it. Like, sure it started out as tropey fun. It still is! But also there are some themes I really wanted to hit on and lessons I wanted them to learn. Hell there are conversations I wanted them to have that they never had in Providence. Anyhow, I’m just really enjoying playing in their sandbox again. I love these two soooooooo much. One chapter left! It’ll be up Monday by the latest. 

[catherinetheprincessofwales]

 Baronet -> Coal-miners -> Royalty  

“A time may yet come, perchance, when a descendant of one of these simple artizans may arise, not unworthy of the Conyers' ancient renown; and it will be a gratifying discovery to some future genealogist, when he succeeds in tracing in the quarterings of such a descendant the unsullied bearing of Conyers of Durham." Sir Bernard Burke, 1861.

In 1861 the genealogist and publisher of Burke’s Peerage Sir Bernard Burke, in his book "Vicissitudes of Families", dedicated a chapter to the “The Fall of Conyers" which concludes with the following: "Magni stat nominis umbra! The poor Baronet left three daughters, married in very humble life: Jane, to William Hardy; Elizabeth, to Joseph Hutchinson; and Dorothy, to Joseph Barker, all working men in the little town of Chester-le-Street. A time may yet come, perchance, when a descendant of one of these simple artizans may arise, not unworthy of the Conyers' ancient renown; and it will be a gratifying discovery to some future genealogist, when he succeeds in tracing in the quarterings of such a descendant the unsullied bearing of Conyers of Durham."

Sir Thomas Conyers, was the 9th and last Baronet Conyers of Horden Hall. While a gentleman at birth, he was reduced to poverty and resided at the Durham Workhouse. His pride made him reject financial aid from his distant relatives, among them his second cousin Mary Eleanor Bowes, Countess of Strathmore, whose funeral he attended at Westminster Abbey in 1800. At the time she was one of the wealthiest women in England and is an ancestor of Elizabeth Bowes-Lyons, the late Queen Mother.

His later years were made somewhat more comfortable at the aid of another distant cousin, George Lumley-Saunderson, the 5th Earl of Scarborough who provided him with a small house. Sir Thomas died a pauper on 15 April 1810. His surviving children, three daughters had married working men in the little town of Chester-le-Street, County Durham. As if from a Thomas Hardy novel, his daughter Jane married a man named William Hardy. 

For five generations Sir Thomas Conyers descendants would work as labourers, and often in coal mines once owned by distant ancestors and now owned by the Bowes-Lyon family. By the sixth generation his descendant Robert Harrison, a carpenter left his family still working in the coal mines to seek opportunities in London. There he married and had a daughter, Dorothy who married a builder named Ronald Goldsmith. 

The early years of Dorothy and Ronald’s marriage and their children's upbringing were spent in a comfortable council house, providing the security needed to buy their own home. Their daughter, Carole, became a flight attendant and married a young flight dispatcher, Michael. They settled in Berkshire and spent a few years in Jordan, working for British Airways, before returning to Berkshire, where Carole started her own business at her kitchen table. 

Almost ten generations and 201 years after Sir Thomas Conyers died a pauper, his descendant Catherine Middleton married Prince William of Wales on 29 April 2011. 

Family Line 

Sir Thomas Conyers 9th Bt. Conyers of Horden (drawing) m. Isabel Lambton

Jane Conyers of Chester Le Street, County Durham m. William Hardy of

Jane Hardy of Biddick, County Durham m. James Liddell

Anthony Liddell of Little Lumley, County Durham m. Martha Stephenson 

Jane Liddell (photo) m. John Harrison 

John Harrison (photo) m. Jane Hill

Robert Harrison (photo) m. Elizabeth Temple 

Dorothy Harrison (photo) m. Ronald Goldsmith 

Carole Goldsmith m. Michael Middleton 

Catherine Middleton m. Prince William of Wales

[fabricated-misslieness]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: prince alhaitham x knight male reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: settling into your new duty

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 4.34k ~ PT.1 ~ PT.3

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: sword training, incredibly minor injury, classism, mention of civil war

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Sumeru is a kingdom of knowledge, the wisest, most strategic of all. Yet they had not foreseen the kidnapping of the Crown Prince, much less by a dragon.

Azar, the king of the nation, is a man that takes pride in his intelligence. He knows of risks and consequences as much as he does of rewards and outcomes—he uses this as his stake in the world of Teyvat. His immense knowledge and the expanse of his land strike fear in the other kingdoms, despite his nation's sworn neutrality. These aspects of his make him the most admired man in Sumeru.

At least, that is what the common folk think.

At first, the King did not seem to have noticed his adoptive son was taken; or at the very least, he didn't care.

The Crown Prince was a clever man himself. Ever since he was young, he had an insatiable thirst for knowledge. As he grew into his adulthood, his collection did not satisfy him still, even if he has shown that he is already smart enough to take his father's place.

Perhaps Azar saw him as a threat to his throne. The dragon was actually doing him a favor. Why did he need to undo a deed so convenient?

But his Queen begged him, and eventually he gave in. He could not have her daily weeping stain their reputation.

He sent you. Your men lacked experience, and you, among the rest of the war generals, were the only knight of low blood.

It was clear that he intended to rid himself of you. When the news that you had failed would eventually reach the castle, he would cradle his wife in his arms and tell her he had tried.

But then you were back, the beloved Crown Prince in your arms, and he was displeased.

The Queen wept, finally, out of joy.

It was she who bestowed upon you the great honor of being Alhaitham's Knight, his alone, and you should be grateful for it.

In her eyes, you should be grateful. In your comrades' eyes, you should not. You were to be ripped away from your beloved peers, all to protect the Prince you had already saved once.

You know you should agree with your comrades, and yet there is something inside of you that thinks otherwise...

☾⋆☆⋆☽

There was an oath.

You had promised many things, kneeled with your head pointed down to his feet. He stood in front of you, in his golden gown, with the most blessed waters from the churning river of the Asavan Realm in his hand. He poured this water onto your head as you spoke the words.

The water that streaked down your bloodied helmet and armor pooled red around his feet, as if the very words you spoke dripped down your body.

"I am your shield," You had said almost mechanically, "the blows upon your body will not be yours, but mine. I am your sword," You stared at his bare feet—even as he stood in the bloodied water he did not flinch, as though he too took the oath from you himself. "where you point, I will strike."

"I will serve and protect you as your Knight," You had said, then, with great conviction, a surge of emotion in your body you couldn't quite point an origin to, and said, "I am yours."

☾⋆☆⋆☽

What did Alhaitham need from a knight?

He was very thankful for what you had done for him–it was the first time in his life that he had thanked a knight, much less a low blood–but it did not mean he required his protection.

He did not need his shield, who would dare to strike him? He did not need his sword, who would he seek to harm?

He did not need you at all.

He didn't need you stalking behind him, every step he took mirrored by your feet, he would much rather you stayed behind. You were not allowed even to do that, it seemed. The oath was meticulous, your sense of obligation towards it even more so.

Yet, as he turned around to shout a command to keep you away, he could not.

How could he, the Crown Prince, not tell a simple command? He had done it all his life, to servants, to knights, to nobles.

And there you stood behind him, your steps stopping suddenly, your face turning startled as you had almost ran into him.

You were just serving your oath. You were just protecting him.

He turned back around and continued on without a word.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

The first night you turned him in for bed, bowed your head as you closed the doors, you didn't know what to feel.

But then, you had your first meal. It was big and hearty, nothing you'd ever eaten before. It felt like a King's feast: an entire roasted pig on a platter of lettuce, a basket of all assortments of bread, a big bowl of steaming rice, another platter of smoked brisket ready for the taking. All of this encompassed in one plate. You could enjoy this.

Then, when the servants redirected you to your new chambers, you got a room. Your own room, for the first time, in the royal chambers wing.

The moment you collapsed on the bed you let out a big sigh—heaven must feel like this.

For the first week, you are satisfied. You finally get to rest.

Then the second week comes, and you miss your brotherhood. The Prince is not a good companion. He does not speak to you nor address you, but you know he does care for your presence when you find him staring at you during conversations he does not quite care for.

His gaze is judging, then. At least you think so.

His eyes drag boredly over the expanse of your armor, like a foe on the other side of the battlefield looking for a chink in your armor, something to take advantage of.

Most of the time he finds nothing. Most of the time, he brings his eyes back to the person opposite him within the minute.

And that is that.

No non-noble knight nor servant was allowed to voice their opinion to royal blood; if they came to be in that position of lowly work, how could their opinion matter?

They were only allowed during open discussion, and even then, most brushed off their ridiculous notions.

Generals could, but you were no longer a general.

So you are silent, and so too is he. Most days he would be fine with this silence. Today he is not.

"You are just going to watch me read?" He had asked, a book poised over his lap. It was fiction. Scholars would be baffled by the choice, what need would the Prince fulfill with fiction? But he knew you were not going to say anything.

"Yes." It is simple. You are supposed to be simple.

"You may go."

"What?" Emotion, no longer simple. He had caught you off-guard, and now you were questioning his command.

He was merciful anyway, "Leave."

So you often spent afternoons in the middle of the week, when he was without duty and reading for leisure, with your comrades. Training, for there was nothing to do with the Prince that would keep your muscles built as they were supposed to be, and also, due to your time together, you had begun to crave the grueling hours of hard work. These hours were your respite.

Sometimes he came to watch. You found him in the corner of your eye. He though he was being sneaky.

He does not stare at you the same way he does when conversation no longer draws his attention. He stares at you with, what is it, entertainment?

You don't speak of it to him.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

One afternoon, he does not let you go.

He has to begun to be more tender with you. He's increased a lot of things as of late: his eyes flitting over to meet yours, his visits to your training sessions, greeting goodmorning and bidding goodnight. They are subtle, but welcome.

Today, he has given you the honor of sitting beside him. He is not holding a book. You think that perhaps today the focus of his leisure will be you. You are right.

"What's your name?" It hadn't occurred to you that he didn't know it.

"(y/n)." You had said then, and it was simple.

In Sumeru, a servant does not speak the words "I have something to say.", what would a master care for what a servant had to say? They say, instead, "I have something to report.", then it is something important.

"You might have not seen me, but I watch you train." You've noticed, and you find yourself working harder when he is there. "You seem happy then, should you not be strained?"

You have to tread on your words lightly. "Being with you, your highness...my duty has just been to follow you around, for now. It is not enough exercise."

The Prince's nose scrunches up and for a moment you think you've offended him. "You wish to exercise?"

"It is...a change of pace."

"Right..." He hums, his gaze fluttering away. "Well, I'll see if I can arrange something."

He does not. Perhaps his mother said no. She and his father were the only ones he could not object to; his father by hierarchy, and his mother by respect.

The next afternoon, again, you sit at his side. Today, he is admiring your sword.

"This is the one that cut down the dragon?" He asks, running his fingers over the blade.

"Yes, your highness." You nod. In a rise of panic, you forget that he is supposed to know certain precautions himself. "Be careful, your–!"

If he hadn't pricked his finger as he did, you would've been punished.

The blade falls harmlessly over his lap. He stared at his finger like he had never felt pain before, his eyebrows furrowed. You take his hand over your palm and examine the wound. It is akin to pricking one's finger on a needle, if not deeper. It is nothing serious.

He knows this, knows that the pain is lesser than that of an injury caused by even a paper, and yet he lets you examine it.

Touching a royal blood without explicit consent is punishable. He does not mention it.

"I should've been more careful," He speaks the words he sees so clearly at the forefront of your mind, "it's fine. I'm fine."

"Of course." You take away your hand, and for a moment he finds himself missing the cold steel of your armor.

He clears his throat and offers the blade back, "What do you think of your sword?"

It's a peculiar question. Swords were just tools to kill with, nothing more. Especially not for a low blood. This blade was standard, your fellows had the same blade. But it was different, you suppose.

The leather of the handle is frayed, the pommel flattened, and the edges of the sword sharper. It looks used, it looks yours.

"It has grown old." You sheath it away. "Its whistle is not as sharp, it does not cut the air as it had once did. But it has served me well."

To think an object ages...yes, he has seen it. He sees that some books' pages are light, and others are dark as if coffee-stained. But a sword? "And your armor?" He asks curiously, "Has it grown old as well?"

"Well," You flex the plates over your fingers, "there is dust and dirt in the cracks, and it feels tighter than it had once been, but that is just me growing."

So the armor wasn't old, but you were? You were hardly a couple years older than he, and yet...yes, he sees it. He sees the way you are aged by battle. What battle? The failed civil war inspired by "king" Deshret, perhaps. But you must have been fourteen when you fought it.

"Did you fight in the civil war?"

"Yes." A nod.

"Do you wear this same armor?"

"No." You let your hand fall over the center of your chest. "But I wear the same chainmail." You remember how it had felt when you were young, slipping past your wrists. You had bound the excess higher with leather. It made your gloves fit tighter.

"How many years did you fight?"

"Two. I was thirteen my first battle."

So he was wrong. He rarely ever was wrong. It didn't taste bitter on his tongue like most wrongs he'd spoken. It tasted like revelation.

"Thirteen?" He asks, his eyebrows raised.

"Yes, your highness." You say it like it is nothing.

"Open discussion." He declares. You did not need to reply anymore, you could speak unprompted.

"Some of my comrades were twelve." You let your hand slide down your leg, the glove feels heavy over your knee. "Most of them died their first battle, others their second. I was among the youngest to survive that first year."

He asked many questions after that, and you answered truthfully. He asked about the battlefield, the civil war, your encampment, and many more things you had to dig your mind for. Despite it being open discussion, he did not leave you time to talk more after the question was answered.

Perhaps you had grown tired of it, because you asked, "Why are you so interested, your highness?"

He paused. You had taken him off guard, "Well..."

He was curious. Why was he so curious? You were a low blood knight, akin to a servant. The peculiarities you held were merely your battle prowess and the fact you defeated a dragon, and he already knew these things. What more would he need to know?

He was curious for the first time about a knight, for you weren't a remarkable nor infuriating scholar or servant, but a simple knight.

"I am simply curious." He replied, then, because he did not have an answer.

You couldn't ask him for a better one.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Today there is no time for leisure, only appearances. You trailed behind him in the city whilst he showed his face. It was meant to demonstrate that the royals were not so out of touch; the Prince had always thought it foolish.

Especially hauling a knight around behind him and not even talking to him.

You've long since gotten used to it, so the conversation of the last two days and his apparent need for another today was quite the challenge.

Don't speak out of line, don't speak unprompted, don't offend, don't speak too much.

"What do you think of this?" He asked, holding up one of the traveling merchant's wares, a model of a Liyuan dancer carved from wood.

An opinion. He was asking you for an opinion. No one but your fellows did so. You clear your throat to dismiss your surprise, "It is good, you can see the subject clearly. However, the carving is not smooth."

He nods his head and sets the sculpture down. "Then, which would you pick?"

Just a small look at each of the sculptures and you shook your head, "I would not."

"Why is that?" He furrows his brows, he hadn't expected that.

"None of the carving is smooth. There are edges you could cut yourself with." The Prince rolls his eyes, he thinks you're only fearing for his safety, but you continue, "It does not make for an appealing sculpture. It looks like it was carved with a butcher's knife."

The Prince laughs then. You'd heard it before, but this time it sounds different. It sounds pleasant, and dare you say more genuine.

"Right," He smiles at you. It's rare and all the more beautiful. "a Sumeru carpenter is better, then?"

"I believe so, your highness."

He nodded at this and moved on. He seemed appreciative of your opinion. A first for you, coming from a noble blood. It felt, for a lack of better word, refreshing.

He asks you again for your opinion at different merchant stalls. He asks you about the quality of this embroidered fabric, your opinion on pig's blood–you've never had it before, to his dismay–and even simpler, about the color green.

All these opinion had affected his choices.

When you came upon another carpenter, this one unequivocally Sumeru, he had not asked you about a single sculpture specifically, as he had done with other merchants' wares. Instead, he waved his hand in front of the display and asked, "Which one do you like?"

It wasn't "which one do you find most appealing", then it would've been an opinion for him to take into account. He asked it like it was definitive.

"That one." You pointed at the sculpture of a tree, a mere weeping willow. It reminds you of the myth of Irminsul, but that is not why you chose it. The leaves remind you of the color of his iris; the orange shading of the bark, the ring around his pupil; and the gray-lilac of its flowers, the silver of his hair.

He does not question you, only shoots a smile at the vendor, completes the transaction and moves on.

It was strange, the way your opinions mattered to him, for all the reasons given before. It might've made your peers feel powerful, even, that they had so much sway over a royal blood's decisions, much less the Crown Prince. But to you, it only felt...like you were seen, in a way. That you mattered.

You did matter, in situations such as battle and the war table; but you never mattered in the smaller things, like what color pleased you.

He seemed to think otherwise.

When you returned, that same day, to the castle, it was already evening. Dinner, however, is not served yet, so again you are left to your leisure.

The Prince considers the objects he has bought. His father does not like him to keep them—they are made less than skillfully in his eyes, by low-blood hands and low-blood artisans. He buys them only for show, because, again, that is what his father wishes. The King does not make appearances himself.

The Prince never really thought it a waste. It was just the way things were, much the same as the world created rain only to dump it over barren soils.

However, as he held these objects in his hands, he thought it was a waste; not of material, but of your opinion. The sculpture, most of all, as you had picked it out of desire.

He gives the servant that greets you at the door most of the things he's bought, then turns to you with the sculpture.

His hand extends it to you. For a moment, you are too dumbfounded to realize he is offering it to you. "My Prince, I–"

"Take it." He only says, his arm still extended; neither does he mention the way you call him yours.

For the first time since you were declared a war general, there is sheepishness in your gestures as you take the sculpture. "..thank you."

It is not in his blood, even less in his title, to say the following words, "You're welcome."

☾⋆☆⋆☽

He stood a little closer today whilst you trained, even more when you beckoned him closer. It drove your fellow knights away, fearful of the Prince's gaze, but you didn't mind it. Perhaps you should've. It was because of him that you missed a chance to reconnect with them since last week, after all; but he was merely curious.

His curiosity about you was also curious. You couldn't quite put your finger on why he was so interested.

Except you could. You had saved him from a dragon. That is enough.

Although you knew the King and the Queen both were each inquisitive in their nature, they were hardly ever curious about their servants and their knights. With how alike the Crown Prince was to them, you would've imagined him to be the same way. He had been the same way in the beginning. Something sparked a change.

You don't find yourself worrying about it, not now.

Instead, you worry about your stance. You worry about the way your sword strikes the dummy and you worry about the way your feet strike the muddy ground.

Most of all, you worry about not making yourself a fool—or...

Is it that that you worry about, or is it about making an impression? Impressing him?

In your distraction, you make a mistake. You swing down your sword, and it does not quite sever the dummy's stuffed, fabric arm. You click your tongue and dislodge the blade, about to strike the dummy again when he speaks.

"You said your sword was old?" He phrases it as a question, but he continues as if it wasn't. "Why not replace it?"

"It works the same." You reply, in the next moment, severing the fabric arm entirely.

His voice cuts through the sound of your efforts, "The frayed handle is not hard to hold?"

"Perhaps." A frustrated grunt.

"And the pommel doesn't affect the weight of the swing?"

"It does." Another.

"And yet you keep it." This statement has you stopping.

It has you turning around to face him, balancing the sword in your hands so as to show him each aspect, regardless of the fact he has examined it before. "The other men believe it is luck to keep the same items. I do not know if it is true; my men wore old armor and wielded old swords when they were melted down by dragon's breath. What I do know that my blade holds is sentiment. It holds memories. I did not wield this blade during the civil war–those are bad memories–but I have wielded it during moments of hardship, and most of all during moments of victory. Killing the dragon, for one."

It was not open discussion. He hadn't declared it, and neither had he asked you a question. You weren't supposed to give an answer.

He seems shocked, not at the unprompted rant, but at your words. "...yes."

It had not occurred to him that the age of things was good, nor that it might hold sentimental value. The tunics he wears this month are not the same as the last. The tunic he will wear for this year's Enlightenment Festival will not be the same tunic as the one of the year before. His plate is not the same each dinner, and his utensils neither.

Nothing in his life has been the same, permanent. Everything changes. He had never thought it a bad thing, not until now.

Your breathing steadies, the frustration fades. You speak your apologies, kneeled with your head pointed down to his feet, the pose of a beggar, the pose of an oath-taker. "I'm sorry, your highness. I did not mean to speak out of line, I only–"

"Haitham." He replied.

His name? You knew his name. You keep your gaze on his feet, "Prince Alhaitham, I greatly apologize–"

"Haitham." He repeats. Not Prince Haitham, not Alhaitham. Just Haitham, no respect to the name, no "Al", no title. Just Haitham.

You don't know what to say.

"Lift your gaze, (y/n)." He speaks your name...tenderly. Full of apprehension, you obey, looking into his green irises and red-rimmed pupils. When you meet his eyes, you see that he looks down at you not with anger, but with sympathy. "Speak my name. No apology."

"Haitham." You say. It feels strange on your tongue: titleless, respectless.

He smiles. It is a tiny thing, but it is directed to you. "I forgive you." He offers yet another mercy, "You don't have to impress me, even though I know you will continue to, subconsciously."

He was right, but it eased your nerves a bit.

You turn around and continue to train. Your sword whistles in the air, now, with ease; creating a song he quite enjoyed. The uninterrupted harmony created by metal as it thrummed with each coordinated swing of the sword felt akin to the pieces he played during his harpsichord lessons, though the playing of the instrument seemed much more mundane in comparison to this.

It was much more than music too, it was a dance. The step of your foot with each lunge and each strike–recovering from the strength required for each swing and simultaneously gathering more strength–seemed to take as much grace and effort as a ballerina.

There was beauty in this, beauty in the skill to slaughter, ignoring the reason for which to know it.

"My Knight," He speaks not your name, but to be his is still a special condition that sparks emotion, "what do you say I follow you around tomorrow?"

The excitement created by the way he addressed you turned into confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

Alhaitham shakes his head with a smile, "Open discussion."

"Why do you need to see what I do on the daily, your highness?" After all, your routine was hardly important. No one would ever ask such a question of a knight nor a servant.

"I am merely curious."

He was always curious as of late, mainly about you. It was starting to seem normal now. "My routine...my duty is to be your protector, your highness." You press your lips into a pitiful line, "I do not have anything outside of that."

He frowned. It was true, and he hadn't considered it. It was a strange thing, to not know what came next, unlike how he always did. Actually, it felt a bit exciting. "Then how about what you did before?"

He likely knew what you had done before, if he ever paid attention to the knights' routine. Yours was never separate, you've been doing the same thing for over a decade. But...you had actually started to miss it. It was evident in the thrill you received from taking up your training once more, even if sparsely.

When he speaks up again you think he only seeks to break the silence, but his voice was soft, empathetic? "I'm interested."

It sounded narcissistic at face value, but he was easing your concern from the mundanity of the routine. "Sure."

You hadn't imagined the Prince ever taking an interest in you, much less another noble. This will be interesting.

[milunalupin]

— tale as old as time

a/n: welcome to my beast!remus x beauty!reader series ! i hope you come along this journey with me and enjoy!

chapter one

remus lupin x reader ★ 1.4k words

Gowns and music filled the ballroom, the castle's servants walking around with silver trays of the most luxurious desserts in France. Beautiful and wealthy people danced around to the sound of the piano and the most famous opera singer money could buy in all of Europe.   

The ballroom was decked out in glimmering jewels and fresh flora, the smell of roses strong in the air.  In the middle was Prince Remus Lupin, twirling countless girls about, a smirk on his handsome powdered face.  The Lupins ruled the Alsace region, their wealth apparent by their acres of meticulously landscaped property, the glimmer of the sun on the enormous castle blinding. Remus was an only child who was raised by King Lyall and Queen Hope, until the queen passed away from an illness many years ago, leading the Prince to grow up with the influence of his cold and selfish father.

Staff members were forced to turn a blind eye when they would see the young master walk through the castle with watery eyes or badly hidden bruises. No matter how much they pitied him, his father would rid them of their job in a heartbeat if they dared speak up about it. With every passing year, Prince Remus grew to be increasingly more his father, prioritizing status over everything.  Remus' life was filled with anything he wanted, and obviously once you have everything, things get boring. So, he constantly hosted balls and invited only the most beautiful and influential people in France. Men and women came from all over the country dressed in the most lavish of outfits, trying to gain the attention of the young Prince. 

In a silky yellow tailcoat stood the royal family's head of kitchen staff, Sirius Black. He let out an exaggerated sigh as he stood along his colleagues, James Potter and Peter Pettigrew.  "How many girls will leave crying tonight, do you think?" 

James, dressed in all white with embroidered lapels, rolled his eyes and frowned as he watched the Prince.  "He'll never get married if he keeps acting like this, never form a true bond with anyone." 

A huff came from Peter, who looked the worst out of the three of them (according to Sirius), in a simple brown waistcoat. He held his prized pocket watch in his hand, constantly checking the time to ensure the party was running smoothly.  "The prince's love life isn't really any of our business, Sirius." 

Peter Pettigrew, to say the least, was a suck up, and nothing but loyal to the royal family. It was in his blood; his family having served the royal family for decades. Naturally, he started working under his father in the administrative department and moving ranks until he was appointed head of house, managing the rest of the staff as His Highness' right-hand man. 

James Potter credits everything he has now to his beautiful mother, Euphemia, who was an incredible seamstress who worked in the castle years prior. Now, James assists the young master with his clothing as well as leads the housekeeping staff with his mini assistant Harry, who's favorite thing to do is fold the towels into swans. 

Sirius met James when they worked together at a pub in town before James accepted his position among the royal staff. He was an orphan who had run away from his abusive foster parents. Euphemia felt for the boy and had immediately taken them in like her own son. Cooking meals with his new family ignited his love for food and with help from the Potters, had gone to culinary school. Later, with James's help, began as a waiter at the castle turned kitchen manager. 

Prince Remus, to be frank, doesn't love, not really once his mother had passed. Once under the orders of his father, his image, and the people he surrounded himself with became a priority. Being human was being vulnerable, and being vulnerable was being weak. That's why he found himself surrounded by attractive women, knowing that each one hanging onto his arm believed that they would be the one he fell in love with, inheriting his fortune and power. His arm was around one of the maidens' waists, loosely spinning her as his eyes scanned the room for someone more interesting. 

"My lord, I can't help but believe you might have an interest in me. this is the second time we've danced tonight; you need not be so shy." 

His eyes dropped back to Amelie? Emily? who blushed under his gaze, looking up at him through her fluttering eyelashes. He scoffed and retracted his hand from her waist, pushing past her towards another, ignoring her pleas and attempts to grab his arm. As much fun as he had being the center of attention and being the one everyone wanted to be with, he despised the desperate ones, none of them being worth his actual time. 

"Papa, I brought the napkins you asked for!" 

Sirius, James, and Peter turned to find Harry, James's son, holding a stack of cloth napkins up to him with a bright smile, his glasses sliding down his nose. James grinned as he took the napkins from Harry, pushing his glasses back up his nose and fixing his hair. 

"Great job Harry, now run along." 

"You've got him working already Potter? A chip off the old block, that one is." Peter chuckled, smiling along his colleagues as they watched little Harry skip away. 

The doors suddenly burst open, a woman in a cloak falling to the ground, her hood slipping and exposing her ratty grey hair. The maidens closest to the door gasped and squealed as they backed up, trying to distance themselves from the old woman. The music has stopped, Prince Remus weaving his way through the crowd to stand before the elderly intruder. 

"Who let you in, peasant? This ball is invite only." 

The woman looked up, her cloudy grey eyes looking into the Prince's. She held up a single rose, offering him the flower for temporary shelter from the cold. Prince Remus scoffed, rolling his eyes at the woman. The party goers laughed at the old woman from the other side of the ballroom. 

A smirk appeared on the old woman's face, as her body under the cloak began to glow a warm yellow, what seemed liked enchanted haze spreading towards the aghast party goers. Flower petals began to float around the woman as she transformed into a younger, more beautiful version of herself, her now bright blue eyes staring into the Prince's. The guests screamed at they scrambled to escape the sorcery they've witnessed, polished shoes trampling over expensive fabric and rose petals. 

The royal staff looked on in fear, not knowing how to help their master in this situation. James weaved through the people rushing out and found Harry hiding in a corner. He picked him up and turned to head out the door but stopped when he heard a deep growl coming from the center of the room. 

The cloud of magic enveloped Prince Remus, his bones cracking and expanding as his body slowly transformed him into a large, furry monster. His perfect silk robes tearing and falling off the Prince's new body. Large curved horns grew out of his head, and his perfect teeth evolved into sharp fangs. His once perfect appearance turned into one of a menacing animal. 

The young Prince had failed his test from the enchantress. He had not shown kindness to a stranger in need and had confirmed his own selfishness and entitlement. He was mean and ugly on the inside, so she had turned him into who he really was, a beast. Adding on to that, she left a powerful spell on the castle and villagers, turning the royal staff into household objects for allowing the Prince's behavior, and erasing all memory of the royal castle and its inhabitants from the villagers. The curse was infinite, unless the prince managed to make someone fall in love with him. 

Over the years the castle grew colder, lonelier as Remus and his staff became more hopeless for a chance to end the curse. Snow had fallen over the crumbling castle and grounds, the bitterness of the cold outside matching what Remus was feeling in his heart. 

 He was doomed, turned into a disgusting monster for the rest of his days, because who could ever learn to love a beast? 

[sansacherie]

When Prince Daemon sent forth his call to arms, they rose up all along the rivers, knights and men-at-arms and humble peasants who yet remembered the Realm’s Delight, so beloved of her father, and the way she smiled and charmed them as she made her progress through the riverlands in her youth. Hundreds and then thousands buckled on their swordbelts and donned their mail, or grabbed a pitchfork or a hoe and a crude wooden shield, and began to make their way to Harrenhal to fight for Viserys’s little girl.

Queen Helaena, a sweet and gentle soul, is much beloved by the people of Kingslanding. Rhaenyra was not-

after grrm blog post came out (before it was deleted lol) the above quote was one of several that i saw tb bring up to "disprove" him. and it's like nuance is dead with y'all because nowhere in his post or the text did grrm say rhaenyra was ALWAYS hated or unpopular among the smallfolk, particularly in kingslanding. obviously that's untrue. however she certainly was by the end of her hold on the city and for good reason. tb likes to say that it was "only" because of taxes to make rhaenyra a victim of them being "unreasonable" (even though that alone would have been more than justifiable, the taxes were obviously high enough that it was hurting the smallfolk and rhaenyra did not help matters by the sounds of it, not doing anything to really alleviate that pressure or acknowledge it) but in reality it was also about her being a murderer of children in their eyes. which is like a pretty solid reason to turn against someone lol. and if we go outside kingslanding you know who else among the lowborn has good reason to spit on rhaenyras name? the smallfolk of westernlands. look up or refresh yourselves with dalton greyjoy because it's not pretty.

but anyway what i found interesting about that quote about rhaenyra is that if im gonna be be brutal, in this particular instance the love for rhaenyra is because of her father and thats not really a compliment to her imo. and while im definitely not saying there was never any lords or smallfolk who never loved rhaenyra for her own sake (because she was charming!)

however grrm has made it clear that the major difference between helaena & rhaenyra is that helaena is mostly loved because of who she is as a person (she's sweet, gentle, kind. she just - had good vibes and by the sounds of it was pure sunshine) whereas it's undeniable that a lot of the love rhaenyra has comes from the loyalty/love people had for her father viserys.

[jedimaesteryoda]

Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow are somehow very much the image of their forebear Aegon V "Egg" Targaryen.

Egg is called the "Unlikely" for a reason. He was the youngest son of the youngest son, the trueborn grandson of Daeron II furthest from succession, yet he managed to become king. Daenerys likewise is a girl and an exiled, dispossessed royal with no lands, wealth or swords to her name at the start of the series, and by the end of the first book, lost her khal with seemingly nothing left. Yet, she manages to hatch dragon eggs and build an entire kingdom and army from the ground up. She is the exiled prince played straight. Jon is the supposed bastard son of Eddard Stark who joins the Night's Watch, yet he manages to rise to Lord Commander and could possibly become a king by the end of the series.

Jon and Dany both can relate to Egg with regards to relationships with his brothers. Daenerys had to deal with a half-mad abusive older brother in the form of Viserys while Egg was terrorized by his own half-mad sibling Aerion, and in the end, both their fraternal bullies ended up dying by fire. Jon had a good relationship with Egg's brother Maester Aemon, his fellow black brother who counsels him like he did Egg to the point he gives him the same advice of "kill the boy."

In "The Mystery Knight," the dragon egg at Whitewalls is believed to hatch a living dragon but it refers to Egg's maturation as he is unveiled as the Targaryen prince while Daenerys hatches living dragons eggs which connects to her maturation and rise.

(Note: Daenerys and Egg make their egg hatching attempts after having tragically lost their sons and spouses. Eg g and Jon both burned down places with Summerhall and Mormont's tower respectively.)

Connections are also found with physical transformation and taking on a new humble identity as a disguise under which the young prince learns about the trials of those less priveleged. Daenerys goes bald after hatching her dragon eggs, signifying her transformation from a weak, frightened girl to a "true Targaryen" just as Egg shaved off his hair to signify his transformation from Prince Aegon to Egg, squire to the hedge knight Dunk.

Aegon took on the guise of Egg as the squire to the common born hedge knight Dunk as he stayed away from royal court traveling the countryside. Daenerys grew up away from royal court in Essos always traveling from place to place while Jon (unwittingly) hides his Targaryen identity posing as Ned Stark's bastard son and rode with wildlings, associated with the smallfolk of the Night's Watch. Both Egg's descendants' views were impacted by their upbringing as Egg's was. Egg's years among the smallfolk gave him more sympathy towards them or as he was called "half a peasant" just as Jon was called "half a wildling" for having ridden with the wildlings and his upbringing as a bastard gave him more sympathy towards the marginalized along with good teachers. Daenerys's past as abused childhood growing up in poverty who sold into marriage made her sympathetic towards the slaves and children, the most marginalized and least protected members of society.

"Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?" -ASOS, Daenerys III "I am the shield that guards the realms of men. Those are the words. So tell me, my lord—what are these wildlings, if not men?" -ADWD, Jon XI

Put into leadership roles as Jon is elected as Lord Commander and Dany becomes queen as Egg was elected King at the Great Council, the two show solidarity with the downtrodden as Egg did.

They face frustration in pushing through needed popular changes in face of reactionary opposition up to and including rebellions. Daenerys liberates slaves and supports their rights against the slavocracy, but faces opposition in the form of the Harpy and the Yunkish coalition as Egg supported the rights of smallfolk and faced opposition in the form of rebellions by the lords. Jon pushes for reforms such as naming a former prostitute as his squire and allying with the wildlings, but faces opposition in the form of Marsh's faction.

Daenerys and Jon are Egg's spiritual successors as they try to make the world a better place, and deal with realities of ruling and leadership.

[velvet4510]

Despite the conservative sides of his viewpoints that have been written about time and again, we really must give Tolkien some credit for the unique embrace of diversity that he does provide at the heart of LOTR.

Three times across history (four if the legend of the ancestors of Dol Amroth’s princes is true), a Man and an Elf fall in love and break the rules of Elven culture to be together.

Four Hobbits, two Men, an Elf, a Dwarf, and a Maia - a total of five different races - come together from completely different walks of life, form a Fellowship, and become a family. They each share pieces of their own culture with the others, and the others embrace those pieces.

When a Dwarf is treated with discrimination by Elves, the rest of the Fellowship stand up for him and insist on being treated the same way he is (i.e. blindfolded), and he and the Elf of the Fellowship break through the barriers of cultural prejudice and build an unbreakable friendship.

A Man sacrifices his life to save two Hobbits.

A Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf forsake all other possible tasks and run on foot for hundreds and hundreds of miles on a rescue mission for two Hobbits.

The teamwork of two Hobbits and a group of Ents overpower their mutual enemy and turn the tide of a war.

A Man provides two Hobbits with encouragement as well as extra supplies which end up helping them survive the rest of their journey.

A Hobbit finds a father figure in an elderly Man.

The teamwork of a Woman and a Hobbit brings about the death of an evil it was said could never be killed.

The teamwork of a Maia and a Hobbit save a Man’s life.

An Elf and a Dwarf do not hesitate to follow a Man down a dark and dangerous pathway.

The combined forces of Men, an Elf, a Dwarf, and a Hobbit take on a hopeless battle merely to buy time for two other Hobbits to complete their mission.

A Man bows to two Hobbits at his own coronation.

A lost kingdom is restored by a dynasty begun by a Man/Elf couple.

A Maia offers a special gift to two wounded Hobbits and personally escorts them to a place where they will finally find peace.

Two Hobbits, eventually followed by a third, leave their homeland behind and build a new, beautiful life among Elven culture, into which they are accepted with open arms.

An Elf resists the “irresistible” call of the Sea to stand by his mortal friend, a Man, for as long as his friend lives.

A Hobbit names his son after a Man whom he has befriended.

A young Hobbit girl is honored by an Elf queen and later names her children after honorable figures of Elven history.

Two elderly Hobbits are warmly welcomed into a city of Men to live out their last years, and the ruler of these Men requests to be buried beside them.

The Elf/Dwarf odd-couple duo break the rules one last time and sail off together to a place where Dwarves are usually not allowed to be … a place where they can reunite with their other surviving friends, two Hobbits and a Maia.

Middle-Earth is a melting pot of love and acceptance across cultures and races. Tolkien may not have covered all the bases in his exploration of diversity, but by golly, did he cover a lot of them. He wrote a story in which people of completely different backgrounds form unbreakable bonds that change the fate of the world for the better.

[mmogurl]

In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 6: The Flight of Dragons

18+ | 7.5k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Dragon riding, Targcest, Courtship

This chapter was a real whopper at just shy of 7500 words! It was affectionately titled 'dragon date' as I was writing it, and that is exactly what it is. Daemon and Ryna take their dragons Caraxes and Silverwing to the skies and have a bit of fun. It's no secret that I love dragons, so I had an especially good time writing this scene. I hope the imagery of it comes across well. Told from Daemon's POV. P.S. Has anyone ever read the book The Flight of Dragons that the chapter is named for? It was my first exposure to dragons when I was maybe 5 or 6 years old and I have been in love with them ever since.

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9 Also on AO3

Comment to be added if I missed you! Tags: @coffeebooksrain18, @immyowndefender @purple-1995 @claud012 @tent4yu @xcinnamonmalfoyx

“Seven hells!” Daemon burst out in genuine surprise, whipping his head to stare at the girl by his side. The carriage shook against the cobblestones as they were ferried by a small accompaniment to The Dragonpit. Among the contingent of some five or six men escorting them was Ser Erryk Cargyll, Ryna’s newly appointed guard - likely assigned just to ensure that the Rogue Prince behaved himself.

Initially, Viserys had been amenable enough to his request to take the princess out dragonriding, but his brother’s habitual nitpicking soon became apparent as time went on, and he imposed additional conditions for their outing.

“You must be back when the sun is directly overhead,” the king had originally demanded. Thankfully, Daemon was able to convince him that sundown was a much more realistic expectation, but immediately his brother sprang back with another stipulation. “You must land in the presence of a chaperon.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Daemon had balked at the ridiculous requisite, but his brother would not be moved.

“You must not be alone in the wilderness unaccompanied,” Viserys had retorted with indifference to his plight. Suffice it to say, Daemon didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter. It seemed they would be having their picnic by the water as Ryna had originally suggested, or at least somewhere close by enough that their babysitters could follow.

Ryna clutched a brimming basket packed with foodstuff in her lap, looking down and fidgeting with the red cloth that covered it. It had been prepared for their luncheon rendezvous by the kitchen staff, likely with more food then they could ever possibly hope to eat on their own. Perhaps they could share with the nursemaids who would soon be overseeing them as though they were children.

More interestingly though, was the tale his little princess had just been regaling him with of how she tamed the majestic beast known as Silverwing, a dragon that had gone unclaimed for nineteen years since the death of Queen Alysanne.

“Are you mad?” he spat with a mix of shock and awe, focusing back on what his niece had just said.

“I won’t lie, there was a part of me that was terrified in that moment,” she explained, her features brightening with excitement as she spoke. “She dwarfed me and I felt like a kitten in her shadow, but there was also something knowing in her eyes, something that spoke to me. She voiced without words that we were one in the same and somehow… I just knew that I had to stand my ground.”

“But to chase after the beast, into her lair after she denied your initial advance, without the aid of the Dragonkeepers and with no battle training is not only dangerous, it is foolish.” He couldn’t help but feel protective of her even retroactively, but there was a strong sense of pride welling in his chest as well. It was a brash action that he himself would have taken.

“It is simply the way it must be done at times… If you are tame a beast akin to a god. They will not accept you if you cannot prove to them that you are worthy. That you are just as powerful as they are. And even still, there must be a bond, and I sensed that connection with Silverwing already. We had encountered each other many times on my visits to Dragonstone, and when I was six and ten I could no longer deny the call I felt to claim her.” She sounded almost like a prophetic seer in her explanation.

Daemon knew she was right though. How could one expect to tame a dragon without being as willful and bold as they were. And yet, it had been incredibly perilous of her to attempt alone. It was something he could never have dreamed the small girl would do, but he would certainly never accuse her of being a weak, mewling pet. No, not after that story and how she had stood up to Rhaenyra as well. His beloved niece was a fierce Valyrian warrior, fire made flesh, demanding what was owed to her from one of the most fearsome and magical creatures known to existence.

“Worthy indeed,” he let out a low scoff, though he was clearly impressed by the tale. “To tame a dragon such as Silverwing in such a daring way is truly astounding. I would wager that my dear brother would have fainted on the spot if he had witnessed his daughter performing such a feat.”

Ryna turned to him looking a touch sheepish as though she were recalling Viserys’ reaction on the spot. “He was not pleased when he found out that I had sailed across the bay to Dragonstone without his leave. But he could not complain for long when he found out that I had returned with a dragon of legend.” She smiled enthusiastically, seemingly proud of her subjugation - not just of her dragon, but also of her father’s ire.

Daemon chuckled at the thought of poor old Viserys upon realizing what his daughter had accomplished. “Oh, I expect not. But, he must have been overjoyed in the end, having another fierce mounted dragon in the hands of the family.”

His eyes began to wander over his niece thoughtfully, a feeling of respect fluttering through his mind and down to his heart. She looked so lovely, so noble sitting there beside him with such a resolute countenance.

And then suddenly and without warning, he blurted out the uppermost thought that would not escape his head, “You are very beautiful, Princess.”

Her gaze shifted from looking out the carriage window back towards him, a startled surprise in her slack lips as her eyes focused on his. “T-thank you, Uncle,” she replied with a girlish sweetness, her cheeks blushing slightly with the compliment.

The prince let out a low hum, enjoying the soft blush that spread across her porcelain skin. Daemon leaned over to her just as the coach took a jolting turn around a tight corner, hitting a rock and sending her sliding into him further. He relished in her proximity, so close that he could smell her delicate scent.

“No need to thank me,” he murmured softly, letting his cheek fall against the soft tresses atop her head for a moment and feeling a sense of intoxication as a result from the honeyed smell of her shampoo. “I’m only speaking the truth, my little dragon.”

She smiled shyly as a sense of quiet pervaded the royal coach. It was not an awkward silence, but a contented moment shared by two who truly appreciate each other’s company. His arm snaked naturally around her shoulders, pulling her snugly to his side. The feel of her warm face nestled against his chest sent his mind spiraling back and forth between gentle affection and primal lust. It was hard not to think of doing unspeakable things to her just then, but the sounds of trotting hooves and wheels scraping against cobblestones helped to distract him from his desires.

Eventually, the carriage slowed as they neared the entrance to the massive gates atop Rhaenys’ Hill and while Daemon found himself loathe to part from her company, even temporarily, he was also rapt with the idea of seeing his little Ryna mounting an incredible beast like Silverwing. He stepped out of the carriage, jumping to the dusty ground below and offered his hands up to take the basket first and then helped his niece down as well.

Ser Erryk had already dismounted his steed and was standing at the ready to assist, but Daemon couldn’t help but resent his presence. He tossed the basket against the knight’s chest and offered his arm to Ryna with a slight scowl. He did not harbor any malice towards the man, in fact Cargyll had served under him quite faithfully when Daemon had been Commander of the Gold Cloaks. But, he still wasn’t sure if this Cargyll twin would be loyal to him or the king in the event of witnessing any untoward behavior, and thus he begrudged the intrusion.

“Meet us down by the overlook. Across from the harbor. We’ll land there,” Daemon barked as he pointed off in the direction he meant to fly. The Kingsguard nodded solemnly in return.

With Ryna at his side, they started toward the open maw of the Dragonpit. Daemon mused on their approach that the back entrance looked more like a yawning cave with jagged stone teeth than its name suggested. The warm air of the city, carried up by the sea and mixed with the sulfurous reek of dragonshit blew through the opening and assaulted their nostrils.

Several Dragonkeepers stood at the entrance in reception. Three were attending to Caraxes, who reluctantly allowed himself to be led out into the open, while a couple others stood guard at the mouth of the pit. The massive wyrm hissed with displeasure as it came fully into view, its scaly hide gleaming bloody crimson in the light of day. Caraxes’ neck extended out into the air with a roar as Daemon approached and it gave him a measure of comfort, a reminder of who he was if ever there was one.

He let go of Ryna’s arm to close the gap between him and his mount. His hand reached out to stroke the great Blood Wyrm on his snout, soothing the temper of his dragon and earning a low, content rumble from deep within the beast’s chest. Caraxes’ eye fixed on him with the flicker of recognition, a connection born from years of shared adventures.

“Lykirī, Caraxes,” he reassured the great creature - Be calm. The giant serpentine creature seemed much happier now that it was surrounded by two Targaryens. “You remember my niece, old boy. Don’t you?”

Another grumble escaped Caraxes’ maw, louder and louder until eventually it came out sounding like the beast was purring. Its head reached out for the young girl in all his fearsome glory, the long slender neck stretching to sniff at the familiar Valyrian blood that coursed through her veins.

Daemon felt something inside of him brace. Caraxes had never defied him as such to bypass his hold for another. Though it wasn’t crossness that gave him pause, but a split second of worry. Yet, Ryna was already taking those steps to close the distance between them, meeting his dragon without hesitation as though it were a domesticated pet. She stood beside her uncle, her fingers resting right beside his own against Caraxes’ hard, yet flexible scaling.

She is fearless.

She had a confidence about her in the presence of this great wyrm that she did not exude in other areas of her life. Perhaps it had been squashed by her family after years of neglect, but here in the shadow of his dragon, it was all too obvious that she had the makings of a fierce dragonrider. She might even be capable of claiming more than one beast, should she desire it. He couldn’t help but smile as the awe struck him.

Caraxes’ head pressed in towards them in what was undoubtedly a demanding plea for affection and Daemon could do nothing but chuckle as the great beast sought after the attention of his sweet niece. “Looks like he’s just as fond of you as I am,” he commented with a measure of amusement in his voice.

Ryna smiled with a childlike glee present in her eyes as she suddenly pressed her cheek directly against the flat spot before Caraxes’ eye. The dragon grunted and settled, pushing into her gently as if in approval.

Then it is not only me that is enthralled by you.

He felt a pang in his chest, almost akin to jealousy. She had ensnared not one, but two beasts with her beguiling innocence and effortless beauty. It was an amazing display to the point of being surreal given she had not been this close to Caraxes for many years. Daemon couldn’t deny the rush of affection and lust he felt at the sight, mixed with the slightest bite of envy. An envy not to share in her ways, but to selfishly keep them all to himself.

“He is magnificent,” she finally said, replacing her cheek with her hand on Caraxes scales. She beamed with a pride that can only be felt by those adept at taming a creature as wild and fierce as a dragon.

“Yes he is,” Daemon responded with a measure of warmth in his voice. “Magnificent and brutal,” he noted, running a hand along the outstretched neck of his wyrm.

Ignoring his owner’s touch completely, Caraxes gave a few adoring nudges against Ryna’s palm. The Blood Wyrm practically begging to be pet and scratched now, purring like an oversized house cat for the girl’s attention. You enormous whore. I’ve never seen you so desperate before.

Ryna obliged his pleas for care, rubbing the tips of her fingers into the scaling enough to massage the musculature down below, but taking care not to snag her nails on the edges. Caraxes was certainly eating up all the attention, groaning and grunting with every touch. Daemon was definitely starting to feel a bit jealous by now.

“You’d think he’s never been pet before in his entire life until now with how he’s carrying on for you,” he said with a hint of contempt, shifting his gaze to the dragon’s massive golden eye. Daemon shook his head and rested a hand on Ryna’s waist, staking his claim lest Caraxes get any ideas about who she belonged to.

A low grumble came from within the red wyrm’s chest, a mostly silent acknowledgment of Daemon’s presence, but no more than that. Still Ryna kept at kneading all of over the dragon’s face and clearly Caraxes wished her to continue with her pampering, but Daemon had enough of it.

“Come now, sweetling,” Daemon interrupted the display. “Caraxes is not the only one craving your attention.” He spoke in a sultry low tone as he gently pulled her away from the beast. His dragon gave an unmistakable grumble of protest, a displeased moan that sounded like a child being denied their favorite toy. “Besides, you still have to introduce me to your Silverwing.”

“Oh yes! I almost forgot,” she said with a shocked look of remembrance. “Sorry for getting carried away. I just love them so.” Ryna gave Caraxes a wave goodbye and then peered around to the idling Dragonkeepers. “Why haven’t they brought my dragon out as well though?” she mused with a furl of her brow.

Daemon eyed the men at the entrance to the pit and a sudden sense of alarm overcame him. The keepers looked far too nervous and unsettled and he had been too preoccupied watching Ryna with Caraxes to notice it until now.

They left Caraxes and approached the huddle of keepers at the entry that led down into the Dragonpit.

“Skoriot iksos Silverwing?” Where is Silverwing? She asked with confusion. After all the Dragonkeepers were typically consummate professionals that revered the dragons as gods. It was unlike them to not have the great beasts prepared when it had been requested.

“Ziry jāhor daor rȳbagon.” She will not listen. The response came first from the eldest keeper present while the two much younger and inexperienced men around him cowered their heads slightly.

“Iksos ziry nykeēdrosa iemnȳ? Is she still inside?” Ryna didn’t seem entirely surprised.

“Daor, ziry-“ The keeper began but was cut off by a deafening screech. No, she-

The beating of large wings sent air in all directions, kicking up the dust as everyone’s gaze shot to the air to take in the spectacle. The massive, pale dragon’s scales shimmered, almost blindingly opalescent in the sunlight as it hovered directly above them, sending the keepers retreating into the eye of the cave. Silverwing darted in the air, crashing down to the side of the landing with a few more shrieks, causing the earth to tremble beneath them.

“She does not like to be chained,” Ryna explained with a mild embarrassment as she rushed forward to meet her dragon before it could cause anymore ruckus.

Daemon stood back, watching with a mixture of wonder and concern as Silverwing let loose her displeasure at being confined for so long. The great silver beast had a reputation for being the tamest and most friendly dragon in Westeros, but clearly living in the wild for so many years had changed its disposition.

As Silverwing roared and snarled at the keepers who had run to seek shelter from the enraged beast, Daemon turned and held his hand up to stay Caraxes who had become unnerved by the display of a larger dragon’s aggression. Once the crimson wyrm calmed, he took the chance to observe Ryna. It seemed his niece had no fear in her when it came to these winged creatures.

“Rāpirī!” she called out loudly, the sound cutting through the dragon’s complaints as her neck stood straight with awareness. Be calm!

Silverwing’s rigid stance visibly relaxed as the princess approached, taking several lurching steps forward to meet her halfway. Daemon was surprised by the tone that erupted from her small frame in the wake up such an imposing beast.

“Daor, Silverwing! Konir sagon daor ñuhoso naejot sagon!” No, Silverwing. That is no way to act!” Ryna’s tone was strict and chastising, but the way she embraced the dragon was anything but.

The dragon towered even Caraxes in size and yet it acted docile when faced with his niece. He had to laugh as he walked across the yard slowly, watching the beast press the front of its head against the height of her entire body and somehow failing to knock her over.

“How is she not crushed under the weight of that beast!?” Daemon pondered aloud with a smirk as the scene unfolded before him. It seemed like a completely ridiculous sight, even by his standards, to see a dragon envelop the form of a little girl and have her not suffer even a single broken rib.

He kept his distance, not wishing to agitate Silverwing as she enjoyed the moment of finally being free of the cramped confines of the Dragonpit. Yet, he couldn’t resist smirking to himself as he saw his young niece standing tall with her hand resting upon the top of the great dragon’s head.

After some moments had passed, Ryna turned back to him with a look of delight upon her face, her hand motioning in circles to pull him closer.

“Don’t worry, Uncle,” she said encouragingly. “She was just a touch ornery with the keepers, I think.”

Daemon had to laugh at that. “Ornery is putting it lightly,” he replied, walking closer to join them. “I think I’d use something more potent. Perhaps savage is a more apt description.” Daemon jested as he took position not far behind Ryna marveling at the sheer mass of the dragon’s enormous body.

Silverwing’s bright orange eyes watched him discerningly, but she had obviously decided to take her rider’s lead in trusting him for the moment. In the sun, the dragon’s scales appeared almost white, the spine and underside of her wings were pearlescent with hues of coral pink shining through the most. The flicker of silver lined the underside of each scale and Daemon could tell the beast would be just as gorgeous in the dim twilight as well.

She was a beast of both grace and beauty, no doubt, but Daemon could also sense the sheer power and ferocity that exuded from this dragon. Silverwing may be docile for the moment, but appeared like a creature that would bring ruin and death to her enemies if given the chance. “A glorious wyrm, to be sure,” he admitted as his hands came to a rest at his hips.

“She certainly looks like she belongs to you, sweetling. Pale as snow and just as stunning,” he added with a thoughtful grin.

“Uncle…” she turned her head back to him, a rose in her cheeks at the compliment. “You must stop praising me so. I don’t know how to handle such flattery.”

“Surely you’re used to praise by now,” he teased as his eyes scanned her form up and down in a predatory manner. That beautiful blushing face and those pouty lips that beckoned to be bruised and used. “I’d wager you’ll handle it just fine, sweetling,” he answered in a suggestive tone. His eyes lingered over her delicate body for a second longer before he returned his gaze to Silverwing.

“I’ve heard this beast was quite docile, even obedient, when last it was ridden by the Queen Alysanne,” he inquired curiously. “Why has she become so easily agitated?”

“I’m not sure,” she pondered, stroking down the neck of Silverwing with the flat of her hand. “It could be that she is restless and misses her mate, Vermithor. They had been bonded for decades and even after the passing of their riders, remained so upon the Dragonmont. But, it might be that she is no longer accustomed to being bound after living free for so long. It is difficult to say, but I may stop forcing her to be chained. It is getting more dangerous for all involved. Save me, of course.”

Ryna then took him by the wrist and led him closer. “Shh… Shh, Silver. Renīs,” -Touch, she warned the giant white beast as she prepared to place his hand upon her dragon’s hulking face. Silverwing let out a low growl, her eyes narrowing in suspicion as she watched Daemon carefully. He was not weary of the creature, but wished to give it the space it needed, regarding it back with his own calculating expression.

“It is alright, Silver,” she let go of Daemon’s hand and continued to coo, almost using the tone one might speak to a young child with. “He may be a rogue, but he is with me.”

The great silver dragon continued to rumble and hiss, her orange eyes fixed on Daemon with doubt, but Ryna’s soothing voice started to calm her into a tolerant complaint of his presence.

“Oh, she’s very protective of you, hm?” he teased with a smirk on his face. “But she should know that I would never dare harm her precious rider.”

“Perhaps you should tell her that yourself… And maybe she’ll even believe you.” She quipped back with a playful leer.

“And what might persuade her that I’m a man worth trusting?” Daemon chuckled at his niece’s jest as he looked back to Silverwing. Those blazing, fiery eyes continued to stare at him, almost like they were peering deeply into his soul. He took a step closer to the dragpm, his hands held up in a gesture of peace.

“Don’t worry, riña,” -girl, she stepped forward and clapped the side of the dragon’s massive jaw. “He might look dangerous, but he is actually quite sweet once you get to know him a little better. A little mischievous too. But that only serves to keep things interesting.” She gestured for him to come even closer as Silverwing relaxed considerably.

A little mischievous? That is the understatement of the century.

“Sweet, you say?” he barked sarcastically while shifting his gaze to Ryna. “I don’t think that’s a word many people would use to describe me,” he teased as he continued to carefully advance, closing the final distance between him and Silverwing.

The giant eye flicked to her rider for a moment before shifting back to Daemon as he raised his hand up slowly to touch her. Finally, he lowered his palm down upon the scales below her snout. Silverwing rumbled slightly and then settled, finally relenting her fussing over his nearness. He couldn’t help but marvel at how soft her scales were, like touching snow in the summer, but supposed it was balanced out by the fearsome spikes that protruded out from around the crown of the dragon’s head.

“There we are, girl,” he whispered as his hand stroked over those fine as silk scales, coming to rest along the curve of her jaw. He turned to the princess with a smug smirk, unable to help himself from gloating. “I guess I’m not such a lost cause after all.”

Ryna rolled her eyes playfully, running her hand down the throat of her mount. “I knew she’d accept you. She’s mine after all, isn’t she?”

“Indeed, sweetling,” he replied as his hand brushed lines along the underside of Silverwing’s jaw, taking care to avoid the jagged spurs jutting out. Just as you are mine. The words danced on the tip of his tongue, holding back a possessive smirk from forming on his lips.

Daemon’s focus shifted to his niece as she ran her hands over Silverwing’s smooth plates of shining armor. He couldn’t help but imagine how those same sweet hands would feel upon his body, caressing his chest and running through his hair. He was still conflicted with how to balance the lust he felt for the girl and the confines of the courtship. A line he was not supposed to cross yet, no matter how tempting it was.

“Now that everyone is at peace with each other. Shall we go flying, Uncle?” Ryna asked with a smile, grazing her hand against his for a moment as she stepped back away from the towering silver white dragon. “I think this shall be the best courting date that was ever had.”

The brief contact of her fingers touching against the back of his knuckles felt like fire upon his skin.

“The best, sweetling?” he replied with a wicked grin as he followed her in giving Silverwing space. “Oh, I could think of a few ways to make it even better.”

His niece shook her head at him with a telling expression of both desire and impishness. “Ebrot, Silver!” she boomed with authority. Down.

The giant scaled beast lowered it’s neck down, it’s chest practically touching the ground as she spread her wing out like a step ladder. Ryna climbed up the hard alula of her dragon’s outer wing with the deftness of a seasoned thief, sliding into the saddle with a thump. The saddle appeared just as he’d expect, made for a princess with a royal blue fabric lining and a frame made of oxidized silver that looked magnificent against the creature’s milky skin.

Daemon had to bite his tongue to keep his expression nonchalant as he watched that great power between Ryna’s legs, making it look like Silverwing’s back was her very own throne.

And she makes it look so good.

Giving the princess one final glance, he nodded and turned on his heels to stride over to where Caraxes was, already waiting for him and impatient to take to the skies. Daemon hauled himself up into the leather saddle as the Blood Wyrm let out a sharp screech of excitement that echoed across the Dragonpit and likely the streets below. He settled his knees onto either side of the beast, straddling the saddle and gripping the rein in his fists as he urged Caraxes back towards Ryna.

The dragons hissed and spat, each giving off their own intimidation tactics as they attempted to vie for dominance, but were stymied by their riders.

“Daor, Caraxes!” he bellowed like thunder and the crimson wyrm rumbled once more before settling. As the beasts calmed, Ryna walked Silverwing beside him so that they were both facing each other.

“Now, Uncle… There’s just one question left to answer.” Ryna smirked mischievously. “Do you know what it is?”

Daemon gave his princess a look of annoyance, pretending as if he was too distracted by the antics of their dragons, but there was no hiding the grin of anticipation that soon pulled at his lips. He knew damn well what was coming his way, almost like a child understands without instruction that a game is near at hand.

“Enlighten me, sweetling,” he answered in feigned ignorance.

“Who will be faster?” she challenged him as her eyes grew wide. Her hands clutched the reins of her saddle tightly and she shouted, “Sōvēs!" ordering Silvering to fly.

Oh, you ’re on, r i ñītsos. Little girl.

As the immense silver dragon bolted forwards, great wings unfurled as she lunged into the sky, Daemon’s competitive nature kicked in and he ordered Caraxes to quickly follow suit. The crimson beast took off into the air with a powerful leap, its wings flapping furiously to gain speed as he gave chase to Ryna and her mount.

He could just barely hear her shouting through the current of wind assaulting his ears, "Vēzot! Vēzot!" urging the creature 'Up, up!'

“We can’t let her beat us, now can we, Caraxes? I’ll never hear the end of it!” he yelled to his mount with an amused laugh. He then ordered his dragon to climb into the sky as well, goading his smaller, more agile dragon forward, “Aderī! Aderī!” Faster!

Daemon gained on her swiftly, only a beat behind her as Ryna soared higher and higher, finally reaching the boundary of the clouds and pushing through. In a crest of hazy fog, they were both above the canopy of mist in direct reception of the blazing sun. Caraxes let out a sharp cry of pleasure as the warm sunlight washed over them, both dragons now gliding through the clear air with ease.

His bride to be’s dragon shone like a rainbow after a storm, breathtaking in its splendor and he could not help but feel awed by the sight of it. But, even the beauty of Silverwing’s gleaming scales could not deter his focus as his eyes locked onto Ryna’s, watching as she sat astride the great dragon as if it were an extension of her own body. Her flowing hair was golden in the light, illuminating her with a radiant glow that made her look like a goddess.

The princess’ playful smile, soon became a bit more serious as she returned his gaze, an unspoken promise of more to come. He was so captivated that he almost forgot about their race. Almost.

“You may be lovely, Niece, but you’re not going to win!” he yelled out, a teasing lilt to his voice despite the volume.

She turned back with a beaming smile and shouted "That's what you think!"

Ryna pulled back hard on the reins with a devious look on her face.. "Embrot, Silverwing!! Down!" The dragon rolled up once more and then dove back down into the clouds and Ryna let out a screaming cheer as they descended.

As the shimmering pearl of a beast dove into a dizzying free fall, Daemon’s eyes widened in surprise watching them disappear beneath the cloud cover, cursing under his breath, “You little cheat!” She wasn’t going to play fair it seemed, which suited his own nature just fine.

He urged Caraxes into a steep drop in hot pursuit of the princess, the great red serpent’s wings tucked close to its muscular body as they hurtled through the cool air. His heart was racing with excitement, the adrenaline rushing through his veins as he chased after Ryna through the billowing white haze.

Truly, this very feeling was what life was all about for those of the Valyrian bloodline: the adventure, the daring, and the freedom. Those who could ride dragons and knew the boundless liberation of flying could never truly find happiness with a ground laden person. He’d hoped to find that connection with Laena, but supposed the salt and sea that coursed through her veins, her steady flow, had a way of drowning out the fire in his own. Daemon had been restless with her, reclusive and entirely unlike himself, but now it seemed he’d found the fire he was meant to burn together with and it felt sublime.

A great whoop escaped his lungs as the clouds parted and he emerged through the bottom of the fog bank. The sensation was addictive, like the most concentrated milk of the poppy, the feeling of freedom that flight brought to his life mixed with the very thrill of the hunt as he pursued Ryna. He hadn’t felt this good in years, as if somehow all of his confliction, all of his struggles had suddenly gave way to clarity. He could see his path clearly and knew exactly what he wanted.

He had smoldered for Ryna for quite some time, but those embers had now been stoked becoming a raging firestorm of lust, desire, and need that spiraled forward without restraint just as he now cut through the air towards his goal.

The crimson wings of Caraxes spread as the dragon slowed its descent, hovering directly above Silverwing as its nostrils flared in and out taking great heaping breaths. Daemon’s cornsilk head was now almost directly above Ryna, looking down at her as a great smirk formed on his lips.

“You will not beat me that easily, you little minx!” he shouted, though his playful tone was heavily tinted with the thirst of the battle-high.

The princess threw her head back to look up at him, her lips loose with a wide smile as she brazenly reached a hand up. Daemon felt a jolt of heat rush through him and pool low in his belly as he gazed down at Ryna below him. She looked so radiant, her face flushed with exhilaration, her silverspun hair streaming, whipping wildly as she rode upon the back of her majestic silver dragon. It sent an aching throb through him, seeing his future bride looking so wild and free.

Gods, she is glorious.

He didn’t think he could reach her, but he extended his arm to Ryna anyway, feeling as though he might slip right out of his saddle if not for the downward motion holding him in place. The tips of their fingers grazed against each other for the slightest of moments as her mount’s great wings streamlined even more against the opaline crusted body, causing her to dive faster.

Daemon laughed out loudly, not angry at all by her cunning little tricks, but rather more amused than anything. For all her sweetness, the princess certainly had a playful streak to her and he very much enjoyed it.

“You little brat…” he said under his breath, grinning as he told his dragon to go after her. “Follow her, you big red brute!” Caraxes let out a great screech in response and took off after Silverwing once more, gaining fast as they headed down towards King’s Landing.

The pair of dragon riders glided over the city, circling and looping around one another, neither truly gaining the upper hand as the competition between their mounts turned into a game with no real rules nor rituals. They danced around one another, Silverwing twisting and banking beneath Caraxes, keeping him constantly on the defensive as Daemon took advantage of his mount’s greater maneuverability, testing the limits of his agility and speed.

It must have been a sight to behold for all the commonfolk down below and if rumors had not yet circulated of their coming union, then they most certainly would be spreading like wildfire now.

They swooped past the massive dome of the Dragonpit before pulling back up, their great beasts twisting and twirling through the air as Ryna shot towards the River Gate and over the Blackwater Rush. She followed the path alongside the river and Daemon pursued close behind. The princess was already slowing to look for a spot free of trees to land upon along the edge of the Kingswood.

The princess was already slowing to look for a spot free of trees to land upon and he took the opportunity to speed past her. For he knew exactly where their destination was, a large clearing that preceded a rocky outcropping that overlooked the Blackwater Bay on the boundaries of the Kingswood. Daemon rushed ahead, satisfied that he would win the race and ordered Caraxes to land, “Ninkiot!”

The Blood Wyrm flared his wings wide, slowing his descent as he landed on the soft grass with a heavy thud that shook the earth. Caraxes let out a triumphant shriek, sharing in the joy of victory as he lowered his body to let Daemon dismount from his back. His legs were a little wobbly as he jumped from the beast, a slight disorientation as he stepped on solid ground again. He pat his mount proudly on the head as he turned to await Ryna’s arrival.

Silverwing glided down near the treeline, wings outstretched and hovering for a moment before landing with a crash like thunder. The princess climbed down from her silver dragon’s back and turned towards him, face bright and exuberant from the thrill of their little race.

“I have never flown with another rider before!” she shouted from across the way, striding swiftly to meet him. “Tell me, Uncle… Why has it taken me so long to experience the delight of such play?”

As she made her way towards him, he drank in the sight of her. The way her hair curled in silvery gold ringlets, wind-swept from their flight and the flush of her cheeks. Her eyes gleamed with a happiness he could not remember seeing on her beautiful face since youth.

Daemon felt a pang of guilt well up as he thought of all the years of missed opportunity. How much time he’d wasted when they could have been spent together like this.

It matters not. You ’re mine now.

He opened his arms as she approached him, giving Ryna a charming smile. “It’s been long overdue, my sweetling,” he replied, pulling her against him in one fluid motion, their chests pressing firmly together without a hint of space between them. The heat from her skin permeated through the fabric of their clothing and he could feel her heart pounding against his chest.

Daemon pulled back slightly, gazing down at her for a moment. “You’re a very fast flyer, Niece. I had a hard time keeping up with you,” he teased, his voice a low rumble. He wrapped an arm around her slender waist as they walked together towards the edge of the cliff that looked out over the water.

“It’s a beautiful view,” Ryna said ignoring his playful jab. She gasped softly as the sun broke through the clouds and caused the sea to sparkle before them.

He stood at her side, arms encircling her waist, hunkered down slightly so he could prop his chin on her shoulder. The ocean breeze whipped at their hair, stirring the air and bringing the salt of the water to meet them.

“Hm, gevie,” Daemon whispered, nuzzling his nose into the crook of her neck. Beautiful. But, he was not speaking of the sea. He savored the feeling of her closeness, the scent of her skin, perfume, and hair all enticing him to bury himself in her and never leave.

Thankfully, the babysitters hadn’t yet arrived and they would be allowed a moment of reprieve from the intrusion of onlookers. Surely Ser Erryk was speeding ahead at full throttle to watch over them at the king’s behest, so they likely wouldn’t have time to do anything much.

As if reading his mind, she turned towards him, her small hands creeping up his chest slowly. Ryna looked up at him, her eyes heavy with desire and her lips parted enough to invite him in. Daemon was powerless to resist her silent request, his breath quickening as he ran his thumb across the plump redness of her lower lip. His gaze flickered over her face, lingering on the pale shine of her lilac irises before finally joining their mouths.

A deep, guttural moan rumbled in his throat as a familiar heat spread throughout his body. He deepened the kiss, pulling Ryna closer against him, their hips aligning as he pressed his arousal into her involuntarily, the need taking him over.

She gasped a soft little moan against his lips and he wondered if she had ever felt a man in this capacity. He’d had her pretty close to him on the night of the banquet, but with all of those skirts bunched up beneath her, Daemon doubted she had actually felt anything discernible. It would be hard to mistake it for anything else now though and her startled response made him want to throw her down on the grass, to see what other sounds he could coax from her innocent mouth.

Her body stiffened ever so slightly as his tongue invaded her mouth, tasting her sweetness eagerly. He pushed his tongue in deeper, wanting to consume every little whimper and movement she made. Daemon gripped her tighter, his hands resting firmly in the curve of her hip as he pulled her flush against him. She felt so good, like a missing piece that had finally found its rightful place in his arms.

He nipped at her bottom lip, tugging and pulling it between his teeth before burying his face back into the crook of her neck. His lips traced a slow, searing path across her jaw and down to her slender throat as his hand moved up her bodice, greedily clutching the soft mound of her breast.

Fuck, she feels so good. So soft and supple.

The feel of her tight little body pressed against him was already driving him wild. He was aching to sink his teeth into her neck, that smooth expanse of milky flesh calling to him. He could imagine the whimpers and mewls his sweet Ryna would make and it caused his blood to rush even faster, pumping into his cock as the fabric of his breeches constrained him painfully.

Slow it down, you lecherous bastard.

The audible rumble of wheels and hooves was now fast approaching from down the banks of the river. Daemon gave her breast a final gentle squeeze, reluctantly releasing his lips from her skin with a final kiss to her shoulder as he stepped back. It was an agonizing thing to do and the desperate look on her face was almost as painful as the taste of her still persisting upon his lips.

He was playing a dangerous game, attempting to see how far he could push himself before he lost all control.

“We must stop,” he murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I can hear the carriage. Our nursemaids will be here soon.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Ryna looked down the length of the clearing, her cheeks flushed and her chest still heaving from the excitement.

Daemon raked his fingers through his blond locks, trying to collect himself. He felt light-headed and shaky, the effects of their heated encounter still fresh in his mind, and not just the heavy petting, but the incredible race they’d just had on dragonback as well. This courtship was a torture levied upon him by his self-righteous brother who wanted nothing more than to watch him squirm.

He would stay within the boundaries of the game if not just to spite Viserys for saddling him with such a burden in the first place.

And then a thought occurred to him causing a wicked grin to cross his face as he considered the ways he might further bend the rules.

“I have something in mind, sweetling. Other means of continuing our play,” he suggested, taking her hands in his and rubbing his thumb across her knuckles.

“Oh?” she asked with a curious lilt in her tone. “Are you up to no good again, Uncle?”

The prince laughed, his dastardly plan coming more fully to fruition in his mind. “Perhaps a little,” he replied lifting her hand up to his lips. He placed a soft kiss upon her fingers, watching her carefully with a mischievous smirk upon his face. “Can you keep a secret, sweetling?”

“Of course I can,” she agreed quickly. “What is royal life without secrets and subterfuge?” Ryna giggled, matching his expression with her own of shared deviousness.

Daemon gave her a nod, satisfied with her answer and pleased by her guile. The princess was a quick study, eager to please, and most importantly, easily molded with the pliability of youth.

“Good. I have an idea,” he said, leaning close so that his lips hovered just a breath away from her ear.

The carriage finally peeked out from around the bend of the forest, following the path beside the river just as he finished whispering the last of his plans in Ryna’s ear. It was risky, but if he failed at his brother’s imposed game, there was nothing to stop him from simply eloping with his niece directly into another exile. It was not an ideal situation, but such a back up plan meant that he could never truly lose the match.

They both stood to face the small caravan as it neared with scheming smiles on their faces. Read Chapter 7