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sapphire-writes · 10 months

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Our Last Summer (modern!HOTD)

part 5 of 10 || series masterlist || previous part || next part

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader

summary: A date with Will Tyrell doesn't exactly go as planned.

word count: 5.0k

rating: Mature/Explicit/18+

warnings below the cut!

warnings: language, substance use, degradation, some praise, pussy slapping, pussy spitting, fingering, p in v, hand over mouth, exhibitionism, choking

note: hope you enjoy my loves!!

dividers by the lovely @firefly-graphics

as always, comments, reblogs & likes are appreciated but not expected

You wake with an ache between your thighs and your hand fisting the sheets beside you. Aemond must have left sometime during the night.

No sleepovers. Rule number one.

You unclench your fist, letting the silk sheets slip through your fingertips, before pushing yourself into a sitting position. Sunshine pours through the French doors, the storm from the previous night long gone.

You don’t know when Aemond left, you must have fallen asleep before him. The last thing you remember is finalizing the rules of your….arrangement.

“I usually establish boundaries,” Aemond said, “Guidelines that both parties are satisfied with.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. He always sounds so clinical.

“Do this a lot, do you?” you asked, but he shrugged off the comment.

“You don’t need to know about my past encounters, and I don’t need to know about yours,” he’d told you. His violet and blue gaze was piercing.

“Fine,” you’d agreed.

“I do think we should both be tested,” he shared, matter-of-factly, “I was recently, but I’ll go again so you can have a copy of my results.”

“You’d do that?” you asked, brows furrowed.

“That’s my standard,” he answered, “And if you ever are comfortable with fucking without a condom it's a non-negotiable for me.”

“Same,” you’d agreed, “I’ll make an appointment this week.”

You’d spent some time bickering, as you and Aemond often did.

“What are your other rules?” you’d asked, “Since you’re such an expert.”

“No feelings,” he said automatically, causing you to snort.

“No problem,” you’d answered.

“No other partners,” he continued, ignoring the jab, “I don’t share.”

A small shiver rolled through you at his possessive tone. Your eyes flickered to your phone, thinking of Will Tyrell’s message.

“Sounds great!” you’d responded to his text.

“No sleepovers,” he said, “Aftercare, of course, but no spending the entire night together.”

“Understandable,” you’d agreed, though you hated to admit how comfortable you’d felt in his arms. You were nestled against him now, snuggled into his chest with one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders, the other tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

“We’re fucking for the summer,” Aemond said, moving suddenly off of the bed.

“Where are you going?” you asked as he left the room, the sound of thunder booming through the walls of the house.

He returned a moment later, illuminated in the doorway by a flash of lightning, a box of condoms in his hands. He tossed them to you, and you caught them as he closed the door. You raise an eyebrow, surprised he wants to go again so soon. Aemond walks to the edge of the bed, curling his hand around your ankle, dragging you forward.

“When summer ends, this ends,” he says, kneeling between your legs at the foot of the bed, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, “Agreed?”

Your breathing picks up as you feel his breath against your core.

“Agreed,” you tell him, as his mouth descends on you.

When summer ends, this ends.

Your reminiscing of the night is short-lived, as a knock comes from your door, a second before it opens, revealing Helaena. You pull your shirt down, covering your bare thighs to make you somewhat decent. You frown at her as she plops onto the bed.

“No, come in,” you tease and she purses her lips.

“Dude that storm was intense,” she said, pulling her legs up to sit in a criss-cross position, leaning her elbows on her knees, “Sorry our plans got wrecked.”

“We can make edibles tonight?” you suggested, causing her to smile.

“Always down for that,” she said with a snicker.

“Guess what,” you tell her, “Will texted me. We have a date on Friday.”

“What’re you doing?” Helaena asks, after letting out a squeal of excitement.

“Outdoor movie? They’re showing Dirty Dancing,” you told her.

“Great movie,” Helaena says, kissing her fingertips in a chef’s kiss fashion, “Maybe I’ll force Egg to go with me, Aemond hates that cheesy shit. Speaking of….” she trails off for a moment, eying the shirt you’re wearing.

Your cheeks flush, suddenly remembering it's his.

“Was my brother nice to you?” Helaena asks.

“Yeah…um, we didn’t really talk. I spent most of the night up here,” you tell her.

Not a complete lie. After establishing the rules you’d spent the rest of the night in the guest room. Sure Aemond was with you for most of that. On top of you. Below you. Behind you.

You blink rapidly at the memory.

“Mhmm,” Helaena says, eyes narrowing, “Alone?”

“Yup,” you tell her, cracking a small smile.

Helaena reaches forward, slapping your thigh with the palm of her hand. You yelp in surprise at the burn her hand leaves, mouth opening in shock.

“Your pants are on fire!” Helaena teases, a smile dancing on her lips.

“I’m not wearing pants!” you comment snidely as Helaena makes a face.

She tilts her head, eyes flickering between you and something on the floor. Helaena raises her eyebrows. You follow her gaze, eyes landing on a discarded condom wrapper on the floor. Shit, you’d forgotten that one.

“Oh…” you begin.

“Yeah oh,” Helaena says with a snicker, “Figured that would happen. You two clearly have chemistry.”

“We do not have chemistry,” you object, “We can’t stand each other.”

“Oh yeah?” Helaena says, arching a brow, “From the look on your face, that wasn’t the only condom used. You must hate each other sooo much.”

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment as she pokes you in the side.

“You’re not like, weirded out?” you ask, “I mean, he’s your brother after all.”

“I don’t dictate who my brothers fuck, that sounds like a lot of work,” Helaena says with a chuckle, “Besides. You’re a much better option than Floris Baratheon.”

You can’t help the curiosity that’s been eating away at you.

“What’s wrong with Floris?” you ask, brows creasing together.

“Classic mean girl,” Helaena tells you, “I just know hooking up with Aemond went to her head. Which made it all the more satisfying when you told me he’d dumped her ass.”

Your glaze falls to your hands, as you play with the hem of your shirt. Floris had seemed pretty solid until that morning at the country club. You can hardly blame her for being heartbroken, Aemond seems like a bit of a player.

“C’mon,” Helaena says, standing, “Breakfast, then boating? I think Luke’s taking a test drive but we can go swimming or something. Meet with Bae so you can tell her all the dirty details.”

“Sounds good,” you tell her as she leaves the room, saluting you.

You meet her downstairs once you’re dressed, where a buffet-style breakfast waits for you. Aegon stands in front of two identical silver trays filled with eggs steaming, his hair ruffled as though he’d just woken up, clad in a pair of basketball shorts.

“What’s the prob?” Helaena asks, using her hip to move him out of the way.

“Are they the same?” he asks, voice rough from sleep, “They look the same.”

“Cheesy, no cheese,” Helaena says, pointing right and left. She chooses the scoop for the cheesy eggs.

“Mhmm,” Aegon says, rubbing his eyes, finally looking at you, “Oh hey.”

“Morning,” you say with a small smile.

You wonder when he got in. Or if he’d always been home. His eyes give nothing away.

The hair on the back of your neck stands up, as another presence enters the kitchen.

“Aem, there’s cheesy eggs,” Helaena says with a grin, handing you the spatula.

“I’m making an omelet,” Aemond says.

“Of course, you are,” Helaena rolls her eyes.

Aemond moves past you, not saying anything to you. You can feel him brush against your back, his crotch pressing against your ass as he squeezes by. You can feel the outline of his cock press against you and you drop the spatula, sending it clattering against the marble counter.

Aegon flicks an eyebrow at you, before grabbing some toast and walking over to the table.

“Butterfingers,” Helaena teases, eyes flickering between you and Aemond.

Aemond barely glances up as he reaches for a carton of egg whites in the fridge. Annoyance gnaws at your insides. You understood the rules, they make sense in the grand scheme of things. But it still feels icky to be ignored completely after sleeping with him.

Helaena grabs a couple slices of bacon, before plopping down next to Aegon.

“You wanna see a movie?” Helaena asks him.

“What movie?” Aegon grumbles.

“Dirty Dancing, it’s playing in the park,” Helaena tells him.

“Ask Y/N,” Aegon says with a yawn.

“She’s got a date,” Helaena says with a smirk, “Besides, it’ll be fun. We can smoke and make fun of people.”

Aegon nods, seeming pleased with that plan. Your eyes flicker to Aemond, who now stands at the stove. His face reveals nothing as he adds butter to the pan. Of course, it doesn’t matter, you’re just fuck buddies after all. You join Helaena at the table, taking a bite of toast.

Aemond continues to silently cook, and when he’s finished he brings his meal outside to sit in the sun. You nearly roll your eyes at his obvious avoidance. Aegon looks up from his food, following your gaze.

“Oh shit,” he says with a chuckle, “You’re in for it now.”

“What’s that mean?” you ask, looking away from where Aemond sits.

Aegon just grins, shaking his head slightly as you all continue to eat.

“What time is Will picking you up?” Baela asked from her bed, as you raided her closet for an outfit.

You’d been searching forever while she scrolled through Tik Tok, various sounds filling the room. You’d had all week to pick out an outfit but somehow ended up choosing at the last moment.

“Eight,” you told her.

“Not sailing.”

“No, he’s driving,” you told her, “But we’ll probably take his boat back.”

It was about low tide, just the time when the road appeared connecting Driftmark, Dragonstone, and King’s Landing. You could only travel by car when the tide was low enough. You pulled out a light blue dress, holding it up to show Baela.

“No,” she said, nose scrunching, “What about that red one you bought?”

She was referring to the sundress you bought a few days ago. It caught your eye in a boutique window while out with Sara and Baela. You hurry to your room to try it on, before returning for Baela’s approval.

“You don’t think it’s too…simple?” you ask, giving her a little twirl.

Simple spaghetti strap red dress, with little yellow flowers on it. Cute. Nice. You raise your eyebrows expectantly. Baela sits up, beckoning you towards the bed, cocking her head.

“I think it’s cute,” she says, agreeing with your inner monologue, “Perfect for a movie date. With Will Tyrell. You know his mother like owns Home & Garden magazine?”

“Damn,” you say, eyebrows raising in shock.

“She’s won Most Perfect Lawn for the past ten years,” Baela continues, “Insane behavior. No one cares about tulips as much as Mrs. Tyrell.”

You let out a laugh, choosing a necklace to wear. You meet Baela’s eyes through the mirror as you fiddle with the clasp.

“What’re you going to do tonight?” you ask, putting on some earrings as well.

“Call Sara, maybe just stay in,” she says with a shrug, “I’ll think of something.”

“You always do,” you say, turning to face her, “How do I look?”

“Gorgeous, as always,” Baela says with a grin, “Have fun, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Not very sound advice,” you tease, and she opens her mouth in feigning offense.

“Rudeness!” she scolds but smiles as she says so, “I’m glad you’re going out with Will, he’s nice.”

You purse your lips, applying some chapstick. Baela had been pushing for Will to pull through since you told her about you and Aemond hooking up. Her eyebrows had shot up to her hairline, jaw on the floor when you’d told her.

“Yeah, he seems nice,” you agreed, and she smiled happily.

“Your pussy, do what you want,” she began, “But I think he’s the safer option.”

You smile at her concern. Baela’s always been one to look out for you.

“I know, Bae. It’s just some fun,” you assure her.

“Just be careful, okay?” Baela says softly, “Aemond’s….a lot.”

You want to press her on what that means, but Rhaenys knocks on the door alerting you of Will’s arrival on the island.

Will Tyrell had pulled up to Driftmark in a dark gray Tesla. You knew his family had money, seemingly everyone from this town did, but it was still a bit of a shock. You couldn’t stop looking at the ceiling, which was completely made of glass revealing the purpling sky.

“Have you seen Dirty Dancing?” Will asked, attempting to make small talk.

What a stupid question.

You held your tongue, despite yourself.

He was cute after all; dressed in a white t-shirt and khaki shorts. He’s gained a bit of a tan since the last time you’d seen him, and his chocolate curls hung around his face.

And it wasn’t like Aemond was going to take you on a date. The guy had barely spoken to you since your rendezvous a few nights ago. You weren’t even convinced the arrangement was still on. Maybe you’d had a super immersive fever dream caused by the thunderstorms that had rolled through and imagined the whole thing.

Of course, you hadn’t imagined it, and this was confirmed when you went downtown and got tested, as promised, sending him your results revealing no sexually transmitted infections. He’d sent you a thumbs-up emoji in response, before sending his own results, next to a clock. Like a fucking ransom picture.

So the cold shoulder was just him being a douche. Why should you expect anything else?

It made you feel even better about agreeing to your date with Will.

Aemond truly didn’t care about anything with you besides sex. There was nothing to lose by going on a little date.

Will turns into the park, which you’d only seen a handful of times walking through King’s Landing. The parking lot was already filled with cars as packs of people headed down a grassy hill toward a large screen far off in the distance.

“Wow,” you said, as Will parked the car.

“It’s pretty nice,” Will agrees, “I mean, drive-ins are cool too, but I think this is more fun.”

“This is awesome,” you agree.

You get out of the car, helping him with the two beach chairs and blanket he brought. He leads you through the path of cars before the ground begins to dip.

“Careful,” he cautions as you begin to make your way down the hill.

It’s steep, leading to a grassy field where people have already started to make themselves comfortable on picnic blankets, and chairs with groups of their friends. You and Will pick a spot, when you hear someone whistle at you. You look up and see Helaena, seated to your left about 50 feet away. She smiles as she waves, wearing sunglasses and a hoodie.

You can’t help but laugh. Very incognito of her. Aegon sits next to her, a bucket of popcorn in his lap. She whispers something in his ear, causing him to laugh loudly. You almost wish you were over there with them; Helaena is so fun to be around. You watch them for a moment when you notice a third person seated next to them.

Aemond.

Blood rushes to your face as Helaena says something to him as well. He doesn’t laugh like Aegon, but he does quirk a small smile at whatever Helaena says, before meeting your gaze across the sea of people.

“Want any snacks?” Will asks, and you tear your gaze from Aemond’s.

“What?” you ask, meeting Will’s soft brown eyes.

“There’s a concession stand if you want anything. My treat,” he offers with a kind grin.

You return his smile, but your eyes keep looking behind him toward Aemond. He seems to notice, following your gaze.

“Oh, Helaena,” he says, waving. Helaena returns his wave. “She’s awesome. My lab partner in high school. She’s smart as hell.”

“Yeah, she’s great,” you agree, watching Aemond’s lips part as he tilts his head to the side slightly. Like he’s amused or something, it sends a shiver down your spine. “I’d love some popcorn.”

“Yeah?” Will says, standing, “Be right back.”

You force yourself to look forward as he walks away, but you can feel Aemond’s stare burning a hole in the side of your face. Even when Will returns and the movie begins, you can still feel him watching you.

Will reaches for your hand a little more than halfway through, and you let him. You like how it feels; his palm is a bit rough with callouses. Not as warm as Aemond. He held your hand last night, during your second round. Lacing his fingers through yours and pressing your hands into the mattress while he-

You drop Will’s hand suddenly, a wave of arousal making goosebumps appear on your arms. Will notices, eyebrows concaving together with concern.

“You cold?” he asks.

“Just a little,” you tell him.

“I have a sweatshirt in the car, I can get it-” he says, motioning to stand.

“No, no,” you insist, “I can go, you went and got the snacks.”

“You sure? It’s no problem,” he says, eyes wide and full of good intentions.

You need a minute alone anyway, you can’t think with the feeling of Aemond’s eyes on you. You’re being a weirdo and worry that Will can sense it.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” you assure him.

“It’s open,” he tells you and you head up the hill.

You make your way out of the crowd, and back up the steep hill. You actually enjoy the burning sensation in your calves, it distracts from how flustered you are. Why was Aemond even here? Helaena said it herself he hates this cheesy shit. Hates everything to do with romance. Love. Affection. Human decency.

Whatever.

You laugh to yourself bitterly as you find Will’s car nestled in the middle of the lot. Several other cars have parked forming a few rows behind his car. You open the doors seeing Will’s sweatshirt laying across the back seat.

You reach for the sweatshirt, pulling it to your face. It smells like clean laundry detergent. Not an unpleasant smell, but it doesn’t make your heart race or your pulse quicken. Not like-

Stop that.

As you close the door to Will’s car you notice Aemond, leaning casually against the hood. You gasp, slightly shocked at his appearance. You didn’t hear him approach. You straighten up, holding the sweatshirt in your arms. It’s like you fucking summoned him. Aemond’s violet eye watches you carefully.

“What?” you question, taking a step toward him.

Aemond doesn’t speak, just pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. You sigh dramatically at the continued silent treatment.

“You back to not speaking to me? Fine,” you move to walk by him, continuing back to the movie with Will. Where you belong.

But your feet stop and you turn on your heels, not done with him.

“You know what? No,” you tell him, crossing your arms, “You’re not going to just fuck me, and then treat me like shi-” Your words are cut short as Aemond takes one long stride towards you, wrapping a hand around your waist and pulling you flush against him; silencing you with a bruising kiss.

Your words dissolve into a moan against his mouth as he brings his free hand to cup your cheek. Your eyes flutter closed as he deepens the kiss, hand moving from your waist to grab at your ass. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer to him.

Aemond allows this for a moment, kissing you harshly, before removing your arms from his neck and pulling away. He looks down at you, tongue darting out to lick his lower lip before he turns you around. You turn your head to look at him as he steps forward, forcing your body against the hood of the car.

“One night and I fuck you stupid already?” Aemond growls, pushing you against the hood of the car, “I thought I made myself perfectly clear.”

Heat pools in your lower belly at his angry tone, a dull ache beginning to throb between your legs.

“Aemond,” you hiss, lifting your head as he lifts your dress, “Someone could see.”

“Everyone else is engaged with the movie,” he assures, long fingers looping over the bands of your panties and pulling them down your legs, “Look at that.”

You can feel his hand trailing a path back up your leg, between your thighs until meeting your wet center.

“Already wet for me,” he murmurs, before delivering a harsh slap to your pussy that steals the breath from your lungs. You gasp as he rubs his fingers along your dripping folds.

“Or is it for your little date?” he sneers.

Your cheeks flush. He is mad.

“That’s what this is about?” you hiss, voice practically a whisper, “Aemond it’s not like I’m fucking him.”

“You’ve broken the rules,” Aemond sing-sings, slipping the tip of his finger into your aching center.

“You said no fucking anyone else,” you try to keep your voice firm, but it ends in more of a whine as he sinks his finger deeper inside of you, “I didn’t think-”

“No,” he cuts you off, finger stroking that sensitive rough spot right behind your pelvic bone, “No you didn’t think at all, did you?”

A sharp whine leaves your lips as you convulse as he caresses your g-spot, pressing yourself harder against the hood of Will Tyrell’s Tesla.

“Aemond,” you whine, “You don’t even speak to me-” You’re cut off by a partially rough curl of his long fingers.

His opposite hand winds its way into your hair, yanking your head off the hood, and making you arch your back.

“Don’t be a fucking baby, and take it,” he growls in your ear.

Your toes are pushing off the ground, pressing the curve of your stomach against the hood as your shins shake from the effort. Your hands seek purchase on the hood of the car, sticking slightly from the humidity and the sheen of sweat that has broken out across your body.

You can hear the squelching sounds of Aemond’s fingers moving in and out of your soaked pussy, and your gaze looks wildly around the crowded lot. You’re alone, completely, everyone down the hill is engrossed with the movie. The anticipation of being caught sends adrenaline shooting through your veins like lightning, heightening the pleasure Aemond draws from your center.

His lips move against your neck, teeth sinking into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, causing you to cry out. As soon as you do, he removes his fingers, causing you to whine at the loss of contact.

“Greedy, greedy girl,” he scolds, letting go of your hair, bringing his hand down your spine. He pushes gently on your lower back, pressing your front completely on the hood of the car.

Your body relaxes, feet firmly planted on the ground once more as you hear Aemond unbuckle his belt.

“You okay with no condom?” he asks, his voice strained.

“Yes,” you breathe, body thrumming with anticipation.

Aemond presses against you; you can feel the head of his cock spreading apart your slick folds, before sinking into you. You shudder as he bottoms out, an immense rush of pleasure overtaking you as he stretches you open.

“Fuck you’re so tight,” Aemond groans, pulling his hips back and thrusting into you, “So warm, and wet for me.” He thrusts into you again, pressing you harder against the hood of the car.

Fire pools in your belly as he continues his harsh thrusts into your throbbing center. You moan, pressing your cheek against the hood of the car, even as he shushes you.

“Ae-mond,” you whimper, the words punctuated by each merciless thrust he delivers.

“This is what happens,” he snarls, snapping his hips against you. You can feel the muscles of his abdomen press against your ass with how deep and hard he presses into you.

Each thrust is calculated, with brutal precision. He’s fucking you deep, nearly removing his cock completely each time before slamming back in. Your legs shake, barely able to hold yourself up as his fingers dig into your hips.

“Keep that mouth shut,” he orders as you moan his name again, “You want everyone to hear don’t you?”

You try, you really do but you can’t help it. Another garbled moan, a mixture of the syllables that make up his name escapes you, and he’s had enough.

Aemond pulls out of you suddenly, roughly turning you on your back. His hands move underneath your thighs, pushing you up further on the hood. Aemond drops one of your thighs, bringing his hand to his cock. He strokes his shaft once before tapping the head of his cock on your clit, rubbing it between your folds and spitting directly on your pussy.

“You do, don’t you?” he asks, sinking into you once more as your mouth drops open in shock at the lewd action.

You’re completely at his mercy now, one leg strewn over his shoulder, the other held in his large hand. Aemond brings his free hand to cover your mouth as he returns to his brutal pace.

“You want everyone to hear who’s fucking you,” he taunts, “Who’s giving this pretty pussy just what it needs, huh?”

You’re in a haze of pleasured shock at his words, the way his cock feels fucking you raw, the way his hand completely muffles the ungodly sounds you’re making. Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes as you watch his abs contract with each thrust. The look in his eye is something else. He’s no longer that stoic figure, fading into the background of the Targaryen household.

A cocky smirk appears on his face as he takes in your glazed-over, pleading eyes.

“Who’s fucking you?” he growls, moving the hand that was planted on your mouth down to rest around your throat.

He smiles an open-mouthed grin as your eyes widen, and your pussy clenches around him.

“C’mon you wanted to use that pretty voice a minute ago,” he taunts, “Now tell me who’s fucking you.”

Your prolonged moan is nothing more than a breathy whine as he tightens his grip on your throat, almost in tandem with the strokes of his beautiful cock sliding in and out of your pussy. Your eyes are rolling back into your head; You can hear the music from the movie, it’ll be over soon, and people will come back to their cars. You almost don’t care if someone finds you like this, the pleasure within you cresting. You’re so close you want nothing more than Aemond to throw you over the edge like you know he can.

You meet Aemond’s eye again, and he raises an eyebrow at you, still waiting for your answer.

“You,” you whimper.

“Who?” Aemond insists, “Let them know, baby.” He drags his cock out, all the way to the tip, slamming back into you, “Who’s fucking you?”

“Aemond….” you gasp, “Aemond Targaryen.”

“That’s fucking right,” Aemond says, bringing his free hand to your clit. He spits again, before rubbing even circles around the sensitive button, “That’s a good girl.”

“Oh fuck,” you whine, legs shaking as you come.

“That’s a good girl, coming all over my cock,” Aemond says, talking you through it, “Oh she’s so pretty when she comes, huh?” He cups your cheeks, “Such a gorgeous girl.”

He thrusts a few more times, before unsheathing himself, stroking his hard cock and releasing pearly strands of cum on your lower stomach and the skirt of your dress. Aemond and you struggle to regain your breathing, you can hear (I've Had) The Time of My Life beginning to play as Aemond releases your thigh, removing your leg from his shoulder.

You slide off the hood, picking up your panties. You look down at the state of you, his cum rapidly cooling on your lower belly, your dress clinging to it.

“The fuck am I supposed to do?” you hiss at him.

Aemond merely smirks, putting his softening cock back into his pants.

“That’s your punishment,” he tells you nodding.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says, fixing his belt, “You wanna go out with another guy, this is what you get.”

You reach for the discarded sweatshirt, throwing your arms through it and zipping it up. Luckily, it hides some of the damage Aemond’s left behind. It’s dark out too, Will shouldn’t notice.

Aemond smirks again, bringing his hand underneath your chin, holding it between his thumb and index finger.

“I meant it, you know,” he says, stroking your lower lip, “You’re pretty when you come.”

Heat floods your face and you feel your pulse quicken at his words. Aemond looks at you, a moment too long, before dropping his hand and clearing his throat.

“Better get back down there,” he says, turning to leave.

You watch him go, waiting a few moments to make sure you’re even able to walk.

What the fuck just happened?

You start down the hill on shaky legs, making your way back to Will and plopping down in your chair.

“There you are,” he says, smiling and not suspecting a thing, “Hey, are you going to the carnival next weekend?”

Your eyes move past him, watching Aemond rejoin Helaena and Aegon. Aegon holds out the popcorn to him and he waves him off.

“Umm, carnival?” you ask and Will nods, “Yeah…I’m-” you think for a moment, “I’m going with Helaena actually.”

“Oh,” Will says, “Well maybe we can meet up? Take a ride on the Ferris wheel?”

Aemond meets your eye. That’s a bad idea. You know after tonight it's a bad idea. You bring your gaze back to Will’s hopeful expression.

“Maybe!” you promise, smiling softly.

Well, maybe not the worst idea.

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theforgottenmcrmy · 2 years

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Captivated (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

***please note that this is a sequel to “Safety”, which can be read HERE. Reading Safety before reading this is not necessary, but doing so will provide additional context for this story***

***please note that this now has a sequel, “Storms”, which can be read HERE.

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: GOT typical sexism, canon divergence, references to an ill parent, spoilers for House of the Dragon

Word Count: 6,000 ish.

Summary: While serving as Princess Rhaenyra’s lady in waiting, you’ve been granted ample time to become well-acquainted with the man they call Breakbones. The Princess’ recent tours of Westeros in search of a befitting King Consort have only allowed the two of you to grow closer, and now you’re completely taken with Ser Harwin Strong. But the Princess’ recent tour to the Riverlands, in addition to some troubling news from home concerning the health of your father, Lord Tyrell, have left you feeling discouraged. You’ve begun to fear your affections for the strongest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms may not be returned. Perhaps a surprise visitor from Highgarden will clear things up...

A/N: Y’all... I am FLOORED. Absolutely shooketh. Nothing I have written has ever received such an overwhelming response. Thank you all so much to everyone who liked, commented, and reblogged Safety. I appreciate each and every one of you so very much. I am not sure how many parts this series will get, but the ending of this one pretty clearly sets up a part 3... so let me know if that’s something you’d like to see. Please see the A/N at the ending of this chapter for notes regarding the taglist. Thank you all again. I hope you have a wonderful rest of the week! 🖤 PS: this is a Criston Cole hate account. #sorrynotsorry.

I really hope the tags work and I won’t have to post this twice.🥲 Please forgive me if I do.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Princess Rhaenyra smiled warmly at the small child, as did you. The little girl humbly accepted the half a loaf of bread from the Princess’ hands.

You and the Princess were currently in the heart of King’s Landing, inside one of the city orphanages. The harvest that year was already proving to be bountiful, almost entirely in part to the good people who worked the lands of your home. It seemed that there was plenty of food to go around those days, and you were grateful that the Princess and the King were of the mind that it ought not to be wasted.

Back in the Reach, you and your brother had often done the same- you’d visited all of the orphanages and sick homes in Oldtown and even The Arbor at one point or another. Your father has instilled the concept of giving back to those in need very early on in your lives, as your grandmother had instilled the same in him.

You had mentioned this in passing to Princess Rhaenyra one day, when she was still becoming acquainted with you. Once she’d heard of it, she declared it to be a worthwhile endeavor, and adopted something similar as part of her own regular routine. As such, she had made it a point to visit a new place in need throughout the city each week.

While it warmed your heart to help those less fortunate than yourself, especially the parentless children, you were happy that the Princess had decided to become more hands-on with her charitable works for other reasons. You were no fool- you knew how positively the common folk viewed noble men and women who showed them sympathy and kindness.

As lady in waiting to the future Queen, you knew it would be in Princess Rhaenyra’s best interest to win the hearts of the people as soon as possible. Dark plots were actively working against Princess Rhaenyra already, and the more political tools she equipped herself with, the better she’d fare in any future struggle for power.

While you had fully supported the Princess’ recent charitable endeavors, as did King Viserys, others from Court were less than thrilled with the idea. Queen Alicent had voiced some concern, as did Ser Criston Cole. He had deemed it too dangerous.

Even now, the Dornish knight was visibly sweating from across the room. From what the Princess had told you personally, and from what you had heard from others, Ser Criston Cole had experienced many battles, and lived to tell the tale of them all. And yet, in a simple orphanage within King’s Landing, he appeared to be visibly sweating and his eyes shifted across the room madly. His nervousness on behalf of the Princess’ safety had to have occupied his every thought.

Standing beside him, and much more relaxed in composure, was Ser Harwin Strong.

In your time at Court, Ser Harwin Strong had become a member of the City Watch. As a result, he’d become quite familiar with the inner workings of the city, and was comfortable walking amongst the streets. Ser Harwin had proven himself to be an asset for the Princess’ repeated journeys out into the city. Being out in the heart of the city didn’t appear to scare him or cause him any serious cause for concern. But you doubted anything would.

Unlike the panicked eyes of Ser Criston, Ser Harwin’s gentle eyes watched over you and the Princess carefully as you interacted with the children bouncing with excitement around you. You caught him staring at you as you continued to distribute bread, but forced yourself not to think too much of it.

Eventually, it was time to return the Red Keep. You could have sworn you’d never seen Ser Criston look so relieved- though perhaps that would only be true until the Princess’ next escapade concluded. He and Ser Harwin scouted the entrance to the orphanage to make sure there was no sign of danger while you and Princess Rahenyra bid the children goodbye with promises to return in a few weeks.

You made your way out of the dwelling to where the carriage, along with the rest of the guards who had been recruited to comprise the escort, was waiting for the two of you. Princess Rhaenyra climbed in first. You were quick to follow, but were temporarily paused when someone politely offered you an arm for assistance.

It was Ser Harwin.

“My Lady,” he said, bowing his head downwards towards his extended arm.

Despite yourself, you smiled at him as a sign of your gratitude, and hopped up and inside the carriage with his assistance. Once you and Princess Rhaenyra were both seated inside, the carriage was lifted up and off the ground, beginning the return back to the Red Keep. Ser Criston and Ser Harwin, one of them on either side of the carriage, kept vigilant eyes on your surroundings as the entourage moved through the streets. You caught glimpses of the two knights every now and then through the grated windows near the top of the carriage.

“I cannot tell you how relieved I am to be back,” Princess Rhaenyra sighed after a moment. She leant back against the wall of the carriage, and settled down further in her seat.

From your seat across from her, you offered her a small smile. “I recall the feeling of returning home after a long journey very well, Your Grace. I dare say that there is little else that compares.”

Princess Rhaenyra laughed shortly, but you knew she meant no offense. “Though I dare say the feeling of being out of the clutches of power-hungry suitors to be a far better one than that which you have described.”

You stifled a laugh, knowing your involuntary response would be frowned upon by most others at Court. However, none would be more displeased to hear of it than King Viserys, who had through painstakingly great lengths to arrange the tour of the Seven Kingdoms. It was all organized in the hope that his daughter might find a suitor worthy of both her heart and the title of King Consort.

Unfortunately, the tour had proven to be unsuccessful thus far. Princess Rhaenyra had visited the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Riverlands, and not a single notable contender had emerged- at least not in the eyes of Rhaenyra. She had claimed the majority of the hopefuls who had paid her visit to be either far too old, or far too young. She noted that the rest of them had been about as “insufferable” as their power hungry father and grandfathers, who had watched the proceedings with greedy eyes.

You had only received second hand accounts of the events, and largely from the Princess’ sole perspective. While it would have been expected of you to attend Princess Rhaenyra throughout her travels, she had taken her junior ladies in waiting with her for assistance instead. Meanwhile, she had tasked you with what she deemed to be far more important.

Princess Rhaenyra had asked you to stay behind, in King's Landing, to see to her personal affairs. It had been difficult to accept at first, even more so when the Princess went to visit the Reach. But you trusted and respected her opinion that you would be more of use to her elsewhere. While there would always be secretarial duties to attend to, and charitable functions to plan, the main reason the Princess had asked you to stay behind was for reconnaissance purposes.

Foul whispers about the Princess were abound, and they only grew more troubling in her absence. But with you, an obvious ally and devout supporter of the future Queen, roaming around the Red Keep in her stead, the whispers were more timid, and their perpetrators were kept at bay. Any rumors that still managed to reach your ears were immediately reported to Princess Rhaenyra upon her return.

“At least the Riverlands were quite remarkable,” Princess Rhaenyra noted positively, changing the subject. She gazed out the window, as if recalling a scene from her memory. “Even though they are named for such, I was truly amazed at the sheer amount of rivers we came across.”

You smiled at her enthusiasm.

“Have you ever been? To the Riverlands?”

“I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure, Your Grace.”

“We must change that then,” the Princess insisted, giving you a conspiring smile.

“Do you intend to return to the Riverlands soon?” you asked, with sincere interest. “Has one of the suitors finally caught your attention?”

Princess Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, a gesture that most would deem extremely unladylike. However, you knew it to be a common occurrence for her, and had grown quite accustomed to it. Her boldness was appealing, and refreshing amongst the other “highly-refined” ladies at Court. She had thick skin, and never hesitated to speak her mind; you knew that both qualities would serve her well as future Queen.

“Don’t sound too eager, Lady Y/N,” she chided playfully. “Lord Tully was a gracious host, of course. But unfortunately, all of the gentlemen callers were just the same. Too old, too young, or too-”

“-Insufferable,” you finished for her, having heard her same speech twice before.

Princess Rhaenyra laughed. “Precisely.”

In your time in service to the Princess, you had come to be quite close. You considered her a friend, and could only hope that she considered you to be the same. On bolder days, you might have contemplated whether Queen Alicent’s marriage to her father had left the young woman in search of some companionship. If there was a void in that area of her life, you were happy to fill it. You missed her when she was gone on her travels… But perhaps you missed one of her most recent traveling companions even more.

“It was not entirely a waste, I suppose,” Princess Rhaenyra admitted then, her tone shifting once more. “Ser Harwin Strong is far from terrible company.”

Immediately, you glanced at the carriage windows with worry. Was it possible that the very man in question was able to overhear you now? The streets were alive with people, but if Ser Harwin was walking right alongside the carriage…

However, Princess Rhaenyra did not seem deterred. In fact, noticing your apprehension only encouraged her more. She leaned forward in her seat, and said, “We had many great conversations, Ser Harwin and I.”

You forced yourself to smile, torn between the comradery and duty you felt for the princess, and the aching pain you felt in your heart.

“I can tell you all about our conversations, if you’d like,” Princess Rhaenyra offered, clearly, but thankfully, oblivious to your inner struggle. “I believe you’ll find them to be very interesting.”

Normally, you would readily indulge in some harmless gossip with her. But now, you loathed the thought of what she might tell you. “If it is your wish to share such details, Your Grace.”

The Princess finally noticed that something was amiss. She sat back in her seat, and gave you a befuddled look. “Is everything alright, Y/N?” she questioned. “You’ve been very quiet these past few days…”

You’d always prided yourself on your ability to be honest with the Princess. But at that moment, you could not compel yourself to tell her the entire truth. So, you settled for a half-truth, and opted to share with her one of the two things that hung very heavy over your head as of late.

“My father has taken ill,” you admit, lowering your voice so as not to be overheard by anyone outside of the carriage. “I received a letter from my brother just a few days past”

Princess Rhaenyra’s confused expression shifted to one of sympathy.

“The Maesters say he should pull through,” you continued, “But I am worried.”

The Princess had never been anything less than kind to you, but still, you could not have anticipated her next move. She reached across the carriage and placed a soothing hand overtop of your own, which you hadn’t realized you’d wrung together in your concern.

“My father has always described Lord Larris as a strong man,” she assured you full-heartedly. “I trust the gods will see to it that he recovers fully and swiftly.”

You were touched by her gesture. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Should you desire to go visit him, I will agree to it at once.”

“I will keep that in mind, Princess.”

Later that evening, once the Princess had retired, you made your way from her chambers towards your own. Though the hallways of the Red Keep were seldom unoccupied, save the guards keeping watch, they certainly appeared to be that night.

It was unfortunate that the one person you encountered was the one man that, for once, you hoped not to see.

“Ser Harwin.”

The knight paused in his tracks, and bowed his head graciously in greeting. “Lady Y/N.”

“It is a good evening, is it not?”

“It is,” he agreed, smiling softly. “And, seeing as I have been fortunate enough to speak with you, it stands to improve even more.”

Despite your reservations, you blushed.

The relationship between yourself and Ser Harwin Strong, much like your relationship with Princess Rhaenyra, had grown tremendously during your time at Court. And, it had blossomed even as of late. While the Princess had tasked you with seeing to matters in King’s Landing while she went on her tours of Westeros, there were times when you had seen to everything that needed to be done, and as a result, you sought company instead. More often than not, that company had been found in Ser Harwin. Though he had his own duties to see to as a member of the City Watch, he’d never failed to make time for you.

At first, it started off with polite conversation occurring throughout strolls throughout the castle gardens and surrounding grounds. Princess Rhaenyra was correct in her insinuation earlier in the day- despite the bruteish nickname he bore, Ser Harwin was more than a decent conversationalist. The topics were light hearted, but any conversation with him sent your heart racing anyway.

Eventually, you began to share meals together on occasion. Deeper conversations occurred during those times. You’d come to discover that you and Ser Harwin had much more in common than either of you realized. You were both very close to your families. You had each lost your mothers at a young age, but both of you had good relationships with your fathers, and absolutely adored your siblings. He had enamored you with tales of the haunted halls of Harrenhal, and in exchange, you had told him all about the gardens of Highgarden and seasonal festivals that the Reach boasted.

Most recently, the two of you, along with a small party composed of his brother, two sisters, and another few members of the Court, had gone for a few days’ hunt in the Kingswood. You hadn’t lucked out on the hunt like some of the others had, but it was a thrilling experience nonetheless.

The hunt had led Ser Harwin to discover your familiarity with a bow. Though perhaps it was not very lady-like, your father had taught you how to shoot at a young age, deciding that it had the potential to be a unique party trick, at the very least. Your hobby had never been put to use by targeting live animals, but rather, stationary or inanimate objects thrown up into the air. For you, it had never been about the hunt, just the sport of it all.

As soon as you explained as much to Ser Harwin, he requested you to demonstrate your skills. You attempted to politely decline, but upon seeing a disappointed glint in his eyes, you changed your mind. A small crowd had assembled for the showdown between you and Ser Harwin one afternoon. His sisters, surprisingly, cheered for your victory instead of their older brother’s. You found it to be amusing, but oddly touching. Ser Harwin took it in stride, and merely jested about the familial betrayal.

At the end of the shooting rounds, you emerged as the winner, but by only a narrow margin. Ser Harwin could not be faulted; it was well known he was far more talented with a sword than bow, anyway.

Part of you feared Ser Harwin’s reaction, worried that his displeasure would put a strain on your growing relationship. But he had surprised you- as he often did.

“Any boy can denounce a loss as unfair, or even simply blame the wind for a poor shot,” he’d said, grinning ear to ear as he plucked one of your arrows from the bullseye of a target, and handed it back to you gracefully. “It takes a man to be willing to admit defeat to the truly better aim, regardless of who that victor may be.”

Ser Harwin Strong was a flatterer, through and through.

You raised your head to look him fully straight on. Speaking in such close proximity to Ser Harwin always made you recall just how massive he was. Your chin was practically tilted upwards, and his head was bowed down to regard you.

“I apologize that we have not been able to speak much before now,” Ser Harwin said, sounding and looking completely sincere.

“Your apologies are not necessary, My Lord. I am sure you’ve had a great deal of things to attend to, especially after having been gone these past few weeks.”

As was expected, Ser Harwin had traveled with Princess Rhaenyra during her tour of the Riverlands- his home. You had no doubt he had presented himself to her as a potential suitor in Lord Tully’s halls, along with dozens of other vying contenders. As the oldest son of Lord Lyonel, and Heir to Harrenhal, you knew Ser Harwin had every right to offer the Princess his hand. In fact, his failure to do so might have even been considered a slight against the crown- one that his father, the current Master of Laws, would not have likely been able to afford.

But you dreaded the day when news would reach your ears of Ser Harwin Strong’s betrothal. Between his title, strength, and handsomeness, it was a downright wonder why a match had not been made for him yet. You knew it was only a matter of time… and while you had come to cultivate deep feelings for the knight, Princess Rhaenyra would be a far better match for him.

Since their return from the Riverlands, you noticed more and more frequent looks exchanged between the two of them. Knowing looks. It was apparent to you that Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Harwsin held information that you were not privy to. And you had a sinking feeling as to what it was.

An announcement had yet to be made, but Rhaenyra had yet to complete her tour. She was off to the Stormlands the following week. And yet, it was likely all for show. She had to be fair and allow other potential suitors to believe they still stood a chance for her hand- when clearly they did not.

Princess Rhaenyra must have chosen Ser Harwin Strong.

The Realm’s Delight and Breakbones? They made a better pair than one would think. She was a dragon, and he was a fearsome warrior. Her mental ingenuity would only be supported by his brute force of strength. Together, they would take down enemies to her claim one by one. They would want or need for nothing- and neither would their children.

And you, you would resign yourself to your place. Despite being the daughter of Lord Tyrell, you could never hope to compete with the Princess of Westeros for a suitor’s hand. And you never would. You had sworn her your allegiance… your true heart’s desire be damned.

“How were your travels, My Lord?”

“A bit tiring, if I may speak plainly,” he replied carefully. Even you had to admit that he sounded fatigued. “But it was necessary, which has made it easier to bear.”

I suppose winning the heart of the future Queen of Westeros made the trip worthwhile as well, you couldn’t help but think to yourself. “I am glad to hear that, My Lord.”

Ser Harwin reached a hand up to smooth through his brown locks, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. You realized with slight shock that he was demonstrating an emotion you had yet to see him display in all the time you’d known him- Ser Harwin was nervous.

“Are you well, Ser Harwin?” you questioned, not caring at all about the concern which was evident in your voice.

Ser Harwin’s gaze softened even more. Your concern had moved him. “All is well, Lady Y/N…” He cleared his throat, before his eyes fell to the floor. “Or, rather, there are no physical ailments burdening me…”

On one hand, you were taken aback by the foreignness of it all. This large man looked as nervous and shy as some of the children you had visited that same morning. On the other hand, it was slightly endearing to learn that a man with the nickname Breakbones was not able to escape the burden of emotions that plagued everyone else. He was just as capable of being human as those two, even three times less his size.

Before you mentally dared to compare him to a gentle giant, Ser Harwin continued.

“I had some… rather enlightening conversations with Princess Rhaenyra during our travels,” he admitted, the nerves he physically displayed betraying his voice ever so slightly as well. “The conversations opened my eyes to a truth that I have denied for quite some time.”

You were surprised to hear that he had not been taken with Princess Rhaenyra upon first sight- most men were. But yet again, Ser Harwin was not like most men.

“I was hoping to discuss this further with you,” Ser Harwin confessed. He looked you straight on, and you couldn’t tear your eyes from his for a moment, even if you had wanted to. “Somewhere more private?”

There was a hopeful glint in his hazel eyes, but the thought of advising him on matters pertaining to keeping the Princess’ interest made you feel suddenly ill.

“Perhaps we could dine together in a few days?” he suggested then, his nerves amplified by your lack of immediate response. “Or, maybe we could take a walk in the gardens?”

You almost caved right then and there. Almost. Ser Harwin knew how much you liked walking through the castle gardens. Even though they paled in comparison to those of Highgarden, they still reminded you of home, and walking along the paths lined with various greenery and floral displays brought you comfort.

“I shall have to see, My Lord,” you replied, even though it practically pained you to not immediately agree. “The Princess has given me leave to visit my father, and I am inclined to take her offer.”

Instead of looking disappointed, Ser Harwin gave you a look of pure guilt.

“My sincerest apologies, My Lady,” he said. “... I may have inadvertently heard about the news of your father. While I did not mean to overhear you, I heard the Princess speak my name this afternoon, while the escort was on the way back to the Red Keep… I feared she required something of me. By the time I realized that I was not needed, I fear I may have heard too much.”

It was nice to have confirmation that the walls of the carriage were not very thick, if only for future reference. Part of you felt embarrassed by the fact that Ser Harwin had overheard your personal matter, but the other part felt relieved that the knowledge that had clouded your mind over the past few days had been made known to one of the few individuals you trusted in King’s Landing. And seeing as Ser Harwin looked and sounded as guilty as he admitted to be, you could not find it in yourself to be cross with him.

“Your apologies are not necessary, My Lord.”

“I wish Lord Tyrell a quick recovery,” he confided to you. “And, should you leave for Highgarden, I wish you safe travels.”

You smiled graciously. “Thank you, Ser Harwin. Should I see him, I shall pass your well wishes along to my father.”

It was Ser Harwin’s turn to smile then. But after a few moments, nervousness seeped into his composure once again. Though he was more soft-spoken than you had once imagined him to be, his next words were said so softly, that had you not been alone in the corridor, with only a few inches between yourselves, you might not have heard them at all.

“Should you decide to leave, Lady Y/N… I fear I will find myself counting down the days until I am in your company once more.”

… This man. This man was going to rip out your heart, tear it into pieces, toss it on the ground, and stomp on it through his impending marriage to the Princess you served dutifully. You knew you had to begin to prepare yourself to suffer through it… But you would also take any attention and warm sentiments that Ser Harwin Strong would grant you in the meantime.

The memories of his kindness that he had shown you would have to be enough to get you through the pain you were sure to endure.

Despite the forwardness of Ser Harwin’s words, what was more alarming was the stark seriousness of his expression. He meant every word of what he had just said, and you believed it fully. Still, you would have to be daft to decry him now just for the sake of proprietary.

“I must admit… I shall miss you too, My Lord.”

By the end of the following week, Princess Rhaenyra was off on her tour of the Stormlands, with Ser Criston Cole glady serving as one of her escorts.

You had seen Ser Harwin in passing since the night you last spoke, but you did not make any further meaningful conversation with him. Though you missed your talks, you reasoned it was better for your heart to start putting some distance between the two of you now, before his marriage to Princess Rhaenyra would place you worlds apart.

You had seen to all the tasks that Princess Rhaenyra had left you with, and had begun to pack and ready the rest of your things. The plan was to embark on the trek back to Highgarden within a day or two.

But your plan was cut short when a messenger knocked on the door to your chambers. You had a visitor, and they were waiting for you in the courtyard of the Red Keep.

You hurried to the courtyard with moderate speed. It was seldom you had visitors- a cousin had visited once, a few weeks back. But besides that, no one had yet to pay you a visit. Many visitors to the Red Keep had it in mind to speak with many, many others besides the likes of you.

But when you entered the courtyard, you noticed the small entourage that had just arrived. No carriage in sight- just several men and their steeds. But that didn’t mean the visitor was from a place nearby. When your eyes fell upon a lean figure donned in the familiar colors of your House, you beamed brightly, knowing that without a doubt, this visitor was truly one for you.

“Brother?”

Your brother, Derron Tyrell, the Heir to Highgarden, turned to face you upon your call. When he saw you, he grinned. “Sister!”

You crossed the courtyard in large strides and practically leapt into Derron’s arms. Your brother caught you and returned your familial embrace with ease.

“I have missed you!” you told him hurriedly, pulling away to look at him. Even though it had only been a few months, going on a year at most, since you had seen him last, it had felt like far longer. But Derron looked the same as he always had, and it brought you joy to see him in good health.

“And I you, Y/N,” Derron replied, his smile still as bright as your own.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing here?” you demanded of him in a hushed whisper, your arms falling back down to your sides. Suddenly, a terrible thought entered your mind. “Did I miss a raven? Is father-”

“Father is alive,” your brother was quick to assure you. “And you did not miss a raven, for there was none sent to you.”

You let out a sigh of relief.

Derron looked at his entourage surrounding him. Though you recognized most of them as bannermen with whom he had rode and fought beside for years, you could tell that your brother was wary of their presence at this particular moment.

“Come now, Sister- we have much to discuss.”

It seemed that someone, although not you, had been expecting Derron Tyrell to arrive in King’s Landing. Chambers had already been set aside for him and his men, and he’d even been given a special audience with the King later in the week to discuss ongoing matters in the Reach.

Later that day, once your brother was settled in his chambers and unpacked, you met with him. You were eager to learn of the cause of his surprise visit, and to privately discuss what he had referred to in the courtyard.

The pair of you were seated at a table on the balcony connected to his chambers. As Derron poured you a glass of wine, before pouring one for himself, you asked him the question that had been on the forefront of your mind since his arrival.

“How is Father?”

“He’s made a turn for the better since I last wrote to you,” Derron answered truthfully, setting the pitcher of wine down. “He was still too weak to travel here, but the Maesters were even more hopeful than before by the time I left.”

That was great news. Perhaps your return visit to the Reach could wait a few more days, and once your brother’s affairs in King’s Landing were settled, you could ride back to Highgarden with him, and be all the more safer for it.

“What brings you here, Derron?” you asked then.

“You may not have received a raven, but Father did,” he replied. “Father received two of them, actually.”

“Who were they from?”

“The first was from Princess Rhaenyra herself.”

That was extremely surprising. Had you done something to upset the Princess? She seemed alright when she bade you goodbye before departing for the Stormlands… but perhaps she was attempting to save face in front of those around her. Had she written to your father and asked you to be removed from her service?

“I can see your mind racing,” your brother observed with a smirk. “You needn’t worry, Y/N. Princess Rhaenyra simply wished him a swift recovery, and invited him to King’s Landing to visit with King Viserys and to discuss matters of the Reach as soon as he was able to travel once more. I wish I had the letter to show you, but I believe father kept that for himself- the Princess complimented you greatly. I wish you could have seen the smile on his face as he read her words.”

The thought of your father’s smile due to humbling praises from Princess Rhaenyra brought a smile to your own face. You missed him. You missed home. But the visit with Derron would have to be enough, until a more suitable opportunity to return to Highgarden would appear.

“You mean to meet with the King later this week?” you asked, slightly confused. “Have you traveled here on Father’s behalf, then? Was there a matter so urgent that could not wait until he was able to travel here himself?”

“Yes… and no,” Derron. “All is as well as it can be in the Reach; the harvest has been as bountiful as we suspected it would be. But there was another, more pressing matter that required one of us to see to it immediately. Father decided it would be good practice for me to come and speak with the King about business while I was already in King’s Landing dealing with this other matter.”

The other matter must have been extremely pressing, if it had compelled your father to send Derron all the way to King’s Landing without so much as a raven’s notice. “Pray tell- what is this urgent matter you speak of?”

“That would involve the second raven Father received,” Derron pivoted. “Fortunately, I do have that letter in my possession. We both thought it might be best for you to see it for yourself.”

Your brother withdrew a rolled up piece of parchment from his coat, and handed it over to you. You took it with great intrigue, and immediately set about reading the tiny scrawlings littering the page.

“To Lord Larris Tyrell of Highgarden, Defender of the Marshes, Lord Paramount of the Reach, and Warden of the South:

I hope you are able to overlook my forwardness. I, Ser Harwin Strong, son of Lord Lyonnel Strong of Harrenhal, write to you regarding a most urgent matter of the mind and heart…”

You tore your eyes away from the page, and looked back up at your brother. The reassuring look on his face confirmed what you had suspected- your eyes were not deceiving you.

Ser Harwin had written to your father directly.

But what on earth for?!

“We received the raven with this message just a few days before I set out for King’s Landing. But I assure you, Father and I have discussed the contents of this letter at great length.”

You were almost too afraid to ask, but you found the courage to do so anyway. “What does this letter have to do with your visit?”

“If you would continue reading on, you shall see for yourself,” Derron encouraged you. “There are important conversations to be had with Ser Harwin Strong… as well as his father, Lord Lyonel. Such matters are far more appropriate to address in person, rather than by letter.”

Your eyes fell once more down to the parchment in your hands. “What matters could possibly require such attention?”

“... I can tell by your reaction that you have not spoken with Ser Harwin as of late,” your brother deduced. Didn’t last week count? “But that is of no matter. Now that I am here, we can all address it. Please, Y/N. Keep reading.”

“...

I would like to start by wishing you the quickest of recoveries.

I hope this letter reaches you in due time- I intend to discuss this subject with Lady Y/N in depth as soon as she allows me, and as soon as I muster up the courage to do so. I believe she is the one who deserves to learn of this matter first, and so that she may pass her judgment on it. But, on the advice of my father, out of respect for your great House, and out of respect to my own, I thought it wise to at least enlighten you about my intentions.

I apologize- I have never had the reputation for being a particularly eloquent man. But for this letter, I shall to be just that. I have only recently returned to King’s Landing from escorting Her Grace, the Princess Rhaenyra to my home, the Riverlands. Despite the tiredness I feel, the journey opened my eyes to a truth that I feel drawn to act upon at once.

My Lord, I have had the immense pleasure of sharing company with Lady Y/N since the Princess Rhaenyra recruited her to be of her service some time ago. Although I am sure you are aware, Lady Y/N is a great compliment to your house. Her kindness and charms are extended warmly to all, from the royal family to the poor of King’s Landing. Her wit entertains all who are blessed with her conversation, and her tenacity to succeed in an environment without the support of her family, who she clearly loves so dearly, has been nothing short of inspiring- even to a ‘brute’ such as myself.

All of this, when combined with the mere passage of time, and counsel from Princess Rhaenyra herself throughout our recent travels, has led to me to face one conclusion that I have been blind to for some time.

I have become completely captivated by Lady Y/N.

…”

Derron’s next words nearly fell upon deaf ears as you spaced out, torn between continuing your enthralled reading of the letter in your hands, and seeking clarification to the many questions that had been raised by it.

“It would seem,” your brother said wistfully, “That I am here to discuss the terms of your courtship, and inevitable betrothal, to Ser Harwin Strong.”

You were astonished.

“But before I can do that, I must know… Is this what you truly want?”

Part 3, “Storms,” can be read HERE.

A/N: Thank you for reading!🖤

Please feel free to let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist for any future parts. I apologize sincerely if I’ve missed anyone- please let me know if that’s the case! I tried to tag everyone from the first part who requested it, as well as some people who left comments on reblogs, but please do not hesitate to let me know if I missed anyone, or if you are on the taglist currently but wish to be removed.

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dipperscavern · 13 days

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idk if you would write but i would love to see in ur style a tyrell!reader x robb. imagine being the winter rose? omg living the biggest dream by being a beauty of the seven realms, having tales of ur beauty passed on, and then being betrothed to robb as a mean of house tyrell to guarantee their safety, but still, theres no northern or southern who can resist the tyrell beauty and robb is one of them

nana.. this ask did things to me. i love this idea smsmsm & thank u for sending it in !!

tyrell beauty was never anything that could be denied — by friend or by foe.

you & your twin sister, margaery, were the greatest testimonies to that. while margaery was no doubt beautiful, tales of your beauty had spread throughout the seven kingdoms. singers, poets, servants & kings alike had all heard and contributed to the spread of the tale of the tyrell rose — not only beautiful in physical aspects, but a gorgeous personality to match.

you & margaerys older brother, loras, was also rumored for his looks. safe to say, you three were widely known.. the beauties of house tyrell.

even the north, cold and harsh as it was, was not exempt from hearing the tales of you & your siblings beauty. jokes and speculations had long passed around winterfell, only increasing tenfold when hearing about house tyrell’s rumored interest in forming an allegiance with the north. when bran, rickon, & arya stepped into the castle, covered in dirt & almost soaking wet from that days ministrations, jory only sighed seeing them, ushering them to baths with a mutter of-

“the beauties of winterfell…”

robb only laughed at the teases he heard about you & your siblings, but sometimes found his thoughts wandering to you. his mind often drifting to think about the tyrell rose, absurd childlike questions, that he should’ve pushed away as quickly as they entered his mind. do the tales do your beauty justice? what are you like in person? are you warm? would you like him? what would you think of the north?

he focused on training, doing as he was told & preparing to become lord of winterfell one day, although he couldn’t stop the fleeting thoughts about you that arose every once in a while. a child’s dream, he thought.

so you can imagine his surprise when his father & mother sat him down, telling him of the alliance house tyrell wanted to make with house stark..

through marriage.

robb felt like he was dreaming. the beauty of the seven kingdoms, betrothed to him? he could barely keep the smile off his face, wanting to not only improve stature to his house, but do his duty as a husband. excitement pooled in his gut, as theon clasped his hands on robb’s shoulders at dinner, congratulating him. theon’s hands waved in the air, saying something about-

“the beauty and the beast..”

any other night he would’ve gotten a shove to the ground, but robb only threw him a playful smile. even theon’s relentless teasing couldn’t ruin this for him. if he was to be lord of winterfell one day, he’d need a strong woman by his side — he dreamed of a relationship like his mother and fathers, and he prayed in the godswood to the old gods that night, that they would guide your union as man and wife.

in the days leading up to your arrival at winterfell, countless preparations were made. the tyrell host was large, and all of the starks had done their parts to prepare to receive it. you were to stay in winterfell for a week before the wedding, and your family would leave shortly after. you had handmaidens and a few select soldiers to stay with you at winterfell, and you could visit high garden anytime you wanted in the near future. you asked your grandmother if she would visit you in winterfell again after the wedding, but she only put a hand over your own & said it would take the Father himself to drag her back to that “frozen wasteland”.

the day you arrive, robb thinks he’s might jump out of his skin, he’s so nervous. still, he puts on a brave face for his & his families sake, wanting to be everything you need and more.

you, margaery, and the queen of thornes are riding in the wheelhouse, while ser loras is in front of it, mounted on a white mare. his armor glints in the sunlight, doing wonders to illuminate his face. he’s handsome, robb can admit, and that only makes his curiosity increase about you & your sister. & once you both step out of the wheelhouse, robb feels his heart skip as many beats as it can without killing him.

a few of your cousins step out first, giggly as they curtsy to the starks and stand respectively to the side. margaery is next, gorgeous auburn hair & a button nose, a flattering dress with the tyrell colors proudly on display, and a sweet smile to accompany it all. she curtsy’s as well, standing more in front of the wheelhouse, as loras dismounts and moves to stand next to her.

when you step out of the wheelhouse, robb’s breath hitches. his body forgets every single instinct he’s ever had, & he has to remind himself to breathe, as to not kill himself. you’re beautiful. stunning. a sight for sore eyes. he doesn’t think there’s any word in the common tongue that can be used to describe your beauty without downplaying it. it seems like nobody can tear their eyes off of you, your aura doing wonders to brighten the damp atmosphere.

you curtsy to them all, along with a smile he wishes would never leave your face. robb can’t tear his eyes from you, even when you move to offer your hand to the queen of thornes as she steps out. you meet robb’s gaze in the moment everyones attention is not on you. the corner of his mouth tilts up in a smirk as he winks at you. you only tilt your head, brows lightly furrowing as you smile at him. your gaze falls to the floor as blush rises to your cheeks, retracting your hand from your grandmothers and smoothing out your gown.

pleasantries are exchanged, you and robb stealing glances to each other every so often. lady olenna & a few of your cousins go with ned stark & lady catelyn, moving to discuss the wedding, among other things. you take robb’s arm as he escorts you, margaery, and loras to where you’ll be staying at. robb drinks in every moment with you.

you’re gorgeous, soft, & warm. you have a kind heart, a love for the arts and children, and you’re very kind. your shy nature bubbles away as you grow more comfortable in each others presence.

that night, a great feast is held. everyone of the starklings is made to be in attendance, and robb prays that arya can keep her withering resolve just a little bit longer. you’re sat beside him, softly laughing at a remark ned had made. robb’s heart warms at the sight of you & his father getting along, but is quickly forgotten when he sees arya dash away & out of the hall. guards are sent after her, and robb bites back a smile at her daring antics.

he’s snapped out of his thoughts as your hand clasps his bicep, his head turns towards you as you lean into speak in his ear.

“forgive me, i must be excused. i’ll return shortly.” you say, a reassuring smile making its way onto your face as you get up. robb only nods, sighing in an attempt to soothe his frayed nerves.

it’s a few minutes later when the queen of thornes sits next to him, striking up light conversation. judging his character, no doubt. at the end of it she nods her head in approval, asking him to please find her granddaughter — wherever she’s run off to. robb stands up with an-

“of course, my lady.”

moving to follow the direction you went in. it takes him outside, and he looks around, before his gaze settles on you & a small form behind you, a guard approaching in front of you. robb was lucky to be in earshot of you.

“pardon, my lady, we’re looking for arya underfoot, ned starks daughter. ‘bout yay high, brown of hair. have you seen ‘er ‘round?”

you were stood beside a pillar, one arm behind your back as you discreetly pressed arya further behind you. one shift of your form & arya would be revealed, dragged back to the festivities she had just escaped from. robb watched you from afar, careful not to give away your position — but close enough to hear & see your response. curiosity spread through him as he and the guard both awaited your answer.

your brows furrowed in faux confusion, looking at the guard with a soft expression.

“i must confess, i haven’t seen her. brown of hair, you said?”

the guard swallowed, nodding as he eyed you up & down. you smiled sweetly at him.

“i will be sure to keep an eye out, ser…?”

you slightly raised your brows, and the guard quickly gave you his name. you repeated it to him, and the guard nodded, smiling.

“would you be so kind to escort me back to the festivities? a castle like this.. it’s so easy to get lost.”

the guard quickly agreed, not being able to resist you, & robb is enamored, having witnessed the tyrell charm firsthand. what happens next seals the deal for robb.

as you move to take the guards arm, you spot loras patrolling, his path sending him to pass on the other side of the pillar that you’re at. the eye contact between you both is minimal, and robb almost misses your eyes slightly widen & the small nod of his head. with one swift move, you’re grasping the guards bicep & using your other hand to gently push arya to your older brother, as he outstretches his hand just enough for arya to get the hint. as you walk off, loras has one hand on aryas shoulder, ushering her off with a wink — & robb watches the smile grow on aryas face as she slips away.

yeah, he thinks. you’re perfect.

his winter rose.

sorry if this was too long or not what you were envisioning, but i had sm fun writing this !! tyrell supremacy

#game of thrones #asoiaf #robb stark #robb stark x reader #robb stark imagine #robb stark prompt #robb stark x tyrell reader #also #i said loras was on patrol because it just made sense to me idk 😞#perhaps don’t flame me chat #anyways i need his children #dippys asks #goodnight chat

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author-morgan · 2 years

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Title: Dragonknight Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!Reader Rating: T Summary: Even darkness seeks the light, or in which Daemon considers you his northern star —his guiding light. Warnings: Typically Westerosi shenanigans.

HE LOWERS THE blunted training sword and frowns as you bolt down the steps of the tower and around Ser Ryam the Dragon —not wishing to be the fair maiden in need of saving again. Instead, you take up another sword, too big and heavy, and stand stalwart in your choice. Prince Daemon Targaryen nigh pouts. He’s meant to be brave and valiant and save his lady from danger. “How am I to be your dragonknight if you won’t let me save you?” He laments.

“Two swords are better than one against this fearsome foe,” you tell him, but the game is already over then.

Ser Ryam Redwyne laughs and rises from his haunches, feeling the ache in his aging joints —Clement Crabb told him it was his turn to entertain the prince and his coconspirator. At least then it would keep the pair out of too much trouble. “She is not wrong, my prince,” he remarks. Even a knight of the Kingsguard has brothers-in-arms, seeking and accepting help does not make one less of a man or less of a prince.

“You make a fine dragon, ser,” you note, remembering your courtesies.

Ser Ryam Redwyne smiles at your compliment. “Thank you, my lady,” the Kingsguard knight says, giving a half-bow to you and Prince Daemon before taking his leave to rejoin the king.

Florence Fossoway enters the courtyard, passing Ser Ryam, with her hands clasped in front of her golden-rose belt. “Prince Daemon,” she greets, lowering her head in veneration before turning her attention to you —a rowdy girl who’d rather frolic about the Red Keep and the streets of King’s Landing with Daemon Targaryen instead of practicing her stitches and letters. Your mother’s lips purse into the slightest of frowns, recalling the conversation the prior eve with her lord husband and your father, Martyn Tyrell. Soon you’ll be too old to partake in such churlish activities. The prince may be able to do as he pleases, but you will not. “It’s time for your lessons,” she reminds you. Sewing, reading, writing, and learning the harp, among other things —all of which are considered comely talents in a good wife.

THE SUN’S WARMTH shines through the canopy of summer foliage to the forest floor of the Kingswood, painting a halo of light around where you and Daemon lay, looking skyward at the passing clouds. It’s a rare thing of late, being able to spend time with him. Too often, duties and lessons keep you and Daemon separated now that you’ve grown older —not quite children any longer, but not yet adults in the eyes of the lords and ladies of the court.

Still, you’ve heard the whispers about what the small council speaks of, and so has Daemon. He sees how you worry in silence, though —always twisting your hair or picking at the skin of your palms, always trying to be a good and dutiful daughter for House Tyrell. But now, more than ever, the whispers are no longer uncertain truths or mere rumors, and in the past weeks, a heavy weight has settled on your chest and shoulders.

You’ve grown quieter as time passes, and the midmorning fades into the afternoon. Daemon looks at you and frowns when he sees unshed tears budding in your eyes. He reaches for your hand, twining his fingers with yours, and squeezes. He’s always been your dearest friend, your dragonknight. "We’ll always be together.” You want to believe him —he sounds so certain of it. “I won’t let anyone take you.” That makes you smile, but Daemon still sees your doubt. “I’m a prince, remember?” And soon to be a dragonrider, he thinks. No one would be able to stop him then. He would be able to whisk you away to the far reaches of the land —places you’ve only ever imagined in stories.

“Promise?” It’s a trembling whisper.

“On the Old Gods of Valyria,” he swears, then looks back to the sky and the creeping storm clouds. “One day we can go there,” he says, voicing his thoughts aloud, “on dragon back.” He’s told you about Caraxes —the Blood Wyrm— and Aemon’s former mount. A wild, unpredictable beast with a will strong as any Targaryen’s, but Daemon’s always had an eye for Caraxes. The dragonkeepers oft let the prince into the great dome to see him and the others, though he’s yet to take the Blood Wyrm for his own mount. But soon he will and you’ll both be able to fly high and far and free.

THE HOUR IS late when he knocks on your chamber door, and it rouses you from an ill-fated attempt to sleep. “Daemon?” His silver-white hair is mused from flying, his tunic and pants ruffled too —as though he’s run from Rhaenys's Hill. You pull him from the hall and into your chambers by his sleeve. You’re both too old now for him to come to you in the night —people at court will talk if anyone sees, and the walls of the Red Keep have both eyes and ears.

“I leave in the morn to help Lord Dondarrion stamp out these rumors of an unruly brotherhood in the Dornish Marches,” Daemon tells you. You’ve heard your father speak of those rumors in the prior weeks, even if he doubted the claims —King Jaehaerys’s reign is marked by peace and prosperity. Lord Baelon says he’ll be granted knighthood and the Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister, for quelling the disturbance. “Though, before I leave–” he opens his fist to reveal a glittering white stone strung on a finely crafted rope of silver. “It was meant for your nameday celebration,” Daemon explains, the feast is to be held in a week’s time, and he knows he will not return from the Stormlands so quickly.

He holds up his gift so you can see the finer details —how the dragon’s claw curls around the stone, stamped with a hundred tiny scales. It lifts his heart to see you smile and even more so when you turn away from him, gathering your hair to the side so he may drape the necklace over your head and fasten the clasp.

The firelight catches the gem, and it twinkles around your neck as a star pulled from the heavens. It’s what you are to him, what you’ve always been —a star. A guiding light to pull him from the darkness. Daemon steps toward you, nigh closing what little distance remains, and he reaches for you, the backs of his fingertips brushing along your neck and jaw. “Iksā ñuha qēlos,” he breathes, tender as any caress. The weight of the world lifts from your chest, and Daemon can still see the gleam of childhood memories in your eyes.

“Se iksā ñuha zaldrīzes azantys,” you tell him, slowly, enunciating each word, still uncertain you are speaking the old Valyrian tongue correctly. Daemon smiles for you, his exhale a breathy laugh before he rests his forehead against yours —you’d do almost anything to live in this moment for eternity. But time does not stop for a fool’s desire. His lips, thin and wind burnt, ghost over your forehead, then linger there before he steps back to take his leave.

You stop him before he can go, hand loosely curled around his forearm. Daemon turns back and finds your lips on his —hesitant, but soft and sweet. But it’s over too quickly. “For luck, my prince,” you explain, not wishing to meet his gaze as you feel warmth rush to your cheeks in the aftermath of such a reckless action. The prince’s fingers curl beneath your chin and he surges forward at the same time. His kiss tugs at the corners of your heart, leaving you to shatter when his hands, now splayed across your back, draw you closer. And when your arms twine around his shoulders, Daemon’s certain he won’t ever be able to let you go.

LEANOR FLIES TO the Driftmark astride Seasmoke and beckons you to accompany him back to the Stepstones —for Prince Daemon has won the war, but he has not done so unscathed and there is only one person he wishes to see. They call him a madman and they hail him as a hero as you move through the victorious war camp. There are tales of how he slew twenty men, how it was only the three arrows that slowed him, but even still he cleaved the Crabfeeder in two. A maester exits the tent, his pale robes stained with blood. “How is he?” You ask.

But the voice that answers in the maester’s place is familiar, albeit rougher than usual and still laced with pain —the last dose of milk of the poppy has yet to take its numbing hold. “Come ask him yourself,” Daemon groans, recognizing your voice and shadow.

One of Corlys’s men draws back the flaps of the patched tent for you to enter. He lies on the cot, torso bound in linen strips speckled with blood, and his hair still a knotted mess of dried filth from the battle. Daemon means to sit up, but you stop him with a firm hand pressed to his shoulder and kneel at his bedside instead. “Issa sȳz naejot ūndegon ao.” It’s been many long months since you’ve last seen him —and even then, it is only fleeting moments on Dragonstone or at Driftmark before he returns to war and uncertainty.

Daemon reaches for you, his rough fingertips trailing across your cheek and jaw, then down to your neck and the silver chain resting there. You’ve scarcely parted from his gift since receiving it —letting it serve as a reminder for all those at court that your heart already belonged to another. The stone pendant still shines like a star even after the years, just as you do, always guiding him home. You take his hand and kiss his bruised and cut knuckles. “Ñuha qēlos,” Daemon whispers, and it sets your heart aflutter all over again.

It’s instinctive to lean into him when he pushes himself from the cot. Then he kisses you until the cold sea breeze falls away and your body sings with warmth —kisses you until he feels something melt inside him that nigh hurts in some strange, exquisite way. It’s all his longing and dreams and sweet anguish, and it all transforms into something enchanting, and when Daemon parts, everything makes sense once more —feels right once more. He lays back, grimacing. The Crabfeeder’s arrows struck deep. Daemon takes a long, slow breath, his eyes burning into you. “Avy jorrāelan,” he says, and he’s a fool for not saying it sooner. You kiss the corner of his lips in response, for you’ve already spake your love for your dragonknight.

“I mean to take the Stepstones as mine own,” he tells you. They will call him King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, and he will make his own mark on Westeros and the world beyond. But the stone seat and his bed will be cold without someone to share it with —he needs a queen to share the title and burden with. Daemon holds onto your hand and holds it close to his heart. “We can be together.” Together, you smile at the thought and rest your head on his chest. Together is all you’ve ever wanted.

High Valyrian translations: Iksā ñuha qēlos. - You are my star. Se iksā ñuha zaldrīzes azantys. - And you are my dragon knight. Issa sȳz naejot ūndegon ao. - It is good to see you. Ñuha qēlos. - My star. Avy jorrāelan. - I love you.

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#Daemon Targaryen #Daemon Targaryen x Reader #Daemon x Reader #Daemon Targaryen Fanfic #House of the Dragon #Matt Smith #my writing #fic setting: pre HotD and up to the start of the War for the Stepstones #if you notice something wrong with my high valyrian translations plz let me know

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valleyof-goldenlilies · 9 months

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Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia - Chapter 7: Father and Daughter (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 7: Father and Daughter

A hunt, a reunion, and a conflict. A normal day in Westeros then.

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

Warnings: Nothing of note, save for parental trauma and a notable lack of Daemon shenanigans.

Word Count: 5.8k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out!

A/N: OH MY GOD IM ALIVE???? Yeah, it appears I am 😭 I'm so sorry about the long wait on this chapter, the past two weeks have been wild for me ever since I came back from my vacation. 1. My dad crashed his car? 2. I had like five projects due during the past two weeks and I had to write in a report and evaluation about my project groupmate who essentially did nothing 😐 if I could beat someone's ass without getting suspended, istg... 3. I've been suffering from a lot of chest pains recently, which kinda stopped me from doing my thing for a while 4. I had insane writers block for like a week and it was horrid 😖 but luckily, I'm back now, and hopefully updating more often! And also I've learnt that my classmate is following me on tumblr, I am a little mortified, but hello regardless. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! 💕 no Daemon cameo unfortunately, but he'll be back next chapter, and messier than ever.

lovely dividers credited to @firefly-graphics !

109 years after Aegon's Conquest

The doors to the room burst open, and you stepped in, a little out of breath. Lord Hobert Hightower and the Hand, who were standing closest to the doorway, were engrossed deep in conversation when you walked in, and you heard something along the lines of “It’s only a matter of time before Viserys names him heir.” You try not to frown at that, nodding politely to them before heading over to the crowd gathered over at the other side of the room, cooing at the heir in question: little Aegon, who was celebrating his second nameday.

“Ah, Y/N!” Viserys exclaimed happily, gesturing for you to come and stand between him and Alicent, whose face was radiant with happiness. Viserys signalled for the wet nurse to step forward, and before you knew it, little Aegon was in your arms, babbling in that toddler frenzy of his. The assemblage of lords and ladies stepped closer to you, much to your discomfort, as you forced a cheerful smile and bounced Aegon up and down in your arms, which made him squeal with delight. “I fear that Aegon might come to see you as his mother sooner or late, Y/N, given how much he adores you.” Viserys claimed. You flush at his words, and Alicent soon steps in, smiling, “Tis true. Aegon always perks up when he’s in your arms.” You were sure you would melt into a puddle if you were subject to any more of their compliments. “You flatter me, Your Graces.”

In the periphery of your vision, you saw Ser Tyland Lannister attempt to get Viserys’ attention, and you handed back a now fussing Aegon to his nursemaid. Alicent shuffled over to the feast table, and she smiled brightly as you approached. Placing a hand on her swollen belly, your heart fluttered with delight when you felt a slight kick. Though the horrors of childbirth still plagued your mind, being there for Alicent’s relatively smooth birth with Aegon had made your fears lessen a little.

“How’s the babe?” you ask. “Only active when you’re here, it seems,” Alicent laughed. “They never seem to kick for anyone else other than you. I think they will adore you as much as Aegon does.” You chuckle, stroking Alicent’s belly gently. “What if the kicking is a sign that the babe will dislike me?” Alicent patted your hand, “Definitely not. I have no doubt in my mind that you will be dear to the babe.” she said with conviction. You blush at her words, “You flatter me, Your Grace.”

“Can someone tell me where in the Seven Hells Rhaenyra might be?” Viserys’ frustrated bellow drew you and Alicent out of your tender moment. Alicent’s face twisted with worry, and you were sure your face was a mirror image of hers. “You came in later than the rest of us. Did you see Rhaenyra anywhere?” You shake your head glumly, “She wasn’t in her chambers, or her apartments.” Alicent sighed in exasperation, “Viserys has questioned nearly every courtier in the room, and not a single one of them has a clue. Where might she be?” You chewed your lip, thinking back to the snippet of conversation you had overheard between the Hand and Lord Hobert. “She’s upset right now. The two of you were…” You refrained from finishing the sentence when you saw Alicent wince. “Do you have any inkling on where she might go to cool off?” “I don’t belie-” A look of realisation dawned in Alicent’s eyes. “You know somewhere?” You ask her urgently. Alicent nodded, “I’ll go find her. You should stay and satiate yourself before the journey.” “Are you sure?” You ask her, concerned. Alicent squeezed your hand gently. “Don’t worry about me. I think I can get Rhaenyra to see reason.”

You glance pensively at Alicent’s retreating figure. Sighing, you approached the refreshments table, smiling gratefully as a servant handed you a plate with some slices of roast pork. You heard your name being called, and turned around to find Viserys. “Your Grace-” you moved to curtsy, but Viserys stopped you, “I told you, no need for such stuffy courtesies when you are with me.” You smiled wryly, “I thought it wouldn’t apply in a room full of courtiers.” Viserys waved away your words, “You are my family, Y/N. There are no such constraints within your own kin.” You smile sadly at the word ‘family’. It was a little sad to say, but you definitely did feel more of a kinship with the current members of House Targaryen over those of your own house.

“Speaking of kin,” Viserys’ voice turned serious. “I am in need of a favour from you, Y/N.” You snapped to attention. “Whatever you need, Viserys.” He sighed, looking mournful and irritated at the same time. “It has been nigh three years since I have wedded Alicent. Time after time, I have tried to approach Rhaenyra, but she shuns me away every single time. The rare chances she actually sits down and listens, she sulks like a child and only provides me with short responses.” Viserys sighed again, whatever sadness he had turning into disappointment and exasperation. “This is not the way the heir to the Iron Throne should behave.” He looked at you beseechingly, “I implore you, Y/N. I believe what Rhaenyra needs is for a motherly figure to talk to her, and persuade her to abandon such foolish antics. I fear Alicent would not be able to serve such a role, since Rhaenyra’s ire is directed at the both of us. But you,” You swallowed nervously. “I’ve seen how close Rhaenyra kept you after Aemma’s death. For months, apart from Alicent, you were her closest confidant. I know naught of what has transpired between the two of you, but I believe you to be the best person for this tiresome task. Will you do methis favour?”

Your expression was resigned, but you forced out a smile nonetheless. “But of course. I will do my best, Viserys.” He closed his eyes in relief, clapping you on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you, Y/N. Thank you.” You gave a tentative smile back, painfully aware of the numerous eyes glued to the both of you. What you failed to notice, however, were the heavy gazes of Otto and Hobert Hightower on you.

An awkward silence weighed upon the royal wheelhouse as it made its way to the Kingswood. You glance uncomfortably between Viserys, Alicent, and Rhaenyra, watching with some pity as Viserys attempted to make conversation with his irascible and sullen daughter. A miniature dragon thrust in your face soon drew your attention however, and you looked down to frown admonishingly at little Aegon, who blinked his wide violet eyes at you innocently. The little devil, you were sure he was trying to garner your attention on purpose. Earlier, he had been weeping inconsolably, much to the nursemaid’s and Alicent’s distress. But when you had taken him into your arms, he had ceased his tears immediately and gave you a cherubic smile, which made Alicent give you a knowing smile and Rhaenyra to look at the both of you in disdain. The expression of disdain had yet to depart from Rhaenyra, as you played patiently with Aegon, flying his dragon miniature around him and smiling as the toddler spun his head around to follow the motions of the dragon with rapt fascination.

The tension in the wheelhouse was not lightening in the slightest bit, as Viserys began talking about Rhaenyra giving him grandchildren, of all things. You had to stop yourself from groaning in exasperation. If Viserys truly wanted to reconnect with Rhaenyra again, why was he digging himself into an even bigger hole? He should know that after Aemma, Rhaenyra would be disinclined to entertain notions of childbirth. You wanted to put your head in your hands, but Aegon poked you in the cheek.

“No one’s here for me!” Rhaenyra’s angry outburst halted all activity in the wheelhouse, including Aegon’s. You froze, looking up at Rhaenyra, but her bitter gaze was focused solely on her father. All of you endured the rest of the ride in silence.

The rocking of the wheelhouse soon came to an end. You remained seated as Viserys and Alicent stepped out to the raucous cheers of the crowd, allowing Aegon’s nursemaid to take him from your arms. You remembered Viserys’ plea, and took in Rhaenyra’s wistful expression. “Hail, hail! Aegon the Conqueror babe, Second of His Name!” You grimace when you hear the tasteless remark.

Rhaenyra’s fists were clenched at her sides, and her eyes were shut. With frustration, or with sadness, she didn’t know. Suddenly, she felt a gentle hand taking her fisted hand and unclenching it. She didn’t need to open her eyes to see who it was. “I don’t need your pity.” Rhaenyra tried to sound snappy, but her voice was hoarse. You didn’t answer, instead intertwining your fingers with Rhaenyra. She reluctantly opened her eyes, only to see you directing a hostile glare to the outside commotion, as more and more voices heralded Aegon as the Second of His Name. Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile at that, letting some of the tension seep out of her muscles.

At least there was someone in her dark and lonely corner, even if that someone’s trustworthiness had yet to be ascertained.

You were sitting next to Alicent, as she held court with the various noble ladies who had attended the hunt. You listened, silently sipping from your goblet as they conversed about the ongoing war in the Stepstones. You watched as Larys Strong and Rhaenyra soon joined in the conversation, though a slight frown of distaste was soon visible on your face, when Lady Lannister and Lady Redwyne in particular, began picking on Rhaenyra. You had to hide a smirk when Rhaenyra made a well-directed jab at Lady Redwyne, and the smirk only widened when you saw her pig-faced dog gobble greedily at the cake on her plate. How fitting.

“You know, Lady Y/N.” Your head snapped up as Lady Redwyne addressed you. She had a displeased look on her face: clearly she hadn’t missed your smirk at her expense. “I was…pleasantly surprised to hear Her Grace appointed you as her chief lady-in-waiting.” Your eyes narrowed, your dormant prickly nature coming to life once more. “It was a great honour, Lady Joselyn. One that I am greatly grateful to Her Grace for.”

Lady Redwyne gave you a smile, that you knew from all your years of court politics, was filled with ill intent. “I must say, if you were out in the battlefield fighting on the Stepstones, the war would be won by now.” You felt Alicent stiffen next to you, and you instinctively reached out to put your hand on hers. “What are you insinuating, Lady Redwyne?” Alicent’s tone was sharper than usual. Lady Redwyne attempted to school her features back to deference, but her lips were curved upwards. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I was not attempting to insinuate anything. It was a compliment to Lady Y/N.” You levelled a fierce glare at her, but she seemed unaffected, looking at you straight in the eye. “It is a well known fact that she and Prince Daemon had tempers that rivalled each other. With such willfulness, she would make a formidable opponent on the battlefield, would she not?”

You were about to deliver an equally cutting and backhanded response, but you were surprised when you heard Rhaenyra speak up once more, “Yes, Lady Redwyne. But as luck would have it, she is the Queen’s lady-in-waiting now.” Rhaenyra’s tone was acidic. “And I am certain that she will carry out her duties with skill and grace. The Queen will not be able to find someone as capable as her.”

The ladies were stunned that Rhaenyra had spoken up for you, none more so than you and Alicent. “The princess is right. Lady Y/N has been a dutiful lady-in-waiting and companion. The Seven have truly blessed me with her.” Your eyes water with gratitude, as Lady Redwyne and the other ladies fall silent after both the princess and the queen’s swift defence of you.

So this was what kinship felt like.

Night had fallen, and the air was ablaze with the smell of smoke. You had sat faithfully by Alicent all day, as she entertained lords and ladies alike. You had not seen Rhaenyra in quite some time though, and you worry about where she could have wandered off to. Your anxiety only increased tenfold when you saw Viserys’ goblet never straying from his hand, and he had been lifting it to his lips moreso after his conversations with the Hand, Jason Lannister, and Lyonel Strong, in particular. Alicent was clearly on edge as well, her brown eyes watchful as she witnessed her husband lose himself in his cups. When Viserys abruptly left the tent after a brief, yet intense conversation with Lyonel Strong, Alicent got up to go after him, but you gently pushed her back down to her seat, giving her a reassuring look. She should not need to see her husband in such a misbegotten state, while in her pregnancy, you thought to yourself, as you wrapped your shawl around you, shivering in the cold night air.

You eventually found Viserys by the huge bonfire, downing yet another goblet of wine, while being guarded by two Kingsguard. They nodded at you as you passed. You went straight to Viserys, taking the cup whilst he was distracted. “I think that’s enough for you tonight, Viserys.” Your voice was soft, yet firm. He gave you an enervated smile. “The night is cold, you shouldn’t be out here.” You hand the goblet over to a Kingsguard. “Who will look after you, then? And make sure you do not drink yourself into a stupor?” Viserys laughed heartily, before he coughed. You reach for him, concerned. He stared into the flames, looking like he wanted to step into them himself. “Y/N.” “Hmm?” Viserys took a deep breath, trying to control the slurring in his voice. “What do you think is the foundation of House Targaryen’s strength?”

You tilt your head to the side questioningly, “That is a trick question, right? Of course, the answer is House Targaryen’s dragons.” Viserys smiled ruefully, turning over to face you. You were taken aback by the blazing intensity, perhaps even madness in his eyes. “You’re wrong, Y/N. It began with a dream.” He turned back to face the fire. “When Daenys the Dreamer had the dream that prophesied the end of the Valyrian Freehold, that dream saved House Targaryen. While all the other dragonlords were destroyed, it was only us who survived.” “I know of that tale. Your grandsire told us that tale when we were younger.”

Viserys didn’t seem to hear you, however, his bleak gaze still on the fire. “In my line, many had been dragonriders. Very few among us have been dreamers. What is the power of dragons, next to the power of prophecy?” You shivered, and not because of the cold. Yet you continue listening. “When Rhaenyra was a child, I saw it in a dream. As vivid as these flames, I saw it. A male babe, born to me, wearing the Conqueror’s crown. And I so wanted it to be true, to be a dreamer myself. I sought that vision again, night after night…but it never came again. I poured all my thought and will into it. And my obsession killed Aemma.” You looked away at that, your heart wrenched with grief. “I thought Rhaenyra was the way out of my abyss of grief and regret. That naming her heir would set things right.”

“Are you saying you regret naming Rhaenyra heir then?” Viserys looked grieved. “Oftentimes, yes…I have. I worried that I had named Rhaenyra out of anger towards Daemon, not out of love, or for the good of the realm.” He moved to grip your shoulders, tears in his eyes. “Y/N, I never imagined that I would remarry. That I would have a son. What if…what if I was wrong all along?”

You stared into his despair-filled eyes. “I cannot tell you if you’re wrong, Viserys. There are only two paths ahead of you now, and as King, you must be prepared to take one, and soon.” Viserys chuckles, drooping his head. “What if I’m not sure what path I should take?” Your voice was quiet. “Then the realm will descend into chaos.”

The both of you were silent, staring at each other in the firelight. While you couldn’t say that you approved of Viserys’ decisions in the past three years, after all this, he was your friend, and he was just a mere mortal, plagued by regrets, grief, and hesitation. Just like you, and everyone else. Even kings were not infallible to weakness, you surmised. And in that moment, there was a mutual understanding and grievance shared between the both of you: the burden of choice.

The morrow brought about clear skies and sun, much to the delight of the lords partaking in the hunt. It did not alleviate your worries however, as Rhaenyra still had not returned to the encampment. You found yourself milling about today, much too tired to suffer the thinly veiled jabs the fellow noblewomen were directing at you about your infamous temper.

You were dressed in a simpler riding outfit today, to mingle around with the various smallfolk and merchants that had set up stalls in the encampment, hoping eagerly to attract some lord’s attention and earn a few gold dragons. You beamed as you sampled a rather delicious roast pork skewer, giving the stall owner - a rather plump woman - two golden dragons, much to her glee. You strode back to the main tent, feeling satisfied, when you suddenly heard the sound of hooves. You turned your head as a palomino horse skidded to a halt, and a familiar man, with more grey hairs than he had the last time you saw him, dismount from the horse and take off his riding gloves. His eyes light up as soon as he catches sight of you, and without giving you a window to escape, he strode towards you. You chew your lip in dread as he approached.

“Father.”

“Y/N.” He beams at you, his eyes crinkled at the corners. You smile awkwardly at him, fidgeting with your fingers. His smile falters a little when he notices your hesitation. “I haven’t seen you in years, daughter. Does this momentous occasion not warrant a hug?” You inwardly sigh, and reach out to embrace your father. Your father grins at you as you pull away after an awkward pause. “You have grown, daughter. You look beautiful.” “You flatter me, Father.” “Come, walk with me. We have much to talk about.” You swallowed, but followed as he set out for the forested edge of the campground.

The both of you strode in silence for a while, before you ventured to break the silence. “The King didn’t mention you would be joining us for the hunt, Father. Why the sudden change of heart?” He sighed. “Can an old man not choose to be in nature once in a while?” “Of course you can, father. I was just concerned: you are no longer in the pink of health, and riding all the way from Highgarden to the Kingswood is a gruelling journey.” Your father waved his hand dismissively. “Twas nothing. I might be getting on in my years, but I recently found a new source of reinvigoration.”

“Oh?” you cocked your head curiously. You sincerely hoped the new source of reinvigoration was not a new bid for your hand. Your father smiled, “I recently remarried to Lady Clarice of House Fossoway.” Seeing your confused look, he hurried to clarify. “Of Cider Hall.” Surprise creased your features. “But…wasn’t that Mother’s maiden house? Lady Clarice was her cousin, was she not?” Your father’s smile was beginning to look strained. “Does it matter, daughter? What matters is that I am happy with her, is it not? And I am certain she will give me strong sons soon.” You regard him with a degree of caution, noting the shift in his voice. In your years of dealing with court politics, you could instinctively tell when a situation was about to go from bad to worse. “I did not know you had any plans on remarrying after Mother’s death.”

“And whose fault is that, daughter?” Your father’s tone turned chiding. “I know you’ve been ignoring all the ravens I’ve sent to you over the past few years. Specifically, those with letters attached from me pleading for you to just find yourself a match at court or select one of the eligible lords in the lists I sent you.” You blushed, looking sheepish. Matthos sighed. “Daughter, you are no longer young. It is past time you are wed. I only want what’s best for you.”

“But-” you blurted out, “What if I don’t think getting married is what’s best for me, Father?” Your father looked askance at that. “What else could a young lady such as yourself desire other than marriage?” You bit your lip, “Father, the truth is…I do not think I have a desire to wed now…or ever.” You were beginning to get anxious as your father’s face lost some of his paternal tenderness. “Five years. I had hoped that our time apart had given you some time to reflect on your…misconceptions.” He gripped your shoulders, an intense blaze in his eyes as your heart began to thud with dread. “The matter of marriage is not one that you can dismiss so easily anymore, Y/N. It entails the survival and future of House Tyrell. You must do your duty and wed a respectable lord, for the sake of our house.” Though you had heard those words aplenty, today, it was like something uninhibited had seized control of you, as you burst out. “Why should I care about doing my duty to House Tyrell?” you snapped. “I have made it clear that it is not my intention to ever take a husband, now and in the foreseeable future. You claim this is all done for my own happiness. So why can’t you just respect my wishes?”

“Because you are not just some poxy peasant who can gallivant about as you please. You are my daughter!” You were shocked when your father suddenly raised his voice. Trepidation had dimmed your previous righteousness. He tightens his grip on your shoulders, his expression filled with an anger you had never glimpsed before. This…this was not the father you remember. The father you knew had never once raised his voice at you, always treating you with patience as his only child. Though he was prone to bouts of frustrated pleading when you did not acquiesce to his wishes to get married, he had never once shouted at you like that. Or even gripped your shoulders with such forcefulness you feared he might strike you. “You are just as useless as your late mother.” You were stunned, your eyes searing with hot tears. “Do not insult Mother like that. She was the most wonderful woman-” “Wonderful, you say?” your father snorted. “If she were so wonderful, then she would have provided me with a strong and healthy son to succeed me! Instead, she left me with a daughter who is ungrateful and strangely determined to remain a spinster all her life.” he spat out the words with such vitriol that you were taken aback. “If she were so wonderful,” your father continued with his rant. “Then would House Tyrell be in imminent danger of collapsing, all because the only heirs I have are your incompetent, doltish cousins who will run the legacy our ancestors and I have built to the ground?” He moved to clasp your hand tightly in his, looking desperate and angry all at once. “Daughter, your father is imploring you. You must get wed, and provide me with a grandson. You cannot let House Tyrell go to ruin.” You stare at him, feeling beleaguered. “Do my wishes mean nothing to you?” “This is because your wishes are obscenely unreasonable, Y/N.” your father snaps. “It is practically unheard of for a woman of your status to not wed.” “It is not!” you insisted, “I am the chief lady-in-waiting to the Queen now, I have duties I must perform. And there have been histories of lords whose daughters were largely spinsters. Moreover, you have remarried.” Your voice became desperate as you tried to make your father see reason. “Lady Clarice is young, she will give you many sons in due time. Suitable heirs to Highgarden. I do not understand why you are putting all this pressure on me.” You took a deep breath, preparing to make your final stand. “I want to enjoy the rest of my youth, Father. Not to sit in a castle, entrapped in a loveless marriage and pumping out potential heirs for my husband and for you. I want to live my life, free of constraints.” You looked at him, unshed tears in your eyes. “Please, father. This is the one thing I have ever asked of you, and that is to respect my wishes.”

Matthos was silent for a long while, and you held hope, briefly, that you might have gotten through to him with your pleading. “Foolish, insolent girl!” Your hopes were dashed as your father flung off your hand, shouting at you. “How can you be so selfish? To not take responsibility in ensuring the continuation of our house’s line?” “That is your responsibility, not mine!” you shouted back. Seeing that pleas would not get to your father now, you resorted to fighting fire with fire instead. “Had you really cared about continuing our house’s bloodline, you would’ve remarried years ago!” You could see how your shouts were drawing the attention of some courtiers, given how close the both of you were to the camp for royals. You heard the faint sound of hooves behind you, but you ignored them, too engrossed in your argument with your father. “Producing heirs is a lord’s responsibility. So if you are accusing me of not doing my duty, you should first be reprimanding yourself.”

Your father’s face grew red. “You little brat! How dare you say these things about your father!” “I spoke only the truth,” you shot back. He raised his hand, and for a moment you were afraid he was going to slap you for your outburst. Instead, he went to grip your shoulders again, “For years, I have raised you, clothed you in the finest silks, fed you, and put up with your ridiculous whims and wants! I’ve been patient, I’ve been loving and understanding when you rejected all the marriage offers you received. I’ve pleaded, and even given you the time and freedom to find a more suitable match at court. Yet you cannot even perform your duty as my daughter. No longer.” Your heart stuttered a little. “What do you mean?” Your father gave you a cold look. “I’m saying, if you do not get married by the end of the year, you are no longer my daughter.” Your eyes widen with horror. “I will effectively disown and disinherit you from House Tyrell, and if I sire any children by Lady Clarice, they shall not support you either.”

Your voice was tremulous, “Father, you…you cannot be serious. Do not let your anger cloud your judgement.” Matthos Tyrell looked at his daughter, his face one of disgust. “You wanted to enjoy your youth without constraints. And since you seem to enjoy being lady-in-waiting to the Queen so much, I’m only granting you what you wished for, am I not?”

You stepped back, feeling winded by your father’s words. However, you nearly jumped when you felt a familiar hand on your shoulder. “Ah, Y/N!” You were not sure whether you felt more mortified or relieved for Viserys’ timely presence. “Your Grace!” Immediately, your father’s distaste gave way to deference, as he straightened his posture and bowed before the King. You inclined your head respectfully, wondering if Viserys had overheard your conversation. “Forgive me for interrupting your conversation.” Oh, he definitely overheard.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Your Grace. I am delighted to be in your presence.” Your father gushed on profusely, as Viserys stepped toward him. You hung your head, still abashed by your father’s threats, when you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder once more. Alicent smiled at you understandingly, and you grimaced when you realised she had also overheard the unpleasant exchange. Still, you shot her a grateful look for her show of support.

“I must offer you my sincerest felicitations for Prince Aegon’s second nameday, Your Grace.” Viserys laughed, “Your felicitations are greatly appreciated, Lord Matthos. I must extend you mine as well, for your recent remarriage. I see it is treating you well.” Your father beamed, “You are too kind, Your Grace. And indeed, my lady wife pleases me so. Now, the only thing that would make me the happiest man in the realm would be my daughter finally settling down with a respectable match.” You stiffened at that, something Alicent took notice of, and she offered you a sympathetic look. Viserys chuckled, “That you and I can both agree on, Lord Matthos. There is nothing more I desire right now than seeing Rhaenyra being wed to a deserving man who will treat her right.”

“Oh, I am sure Her Grace will have her pick of men. She is ‘The Realm’s Delight’, after all. Any man who weds her will be a lucky one.” Your father’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone, as he glanced at you. “Moreover, Her Grace is young, comely, and lovely to behold.” Matthos sighed, shaking his head as he chuckled, “Mine own daughter is not in possess of such qualities, I’m afraid. She is getting on with her years, and though I love her deeply, as her father, I must admit she has quite a temper on her. She's not quite the attractice match, which gives me a headache,” Matthos jested with the King, causing you to wince and look away. Alicent looked disconcerted at your father’s tasteless jesting, tightening her hold on your shoulder. However, the both of you did not notice the flare of annoyance behind Viserys’ eyes, so his next words surprised the both of you.

“Lady Y/N has been nothing but a delight to have at court, Lord Matthos. In spite of her age, I’m sure she has no shortage of suitors.” Viserys’ voice was amiable, polite, yet it carried an undertone of firmness and reprimand such that Matthos looked a little stunned, worried that he had overstepped. You looked back to the pair, your eyes wide with disbelief. “And should Y/N ever find herself unwilling to marry, the Red Keep will always welcome her. She is like family to me, after all.” Your father fell silent, and you locked eyes with Viserys, looking lost, yet appreciative all the same. Viserys gave you a reassuring smile, and you could see the sincerity behind his intent. Your eyes prickled with touched tears, but the moment was interrupted when you heard shouts across the campground, startling your party. You turned around, only to behold the sight of Rhaenyra, stained head to toe with dried blood, a commanding aura in her swagger as her sworn shield, Ser Criston, trailed behind her, along with two servants carrying a dead boar. You lock eyes with her momentarily, and she gives a small nod of acknowledgement to you, although her eyes turned cold when they looked upon her father. You heard Viserys sigh, and you saw how Viserys looked both annoyed and relieved for Rhaenyra’s safety, while your father just looked bewildered, perhaps even a little scared. Despite yourself, you smiled a little at the scene.

Alicent and you were chatting in her chambers, laughing in hushed tones as you rocked Aegon to sleep in your arms, when the Hand entered the room, requesting to speak with Alicent. You handed a sleepy Aegon to his nursemaid, before curtsying and exiting the room, painfully aware of the Hand’s weighty gaze upon you as you did.

Alicent knew that her father had not visited her out of a gesture of goodwill, and as she listened to his rather maddening reasoning that Alicent should attempt to make her husband see reason and name Aegon heir, she only stayed silent. There was no point in countering back anyway - the Hand always seemed to have a dozen other reasons to quell her opposition. She felt uncomfortable, for speaking of this was treason, and the babe shifted in her belly, causing her to sigh.

Otto observed his daughter, noting with mild exasperation that she wasn’t paying heed to anything he was saying. So, he decided to change the subject. “About your lady-in-waiting…” he began. Alicent’s head snapped up, “What do you wish to discuss of Y/N?” Otto let a smile play over his lips: it was quite evident his daughter cared for the Tyrell lady, and from his further observations over the past three years, treated her akin to a maternal figure. Which might make it easier for her to accept what he proposed next. “I overheard a rather…interesting conversation she had, with Lord Matthos today.” Alicent showed no visible reaction, but she stared at her father, feeling an all-too-familiar feeling of dread settle in her gut. “I think half the campground overheard their argument. What of it?”

Otto hummed softly, “It seems her father is worrying about her marriage. Which is a reasonable worry - she is on the cusp of her twenty fifth nameday, is she not?” Alicent nodded slowly, eyeing her father with caution. She knew him all too well, how he was tapping his fingers on the armrests of his chair - he was scheming. She recalled how upset you were when you spoke with your father, citing your dreams to enjoy your youth and be freed of the constraints of marriage. In later years, she had come to both see you as a cherished companion and a parental figure of sorts, and she cared for you, deeply so. You were her only source of comfort in the Red Keep, one who did not expect or demand anything of her, someone she felt she could truly be open with. She glanced fearfully at her father.

She had to put an end to this. She must save you from suffering the same fate she did.

“Father…you are not planning on taking a new wife, are you?” Alicent fidgeted with her fingers nervously, her eyes fixed on Otto. He was quiet for a long while, and in response to her question, he only stood up and went over to his daughter, placing a hand on her swollen belly. His cryptic answer disturbed Alicent. “You worry too much over matters that do not need worrying about, daughter. Your concern now, should be Aegon. Raise him well, and raise him strong. He shall be an important man one day.”

Come the morrow, the Godswood was completely devoid of any life. Which proved to be a boon to you, who was seeking some reprieve from the busy atmosphere of the Red Keep and the somewhat maddening task of having to feed Aegon - due to his tendency of smooshing the food in the face of whomever had the misfortune of feeding him, most commonly you.

You sat on the stone bench, staring despondently at the Godswood tree. While you were never particularly religious, either to the Seven or to the Old Gods, the happenings of the hunt have driven you to pray with increasing fervency these days. What you prayed for, you did not know. Was it for the hope that your father’s heart might soften and he might be persuaded to leave you be for the rest of your life? You scoffed to yourself, knowing how improbable it was. Fiddling with the pendant - Aemma’s pendant, you sighed, tilting your head downwards to the ground.

You were startled when you heard movement next to you, of another soul taking a seat next to you on the bench, her posture ramrod straight, and her expression blank. Rhaenyra’s linen sleeves fluttered slightly in the breeze.

“I suppose neither of us are in the best of spirits,” Rhaenyra’s voice was stilted, like she was reluctant to break the silence first. You lifted your head upright, looking at her with a tentative smile, “No, I suppose we aren’t.” An awkward silence highlighted the chasm between the two of you. You wondered, had this truly been the girl of fourteen who confided in you about everything? Now, it seems there is a stark contrast to the Rhaenyra you once knew to the Rhaenyra before you. Though of course, you were to be blamed for that.

“My father has just ordered me to embark on a tour of the realm. A marriage tour.” Rhaenyra’s bitter tone roused you from your thoughts. “I do not know why I’m telling you this. Perhaps it’s because you are the only person in the Keep who might have the slightest sympathy for what I’m going through.” Rhaenyra’s voice lowered to a slightly malicious pitch, but there was no disguising the hurt behind her voice. “Or maybe it would be false sympathy. But it is better than none.”

You winced, wanting to reach out and take Rhaenyra’s hand, the way you knew she loved. Physical touch was Rhaenyra’s favourite way of receiving and expressing affection. A wane smile pulled at your lips as you heard her words, “You might be cynical, but I have more sympathies to your plight than you might think, Princess.” Rhaenyra was surprised by the resignation in your tone. She recalled the scene she had seen when she returned to the royal encampment at the hunt that day. “...does it have something to do with your father?”

You let out a sad laugh, “Indeed. I have been forced into a situation much more precarious than yours, I would say. My father has given me an ultimatum: I must wed by the end of this year, or I shall be effectively disinherited and disowned as a member of House Tyrell.” Rhaenyra’s eyes widened, her stance immediately shifting to one of sympathy and guilt. “Does your father jest?” “I’m afraid not,” you remark with a despaired, cynical laugh, “Father’s patience has worn thin when it comes to me, I’m afraid. I should’ve known it foolish to think that I could escape from the ramifications of duty to my House.”

You were a little mortified to find your eyes prickling with tears. In truth, you were frightened to the bone. Two paths were set in stone before you now, and neither were pleasant. Rhaenyra hesitated for a while, before reaching out to take your hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. You were startled by her sudden gesture, as the flood of familiarity rushed through your veins. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “This is a horrible situation to find yourself in.” She looked hesitant, “I know you’ve always been of your own mind, Y/N. I just want you to know…that you are not alone. Should the worst come…I’m sure that my father will not turn you away in your hour of need.” Her lips turned upwards wistfully, “I will not too. The both of us are stuck in similar predicaments, are we not? Daughters forced to marry off at our father’s behest. We must stick together.”

“...thank you,” you said quietly, touched, “I do not deserve your kindness, after all I have hidden from you.” Rhaenyra’s smile turns somewhat bitter, “What is done cannot be undone. What matters now is the future.”

The cool metal of Aemma’s pendant dug into the flesh of your palm, as an idea came to you. “I have something for you,” Rhaenyra’s eyebrows shot up and her eyes grew misty as you presented the ruby falcon pendant to her. “I think this belongs to you. I’ve been holding onto it for the past few years, but I think it’s time you have it back.” Rhaenyra takes the pendant, clasping it to her chest as she looked mournfully down at it. “I thought it was naught but ashes now.” You bit your lip, seeing how relieved yet pained Rhaenyra looked made you regret not giving it to her sooner. You had clung onto it for selfish reasons over the past few years, unwilling to let go of Aemma. But now, you felt it was time to let go of the past, and brave on into the future. “I hope that having this piece of Aemma would make you feel more comforted on your marriage tour.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes were misty, as she clasped the pendant like it was worth all the spice and gold from the shores of Essos. “Y/N.” Rhaenyra said quietly. “Hmm?” “Do you think…that Mother would’ve been proud of the person I am today?” Rhaenyra swallowed, looking downcast. “...I fear that, ever since I was named heir, since…Aegon was born, Father’s disappointment in me has been growing by the day.” “And why would you think that?” you asked, concerned. Rhaenyra took a shaky inhale, “I know that Father did not name me heir out of choice. It was a critical time, after Daemon had left, and the Realm would be plunged into unease upon the disinheritance of my uncle from the line of succession.” She bit her lip. “Father even told me as much. He said he had wavered at the notion of making me heir.” Your eyes flickered with shock and a little bit of righteous anger. “He said that?” Rhaenyra nodded miserably, and you patted her sympathetically on the shoulder. “He told me he would never waver again, but it is a little hard to put my faith in that, with….with Aegon’s shadow looming over me.” Rhaenyra sighed, tilting her head upwards. ”I just…I wish I could do something to be better. To prove to Father that I’m not just the right choice to the throne because he named me heir when he had no choice. I want to show him that I possess the qualities to rule the throne. The marriage tour would be a start, but I just detest the idea of having to bind myself to some lord to prove my worthiness to the throne.”

“I understand how you feel,” you commiserated, and she rested her head on your shoulder. “The expectations of a woman’s duty often cast a shadow over our lives.” Rhaenyra closed her eyes, feeling at ease with you, even if it were just for a brief moment. “Mother was fond of saying that marriage is a woman’s duty, and childbed is our battlefield. Especially as royal women,” Rhaenyra’s voice was thick with emotion. “I understand I must do this, for the good of the realm, but…why is it so terrifying? To have my worth determined on my husband and the number of children I can bear in service to him and the realm.” The setting sun glistened off a tear slowly making its way down Rhaenyra’s cheek. “Y/N, do you think my mother would be proud, watching me doubt her teachings?”

You reached out to wipe her tear away, your other hand’s thumb gently stroking her hand that you still held. “You are her daughter, Rhaenyra. I have no doubt that you could be the most dastardly miscreant, and she would be proud of you nonetheless.” That got a bleak smile from Rhaenyra, “Truly?” You nodded your confirmation, smiling fondly down at her. “Truly. Though luckily, your moral character is rather upright.” Rhaenyra laughed, and you smiled, happy to have made her laugh. “Thank you, Y/N. Truly. You have no idea how much that means to me.” Rhaenyra whispered to you.

The two women stayed like this in the Godswood for a while, each swarmed by their own thoughts. So different, yet so similar in their impending doom, and duty.

Taglist: @drwho-ess @graniairish @urmomsgirlfriend1 @thelittleswanao3 @animelover18 @llovinjoonie @gracielikegrapes @salembridger @itszzmoon @kmmg98 @travelingmypassion @zae5 @norestfortheshelbywicked @soleilgrec @anehkael @midnightprincess18 @lilith--666

Daemon General Taglist: @aiyaiy @kmmg98 @norestfortheshelbywicked @hb8301

those who are bolded are those who couldn’t be tagged! let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist in the comments or through this form!

A/N: All I gotta say is: ruh roh, trouble is brewing. If you have made it this far, thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated. I aim to release chapter 8 by next Wednesday, hopefully something unprecedented doesn't happen before then though.

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lunarmoonanons · 1 year

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The Dragon’s Rose

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕

YN asks her husband for a favor. One he wouldn’t like.

Sequel to Little Rose

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕

Masterlist

YN bit her thumb as she stood outside her husband’s room. Asking Maegor for anything was always a gamble. Even though she had given him several boys and girls, the leash kept on her neck was always short. He’d always tug too hard when it came to her asking for freedoms, occasionally he would grant her requests but they always came with a service she’d have to give him. Once she asked for a ride around Kingslanding either by dragon or carriage, in exchange she had to give him a 5th son before she was allowed her wish.

This was to be her biggest request yet, and she steadied herself as best she could. She didn’t know what she'd have to pay to get her wish, but she knew she’d pay it just for a chance. With a quick breath in and out, YN pushed her way inside ready to face her husband. Maegor was sitting by the fire, one of their sons was on his lap as the two read a book about the Valyrian empire.

“Mama!” Rhaegar exclaimed and hopped off his father’s lap. YN smiled tightly, kneeling down and hugging her small boy. “Father and I were reading about the Valyrians. Can you read with us?”

“Not tonight my love. Go play with your brothers, mama needs to talk to father.” YN said, patting the boy on his back and sending him away. YN felt her composure shake a bit as she saw her husband stand in front of her.

“What do you need to speak about, my darling rose?” Maegor asked, his purple eyes glancing over her body with lust. His appetite never seemed to be satiated.

“I.. I wanted to ask you of something.” YN slightly stuttered out, fingers fiddling with each other.

“My darling wife wants a favor.” Maegor sighed and played with a strand of her hair.

“Yes. I…” YN clenched her fist tightly. “I want to visit my family.”

That made his hand stop his twirling on her strand of hair. YN swallowed and dared to flicker her gaze up to his face. He was cold and stared far ahead. He looked angry, but he always looked angry, though he held his soft gaze for her. Now there was no soft gaze.

“Maegor-”

“No.” He cut her off quickly.

“Please. I miss my mother, I miss my father. I won’t run away, I just want to see them for a brief while.” YN tried to beg. She would say anything for her chance to talk about this.

“I said no.” Maegor stepped away and walked toward the fireplace before he suddenly turned back to look at her. “Do I not treat you well? Am I that terribly cruel that you would abandon our children as well?”

“NO! No I just want to-”

“Cause I can be cruel. I can be even crueler than I am now.” He then stomped to her and held her soft face in his hands. “I can burn all of highgarden to smoldering ash if I wanted.”

“Maegor stop!” Yn tried to push away but he held her tight in his arms. “I just miss my family. I don’t want to leave our children, I just wanted to see my family.”

“If it bothers you that much, then I can have them relocated to Kingslanding.” That made YN freeze, while she loved and missed her family, she’d never subject them to the terror of Kingslanding under Maegor's rule.

“No. No please just leave them alone.” YN begged and placed her hand on his cheek in an effort to placate him.

“Those are your choices. You either leave it alone or I can move house Tyrell to the capital.” Maegor stated and looked deep in her eyes that watered at the sight of him,

“I’ll leave it alone. I promise.” YN whispered and let her hand fall.

Maegor smiled and leaned forth to plant a kiss on her soft lips. “Good. My precious wife, you are the only one I would burn the world for. And I will burn the world just for you. Remember that.”

YN nodded and pulled away from her terrifying husband, she knew this was a big favor to ask and for the next few weeks she’d have to play the doting wife to appease his wrath. YN left her husband and quickly made her way to her children’s rooms. Her family may have been in highgarden but her children were here. Maegor would ensure that she’d remember that.

#yandere maegor #Maegor the Cruel #Maegor Targaryen #maegor x reader #yandere targaryen #yandere targaryens #house targaryen #tyrell reader #asoiaf x reader #house of the dragon

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 10 months

Text

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 9: Bride

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Welcome to the penultimate chapter of the rework! This is a modified OG Chapter 6, with a couple mini flashbacks inserted. Sorry about the wait; turns out my HV was completely rubbish the first go around, so I’ve been pulling my hair out trying to translate properly. Thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for giving her stamp of approval!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, violence, age gap.

Daemon sees little of you in the weeks before the wedding.

Viserys, in his infinite wisdom, had elected to employ the services of the Rogue Prince in all matter of small duties and odd tasks, from assisting Strong in training with the City Watch to flying to the Reach and taking tea with the leeches of Highgarden. It is his punishment for daring to claim his precious child, his little beauty, ‘the People’s Princess’ or so you are called.

One of the worst experiences of his life thus far has to be meeting with Lord Tyrell in a lurid solar in the man’s equally-as-tasteless Keep, having to pretend as though he’s apologetic for beating his head in for daring to tarnish your name. Upon learning of the Crown’s intentions to expand trade with the region—a thinly-veiled endeavour to compensate for the now-crooked jaw and the scarring bisecting his right cheek—the lord had been all merriment.

Sycophantic fuck, Daemon had thought to himself at seeing Lord Denys’s disposition change, the disfigured flesh stretching repellently as he smiled affably at him. Trust House Tyrell to prioritise money over pride.

It was likely short-sighted of him to believe that the Hightower problem would go away once his brother had announced your marriage before the court. Since the day of the pronouncement, the Queen had been making sly jabs on the suitability of the match, from overly-polite enquiries as to the state of the residuals he had claimed from Runestone—”I do hope Lord Gerold was accommodating to your requests to receive the remaining funds from your late lady wife’s estate?”—to offhand remarks about the plight of childlessness that had plagued him in his previous union. Not that a child could ever grow in the septic chasm that was his bronze bitch’s womb, though he had admittedly never bothered to explore its rocky depths.

He had weathered the slights well enough, though he couldn’t help but to drop a few barbs about the son she was no doubt representing. Aegon is a perverted little twat if ever he had seen one—groping maids, fondling kitchen staff, and there are even rumours of him forcing himself on some unsuspecting common girl, though the tales vary widely and are exceedingly difficult to pin down.

I may be violent and brash, he thinks, but at least the women I bed come to me willingly.

Unfortunately, it seems as though the Queen has been whispering in Viserys’s ear when he is called to the Small Council chambers once more, this time with the full retinue present. He is surprised to see you in attendance, standing meekly at the foot of the table with eyes darting between the forms of your attending sister and the table.

It looks like an inquisition.

“Niece.” He strides forward and lays a kiss upon your brow in greeting, glaring out at his brother over the top of your head. You whisper a greeting in return, the sound fearful and taciturn in a way that he had not heard since the commencement of your reignited acquaintance. He addresses the wider audience sternly, who have shifted in discomfort at the liberties he has taken with you. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Daemon.” Viserys clears his throat uneasily. The Hightower bitch is thin-lipped beside him, and he is intrigued to note the thunderous expression on Rhaenyra’s face. Whatever this is, it isn’t good. “There have been… concerns… raised about your ability to—see through this marriage with my daughter.”

Now he knows the Hightower woman is involved.

“Oh, really?” Daemon asks quietly, dangerously. He can see Lyonel Strong swallow, resolutely avoiding staring at him or his little niece. “And by that I am taken to assume you mean my ability to bed her? Rest assured, brother—I’ll have no trouble at all on that account. Care for a demonstration?”

The occupants of the room shift guiltily as they exchange glances, and Daemon feels as though he is the butt of some unheard-of jest. He wonders what in the Seven hells is going on. Looking back at you, he sees you are equally as confused.

“It has been recommended to me by the Grand Maester that—so as to address this issue—we proceed with a… public… consummation,” Viserys says. Daemon finds it difficult to ascertain the tone. Guilt? Self-satisfaction? Whatever it is, it’s clearly warring in his brother’s mind, for the spasming of his features is bizarre to look upon. “The Small Council will bear witness to the evening’s… activities. Along with myself, the Queen and the heir.”

He cannot fucking believe his ears. For a moment, he is concerned he is having some kind of fit, or perhaps the madness of his bloodline has finally caught up with him. But the prolonged solemnity of the seated advisors, the stone-cold face of Rhaenyra and the guilty countenance of the Queen prove that his hearing is very much functional. His blood runs cold, then hot as he processes the words.

His impertinent comment seems suddenly ironic. It seems I’ll be demonstrating after all.

“A public consummation.” He shapes the words slowly, jaw clenched. Lord Tyland shifts nervously in his chair as he takes in what must be a truly deranged expression on his face. “Enlighten me”—his hand falls to the pommel of Dark Sister in feigned relaxation—“what precisely does that mean?”

This time, the old codger himself pipes up. Mellos, the balding fuck, has always disapproved of him. With a stern, unforgiving visage and a constantly disparaging nature, he is one among many, many maesters that Daemon can claim a healthy disrespect for. After the bungle the man had made of Baelon’s birth—dead child, dead mother, and naught to say for his learned experience save for ruined sheets and the encroaching decay of mortality—it was even more difficult to trust the man.

“You will wed the Princess,” he says superciliously. Daemon chafes at the obvious implication that he is somehow unintelligent for asking what the fuck he is thinking. “You will attend the festivities, and you will perform the bedding ceremony; after which, the Small Council will adjourn into the marital chamber behind a screen, view the consummation, and confirm it took place through examination of the linen.”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Daemon actively battles the urge to unsheathe his sword and run Mellos through.

He cannot believe the insanity of what has been asked of you. He cares markedly less for his own welfare—after a three-year war in the Stepstones, one learned not to be too choosy about where and in front of whom to bed a woman, taking any opportunity to achieve a quick release before battle called once more. It is an outrage. It is an insult.

He ought to have expected it. His brother really had capitulated too easily. Now he understands why.

“When did I offer you a choice?” Viserys asks, brow raised. He almost looks as though he is prepared to laugh, but perhaps he too is feeling the flush of Targaryen madness in him at the discussion being forced to take place. “You never lay with Lady Rhea. I’ll not give my daughter to you so you can squander two Targaryen lines.”

When Rhea had been alive, he’d never once tried to stick his cock in her. Too plain, features too drab and form too shapeless—and that is physicality alone. She’d been much worse in character, sneering and conceited, though she had little cause. Runestone was no Dragonstone, nor is it comparable to the capital. He had honestly been concerned the razor-teeth surely lining her cunt would bite his appendage clean off. A thoroughly unpleasant shrew, an utter waste of woman—the most enjoyment he ever received from her was the sight of her brain spilling out of her cracked skull as she lay dying in the fields of the Vale, twitching and gurgling.

“So this is your brilliant solution? Having everyone watch? Inspecting her afterward, as though she’s some brothel whore? What—do you want to traumatise the girl?”

He cannot look at you, cannot bear to see the fear on your face, though he enjoys the discomfited looks shared amongst the Small Council at the crassness of his words, the resigned indignation of the Hightower woman and the barely-veiled fury of his eldest niece. Good. The attending Kingsguard—Ser Willis Fell and Ser Steffon Darklyn—straighten watchfully, hands falling to rest on their pommels to match his own disposition.

Lyonel Strong straightens in his seat, seeming eager to resolve the issue through artless placation. “Prince Daemon—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Lord Hand,” Daemon snaps. He doesn’t give a fuck about what prosaicisms Lord Strong could possibly offer.

“It is a revival of Targaryen tradition.” Mellos clears his throat. “One that saw the reigning King’s…er, virility… proven to all those who denied it. This is the only—”

“Maegor?” His vexation turns to fury. “You want to reinstate a practice begun by Maegor?”

Long has his reputation been compared to that of his grandfather’s despotic uncle. It is terribly ironic that the custom Maegor had instituted on the eve of his wedding to his Black Brides would be reintroduced for his own ceremony.

He may have needed to prove his cock worked, Daemon thinks irately, but I certainly don’t.

This is not what he voices aloud. “I already have the blade”—his grip tightens on Dark Sister—“so I suppose you may as well name me ‘Daemon the Cruel’ and be done with it.”

Lyman Beesbury flinches; Viserys sighs. It is then that you step forward, timidly reaching out and touching his arm.

“Kepus,” you whisper. When he hushes you, you continue louder, more forcefully, carefully measuring your words in the tongue of your ancestors. “Aōle jikāks arlī daor. Līr jaelzi gaomās.” Don’t get yourself sent away again. Just do what they want.

He is furious at the fact that you are so used to having the wills of others exerted over you that you make no protest of this barbaric demand. Instead, you urge him to concede. He cannot help but to direct his irritation towards you.

When he angrily asks you if you’d actually like to be fucked with the entire Council watching, your rejoinder is swift but even. I am not the one you are angry at, you say, and it is true. Of all the people in this fucking room, it is you who deserves his rage the least. A wave of guilt washes over him when he considers the rudeness of his words.

He has to leave. If he doesn’t, he’ll say something downright insulting or potentially threatening, and he cannot afford to be exiled again. Not with the wedding looming so close—not when everything he has worked for is within close reach.

“Fine.” He huffs as he turns to face the Council once more. “This is not over. And fuck you very much for this little suggestion,” he says, pointing at Mellos. “I’d watch myself if I were you.”

He can hear the sounds of Viserys calling him back, of Mellos sputtering some indignant horseshit. He knocks lightly into Cole’s shoulder as he exits the room, the heavy door slamming loudly shut as he stalks off.

Daemon’s footsteps lead him to the yard, where the Strong boy’s second-in-command— a truly beastly figure by the name of Luthor Largent—is running training exercises with the City Watch.

He slumps against the wall, arms folded, watching with dark eyes and stormy thoughts as the man runs a truly merciless regime, shouting abuse at the stragglers who fall behind. Easily approaching seven feet in height, the captain is a fearsome grizzled warrior, a soldier who strikes fear into the hearts of the scum of King’s Landing. He had employed the man during his own tenure, selecting him from over a dozen contenders from the crownlands. It is a personal source of pride to see him prosper within the brotherhood.

The City Watch has flourished in his time away. He is irritated by the fact that he is forced to admit this—that the Strong lad has been a worthy enough successor to his former post as Commander.

It is some time later that he is approached by the man himself, Harwin Breakbones in his practical burnished armour and gold cloak. The man sits a small distance away from him and feigns careful examination of his subordinates, though it is clear his purpose has more to do with him than his post.

“Prince Daemon.” His growling gravel sets Daemon’s teeth on edge. Just because he’s accepted the man’s place in Rhaenyra’s life doesn’t mean he has to like his presence.

He sighs. “Ser Harwin.” He smirks when Largent tosses one of the new recruits clean over his back, sending the soldier sprawling and groaning in the dirt. He continues, still affecting ignorance and watching the display before him. No use in drawing this out. “What can I do for you?”

“I bring a message from the Lord Hand.”

Daemon’s eyes briefly flick to his companion before returning to the training. There are eyes all over the Red Keep, and it wouldn’t do to give any potential enemies ammunition.

“I had thought the Lord Hand was rather displeased with you at present—seems I was mistaken.” He sneers as he gives voice to the rumours that Lord Lyonel had rather comprehensively chastised his son for the constant speculation regarding the paternity of Rhaenyra’s children.

Secret conversations do not stay secret for long in King’s Landing.

Strong grunts, a displeased concession. “If you would prefer I keep his words to myself, I’ll depart post-haste, my Prince.”

The cheek of him. It startles a laugh from Daemon, and he decides that perhaps it is worth listening to the lad after all.

“Very good.” He glances to Strong. “Well, then. Give me this message.”

“The white raven is in the pocket of the watchtower,” Strong says, and Daemon’s nose wrinkles as he ponders the words.

White raven, white raven… white ravens, Isle of Ravens, the Citadel—Maester. Watchtower—clearly ‘Hightower’.

The maester is in the pocket of Hightower.

It is clear that this has something to do with the old fuck’s grand idea to exact humiliation upon him and his little niece. Daemon’s jaw works as he contemplates the revelation. There’s little possibility that the Queen would govern the loyalty of the Grand Maester so coldly. Not only is she not nearly good enough at pretending perturbation as she had done in the Small Council, but he also doubts she would be willing to inflict such distress upon you. Nothing he has seen of your acquaintance would lead him to this conclusion.

But old Otto… an ambitious cunt, a man whose grandson holds a very legitimate claim to the Seven Kingdoms, a claim that is superseded only by the King’s declaration that his daughter will succeed him as heir. Such a man is capable of this. He has little doubt that the slimy fuck has been plotting behind the scenes ever since his removal from office. And, if the King’s daughter should only produce bastards—gossip that could very easily be proven correct in the right circumstances—precedent suggests that the next in line is… you. The People’s Princess, you are loved and respected by many, and you are far less personally objectionable than Aegon.

You are also to be his wife.

He is clearly not alone in realising how advantageous your impending match would be in shoring up the succession and preventing the Hightowers from acceding to the Iron Throne. It suddenly makes a twisted sort of sense. Popular opinion had long held that Daemon had cooled toward Rhea due to how zealously he was forced to her bed on the wedding night. To devise a public spectacle such as this in the hopes that it would foster resentment between you and he, prevent the solidification of the union before it can flourish…

It is absurd. It is underhanded. It is clever. A valiant attempt at engendering disharmony in conceivably the most significant blow to his ambition since the disgraced man had slunk from court, badge of the Hand firmly pinned to the lapel of another.

“Thank you, Ser Harwin,” he says. “I will remember your loyalty, and your father’s, when the time comes.”

The man nods. A brief look passes between them. It seems Breakbones and the Lord Hand have value after all. Perhaps he had been unwise to dismiss them so quickly.

He pushes himself off the wall and treads leisurely back into the Keep in search of you, making careful effort not to appear hasty or distempered lest prying eyes should report this to Oldtown.

Otto really does spend too much time thinking about my cock, Daemon thinks wryly.

It is not the first protestation the man has had about his carnal exploits. Still, the dilemma is evident. Either he continues to protest the atrocity being demanded of you, to kick up a fuss and demand the respect you are both owed as Prince and Princess of the Realm, or he swallows his dignity and his wrath and he removes the lord’s power over the circumstances by… letting it happen.

Obviously, he ought to proceed with the latter. This is the surest way to foil Hightower’s plot, at least for the time being. But the thought of how frightening you would find it, his sweet little untried niece, to have your despoilment on exhibit for the Council’s sick satisfaction is a preoccupation that he must speak with you on before he makes any decision.

He finds you in Laena Velaryon’s apartments of all places, the series of rooms that she shares with her husband and children. The lady opens the door herself when he knocks, white hair untamed and loose, framing her head with dense coils that set off appealingly against her dark skin.

She is rather fetching—he’d always thought so. Daemon had even gone so far as to ask for her hand some years ago. In light of his upcoming nuptials, he cannot say he is too aggrieved that Rhaenys and Corlys had rebuffed him then, for you are an infinitely superior match. The woman is cradling the swell of her belly, a grimace of effort upon her face. He supposes the weight of the growing babe is beginning to exact its toll on her. Behind her, he can hear the sounds of bickering.

“My Prince,” Laena breathes, rubbing her distended middle with a small frown. “What might I assist you with?”

“Lady Strong,” he greets. After asking if you are present in her chambers, he is gratified when she nods, obligingly stepping back and widening the entrance so that he may step through.

You are standing over the glowering forms of the seated Jacaerys and Lucerys, Laenor beside you with arms crossed and a stern bearing. Across from Rhaenyra’s sons sit the identical forms of two young girls—he can only assume these are Ser Breakbones’s daughters, the twins Baela and Rhaena—one of whom is failing to conceal the cast of despondency from showing, the other with her arm thrown around her sister in comfort.

“It was unnecessarily cruel,” you are saying, a look of such disappointment on your face that even he feels the urge to quail. “You did not think about how awful it must feel for Aemond to be without a dragon, and nor did you consider how your actions might have made Rhaena feel.”

Ah, yes, he thinks, recalling a snippet of memory. The Strong girls had been gifted dragon eggs at Rhaenyra’s request—though one had yet to hatch.

“It was Aegon’s idea,” Jace says, his countenance more contrite than his words suggest. Tears have welled in Luke’s eyes.

Laenor scoffs. “And if Aegon had the idea to freefall from dragonback—would you do that, too? Use your sense, boy.”

He kneels down to crouch before his sons in all but blood, casting his hand through the boys’ dark hair comfortingly as the younger begins to cry. “I am unimpressed with your behaviour, but I understand what it is to be led into making a mistake. You will apologise to Aemond, and I will be discussing with your mother how you will be making reparations for this deed.”

Jace nods seriously, and Luke sniffles.

“You should also apologise to Rhaena, boys,” you add, eyes flicking guardedly to Daemon as you register his presence. You pat their shoulders as they sidle past you to hug Laena’s children, smiling faintly at the endearing sight the foursome make.

Before making your way to him, you whisper something unknown to Laenor; the man’s gaze snaps to Daemon. He nods once in acknowledgement, though that same tightening around the eyes remains, a sign that he—like so many others—is yet to truly accept Daemon’s claim of you.

Laenor had been vexed by the news of your impending union, sidling up beside him for but a moment to whisper a mild-mannered threat while the court gathered themselves. “I’d threaten you,” he’d said, slapping his back a little too hard, “but I think whatever Rhaenyra is likely to have said to you will have a far more frightening consequence. Just know I’ll be looking out for her—and watching you.”

He is glad you have the love of your family, a feat not easily won in the divided House of the Dragon. He supposes Laenor’s pledge will be tested soon—as Rhaenyra’s Prince Consort, he’s likely to be one of several to watch the wedding night’s proceedings.

Daemon follows you out of the room, tipping his head briefly in farewell to Lady Strong as he departs. He turns to you. You are staring up at him watchfully, hands clasped together, a vision of piety in your high-collared gown.

“Are you well, Uncle?” you ask him, gentle and guileless.

His mouth quirks at the query. It is sweet and charming and utterly like yourself to be concerned for his welfare in light of the command levied by the King upon you both.

“I’m fine, sweetling.” He reaches for your small hand to draw it under and around his arm, securing your hold on his frame before initiating a slow walk to your younger sister’s apartments.

He has become familiar with your weekly visiting schedule over the weeks—Rhaenyra, Laena, Helaena, Viserys and Alicent, Ser Lysan—a repeated cycle of teas and books and chatter. It is surely your unsettling Hightower sister you are proceeding to next, and you make no protest at the direction his steps are leading you in.

He allows his gaze to settle on you once more. “I’m not concerned for myself. But I am concerned for you. How are you feeling?”

“Qrīdrolaks iksan.” I am confused, you say, switching to your native tongue as you pass a busy intersection of the Keep and glancing nervously at the ogling of the courtiers. It has been three sennights since the announcement, two days until your wedding, and still the news preoccupies the residents of King’s Landing like no other. “Mīvindiks. Yn ñuhe gaomilaksir gaominna.” Frustrated. But I will perform my duty.

“Lo zūgā, kepa aōha qubroti jās ivestrinna.” He steers you up the staircase, looking down at you in concern. If you’re afraid, I will tell your father to fuck off.

You giggle, squeezing his arm in amused admonition. The gravity returns to your countenance as the laughter dies off.

“Daor.” You sigh. “Lo bonir gaomā, ponte ērinis. Kesir tatinna, kepus.” No—if you do that, they win. I will see this done, Uncle.

His brave, brave girl. Though the remark is decisive and firm, the way in which your lower lip quivers as the words escape belies the trepidation you are surely feeling.

You straighten, swallowing and looking straight ahead as you approach the so-called Hightower wing of the Keep that is named for its occupying residents. “Zaldrīzesse biādroti zūgusy daor.” Dragons do not fear sheep.

An admirable sentiment. But he must make certain before he allows this to happen.

“Pōnto syt gaomagon bēvilō daor—lo epō, qogrondi ossēninna.” You don’t have to perform for them—I will slaughter the bunch if you ask.

He almost hopes you will take him up on it.

You dig your heels in lightly when you reach an entrance, the door to the chambers left ajar. Inside, he can see a sliver of pale hair and the inane mutterings of the witchling, light and nonsensical. You are one of few individuals that can draw the girl to the realm outside her mind.

You shake your head at him, declining his offer. He wonders if you believe him to be jesting. He is not.

“Ynot mīsilā,” you murmur, and it makes his chest tighten. You will protect me.

He can count on a single hand the number of times in his life he had been the recipient of such belief. It is so simple a statement, and yet so profound. Watchful, mistrusting girl that you are, he is pleased to receive such an avowal of faith in him. He hopes that he will deserve it.

You tiptoe to lay a sweetheart kiss upon his cheek, blushing scarlet as you dart into the room and close the door, a bold ingenue teasing at her suitor. He chuckles at your shy seduction as he ventures off to his room to ponder the plot that has been unveiled.

If Viserys wishes to watch the bedding—if Otto wants to wage war on his marriage—then let him, he thinks to himself ruthlessly.

Let them bear witness to the power your union will wield; let them see and be afraid.

After all—dragons do not fear sheep.

In many respects, the wedding ceremony is every bit as typical as any other ritual undertaken in the Sept. As he had predicted, there is far too much droning from Septon Eustace, far too much incense and far too many spectators. He shall have to commence talks with the High Priest to arrange for a Valyrian rite.

You are darling in a high-collared gown of white and precious metal, sworls of gold and silver latticed in conformation to the shape of your waist and bust, decorating the sleeves and ends. Rubies and other priceless jewels glitter among the openwork, fashioning a picture of might and wealth. He’s gratified to see the Valyrian steel necklace he gifted you around your throat, and it serves almost as a divide separating your bare skin from the fabric.

You’d favoured these gauzy sort of dresses as a girl, too.

“Mama! Mama, do you like it?” you ask, handfuls of skirt clutched in plump fists as you sway from side to side, beaming at your reflection.

“Beautiful, my dearest!” Aemma laughs at your happy little wiggle, hand pressed to her belly. This babe is a boy, or so she’d told Daemon, and a rather active one at that. She winces, presumably from yet another movement of the child tumbling about in her womb. “Is it what you wanted?”

You nod enthusiastically. “I love it!” Your eyes meet his through the mirror. “Kepus! Do you—do you like it too?”

Truthfully, you look a little too similar to those iced cakes you enjoy, puffed and pastel and thoroughly impractical. But Aemma is correct; you are beautiful. With your silver hair curling strikingly against its backdrop of pale sky and your cheeks rounded and flush with your joy, how can you be anything but?

“Lovely,” he says from his place by the door, unfolding his arms and standing tall. “Ready for your celebration?”

At the reminder, you gasp like a common street performer, revolving on spun heel to dart to the exit. You are getting quicker by the day, and so he is only just able to catch you around the arm as you bolt through the small opening and into the hall. You squeal as he swings you up and onto his hip, tiny arms winding in a near chokehold around his neck.

“Yes! Yes!” You are exultant, the high sound of your voice piercing in his ears. Your legs kick out at his side for good measure. “Happy name day to me!”

Daemon swallows against the dryness in his mouth. She looks nothing like a cake now.

He is struck by the urge to lay you across the altar and give the Seven Kingdoms something to really talk about. His bashful princess, so precious, so demure, so clearly eager to be corrupted—and he is all too willing to do the spoiling.

“I am yours and you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days.” Your voices mingle in the chamber, a pleasing amalgamation of high and low.

The Septon finally—finally—gives him leave to kiss his bride, and he savours the gentle touch of your lips against his, no more than a ghostly graze of skin against skin. You are soft and sweet in his hold, and it is with exultation that he leads you down the aisle as his lady wife.

Your ladies rush forward to help gather your skirts as you stop him uncertainly at the top of the stairs. You clutch his proffered hand with a grateful smile, leaning on his support as you journey down to the courtyard from where you will make your way across to the Great Hall.

The seating arrangement had caused some headache during planning, he knows. That is the issue with Targaryen intermarriage—when husband and wife share the same family, whom do they assign as representatives for each? In the end, it had been decided that Viserys would sit next to you, with Alicent and the Lord Hand rounding out the left side of the royal table. On the other side, Rhaenyra was to be installed beside Daemon, Laenor completing the row at the end. He is thankful for the arrangement, having no desire to sit beside his brother. The King is still surly and aggrieved by the entire thing, but had miraculously—and for a reason unknown to him—conceded to your preference and acquiesced to the match.

At the first feast following the ceremony, it is custom for the wedded pair to remain seated as the guests dance. This forces Daemon to make conversation with an occupied Rhaenyra—busy watching her oldest child like a hawk on one of the auxiliary tables beside Ser Harwin, a move that had set afresh new gossip—or a drunken Laenor, or dodging the gaze of Viserys.

You are quiet and withdrawn, though affecting a facade of genteel delight, and it is no wonder. With the prospect of the bedding ceremony looming—a ridiculous tradition in which the wedded pair were stripped by the crowd and carried undressed to their bed—and the further ignobility of an exposed consummation, you are likely to feel quite traumatised already.

Sitting beside him in your pretty little wedding gown, he is discomfited by the recurrence of memory once more.

A tugging at his shirt distracts him from his goal.

“What?” he barks. The sound of a sniffle draws his attention down.

You stand in your name day dress, skirts as frightfully fluffy as ever, only your expression is drawn into a scowl and your eyes are rimmed red. With a sigh, he steps away from his latest liaison—Lord Crane’s wife, or is it his daughter?—and dismisses her with a careless wave of the hand. She scurries off, lips bruised and hair ruffled and thoroughly indignant, though he cannot confess to care overmuch for her feelings.

He stoops before you. “What is it, sweetling?”

You pout, rubbing a sticky hand over your face. Your mouth is smeared with icing, he notes with some amusement. “There is too much—too much people here, kepus. I don’t like it.”

“Too many,” he corrects automatically, brushing stray strands out of your face. He frowns, grabbing you by the shoulders when you lean into him. “All those guests, hm?” he asks, attempting to distract you from the flood of tears that is no doubt on its way. “Awfully loud for my little princess, too, I wager. Want to leave?”

“Uh-huh.” Your palm trails a path of sugar-paste over his doublet and flexes in the fabric, your gaze shifting from his and slightly to the left. He takes hold of your wrist before your fingers can make their way into his hair. “I’m tired.”

Good girl. It had been a struggle for the ages to have you admit to such a thing until recently. He used to have to hold the blankets firm over you until you ceased your caterwauling, stubborn tot desperate to stay up just a little longer—but against his strength, you were no match. And now, here you are, conceding your fatigue with no prompting whatsoever. You are growing up, and the prospect fills him with a bittersweet gladness.

“Alright, then.”

He lifts you under your arms and strides down the empty halls. Your head settles into the crook of his neck, nose snuffling against his flesh, and he savours the doll-sized warmth of you in his embrace for just a little while longer.

You never did enjoy crowds. He cannot imagine you are at ease now.

When the call for the bedding springs up from within the crowd, he rises and turns to you. “Come, sweetling,” he tells you, taking your hand. “We’d best leave now.”

You are already flushing, uncertain. He can feel Laenor glaring at the back of his neck.

“Daemon!” Viserys is reddened with excitement and beaming. “can you not hear the noise? It’s time for the bedding!”

He is deep within his cups, swept along by the conviviality of the hall, the loud chatter and spirited guffaws comprising the din. He has not absorbed his brother’s stance as of yet, severe and uncompromising.

“There will be no bedding,” he says, tugging you to your feet. You follow pliantly, brows furrowed and worrying at your bottom lip.

“We agreed, brother!” The King’s face displays the slow-dawning comprehension of a man who has realised that the groom is prepared to make a scene at his own wedding feast. And he is.

He cares not who he must murder in order to convey you to your rooms untouched by other men. You are his.

“No.” He smiles through gritted teeth. “You decided. Don’t worry, brother. You’ll get your spectacle, but my niece will not endure any further debasement this night.”

He lightly fingers the knife attached to his hip, watching Viserys’s eyes flicker between the motion and his fixed expression. Meanwhile, the Hightower bitch is dabbing at the corners of her mouth with cloth, a poor pretence at ignorance. His brother forces an exhalation, no doubt resigned and irked by yet another display of defiance.

“Fine,” he says. “No bedding.”

“Good.”

You brighten imperceptibly at his words, quickly taking his arm and allowing him to walk you through the hall to the entry before your father can change his mind. The nettled grumbles begin in the chamber behind you as the King announces the news.

“Thank you,” you breathe, a relieved half-grimace painting your features.

“Of course,” he says, leading you up the grand staircase to your marital chambers.

Despite everything—despite the knowledge of Otto’s hand in your union and the expectation of what is to come, despite your obvious apprehension and the role he is forced to play in it—he cannot help his excitement.

Read on AO3:

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lycorim · 10 months

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Hey so for the weresigils au I am dying to know about the houses that don't have animal sigils. Like the Tyrells.

#weresigils

A fantastic question! Our idea for houses with plants is that they just turn into plants - for the Tyrells, I imagine Highgarden just has one very protected, exclusive access courtyard where they can go for their sigil week.

After consulting with @zorbojorks (co-creator of this AU), I whipped up a helpful figure with a couple examples of less straightforward sigils:

Basically, if the sigil is an item/plant/anything physically tangible, the transformation is very literal. There are some more tricky ones, though, like the houses whose sigil is a collage of the sigils for houses they have defeated in battle, the several houses who have the literal sun/moon in their heraldry. Or just like. Some colors. I'll level with ya, idk what to do with them.

(Some fun concepts not pictured here: Davos picked his sigil not only as a good summary of his whole schtick, but also because it would be useful for Stannis to have an extra boat sometimes. Pooles become indescribable floating blue disks (which I imagine creates some complications for the fake Arya plot). The Boltons... molt. I'm not drawing that one.)

#weresigils AU #asoiaf #my art #fanart #asks #samwell tarly #jon snow #the nights watch #house frey #house tyrell #thanks for the ask!

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wodania · 5 months

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House Tyrell Week: Queen Margaery

“She was sixteen, brown-haired and brown-eyed, slender and beautiful. The people called out her name as she passed, held up their children for her blessing, and scattered flowers under the hooves of her horse. Her mother and grandmother followed close behind, riding in a tall wheelhouse whose sides were carved into the shape of a hundred twining roses, every one gilded and shining. The smallfolk cheered them as well.” Sansa I, A Storm of Swords

@wickedlittlebxtchfromhighgarden HAPPY BIRTHDAY 🎉🎂

prompt under cut:

#margaery tyrell #house tyrell week #asoiaf #my art #extra tags:#fanart #artists on tumblr #art #digital art #a song of ice and fire #valyrianscrolls #house tyrell

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highgardenart · 5 months

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Willas & Garlan Tyrell

for day five of house tyrell week (prompts below)

#willas tyrell #garlan tyrell #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #asoif fanart #asoiaf #fan art #digital art #got #house tyrell week #house tyrell #valyrian scrolls

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written-in-flowers · 2 years

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Hello I saw you asked for requests, could you do an aemond x reader where he has been courting Reader for months. Jacaerys comes back to Kingslanding and ask Rhaenyra for her hand. Aemond is ready to loose it and steal you on Vhagar in case Viserys choose his grandson over him.

Thank you so much if you choose to write it !

One Way Out

He refused to believe this was happening. It is all some joke at his expense; it must be. There is no way his father would reconsider an alliance with your house to favor his other grandson. Plans for your marriage have been in place for weeks. His mother and you spent ages going over courses, entertainment and guests. They’d already set the dowry. His father cannot simply destroy all of that to the whims of his favorite child, Rhaenyra.

“-Your Grace,” Otto Hightower spoke up, his voice amplified in the large throne room, “Lady Y/N is already set to marry Prince Aemond. It would not be wise to go back on an agreement with Lord Tyrell simply because Jacaryes desires the girl.”

“I love her!” Jace dared to say, eyes glaring at Lord Hightower.

“You hardly know her now,” Aemond said in his usual soft voice, which still seemed to carry. “She was a child when you left King’s Landing. Y/N is a different person now.”

This was true, but in a good sense. You’d grown up living in The Reach, but once your father was put on the small council, he brought you to King’s Landing. No doubt hoping to find you a husband in the great court. He did. It was Aemond. He’d convinced the king that a union between House Targaryen and House Tyrell would benefit the dragons far more. House Tyrell supplied most of the realm’s food resources. House Targaryen would have ample supplies come winter. It’d sounded like a good agreement. So, you lived in the castle. You’d grown up alongside himself, his sister and brother, and Rhaenyra’s children, Jace and Luke. Joffery had not been born yet. The shy, quiet girl he remembered from his youth had blossomed into a social butterfly. You knew all the latest court gossip, had many friends, and grown into a lovely woman.

Aemond loved you. Things moved slowly at first, since you were both children at the time and you wouldn’t flower for a while. He was a young boy who’d been more concerned about bonding with a dragon than his betrothed. He only ever admitted this to himself, late at night when his last waking thoughts were of you. But, then he’d lost his eye. He was sure you wouldn’t want to marry him then, but he’d been wrong. You said you thought it was brave of him to stand up to the others and claim the beast Vhagar. You’d sewn him a pair of leather riding gloves, which he wore every time he rode Vhagar, until they no longer fit.

He’d anticipated his wedding day for years now. You had as well, from what you’d told him. You’d recently had your dress made, even though you refused to show it to him. Now, his father would undo all this work because Jace desired a girl he only remembers in blurry memories.

“You’ve never once have written to her,” Aemond continued. “You didn’t even notice her when we were children. Y/N was betrothed to me, and I’ll be damned if I let you have her.”

They’d already taken his eye. Now, they wanted his woman.

“Aemond,” King Viserys called out to him. His voice alone made Aemond grind his teeth, “The matter is settled-”

“-No!” he whipped his head over to his father, an old, sickly man slumped on his throne. “Y/N has been promised to me.”

“I believe,” his mother intervened, “The only person who’s opinion truly matters is Lady Y/N’s.”

Aemond turned to the other side of the hall to see you standing there, looking more radiant than ever. You wore the sapphire bracelet he’d gifted you for your last nameday. You looked at the group with tearful eyes, though you did your best to blink them back.

“Lady Y/N,” his mother addressed you, “What say you?”

You didn’t respond right away. You glanced over at Jace and his family, then back to Aemond. His heart stopped for half a second. The sudden worry you’d choose Jace out of fear came to him. No. No, you wouldn’t do that. You loved him. You’d said so yourself.

“...I...I...” you said shakily. “I choose Jacaryes.”

His heart dropped. He must’ve heard you wrong. You misunderstood the question, maybe. He turned to his mother, who appeared as shocked as everyone else. Immediately, he felt his blood boil. He didn’t hear anything else except the rage beginning to build in his body. He looked over to Rhaenyra, who suddenly noticed his cold stare. She always got whatever she wanted. Jace must’ve convinced her to let him have you. It made sense from a political standpoint. House Tyrell were very powerful in The Reach. When Rhaenyra came into her throne, Jacaryes would be king after her...making you his queen.

He stormed out of the room, taking long strides, as people continued talking throughout the hall. All those nights he spent talking with you. All the times he let you seem his softer, more vulnerable side. Every time you cried or felt fear, he’d been there to comfort you. He swore to protect you no matter what happened. There must be an explanation.

And he got it. You came to his apartments an hour or so later. He knew you’d been crying. Your reddening eyes, parted lips, and wet cheeks told him as much. He felt compelled to comfort you, but alas, he stayed in his seat.

“Aemond...Aemond, let me explain.”

“What is there to explain? You want Jacaryes.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why did you choose him?”

It became clear why when you approached him, wiping your eyes again. “My father made me. He said if I married Jace, I’d be queen one day. A Tyrell girl on the throne? It’s been a dream of his from the start. Aemond,” you knelt on the ground in front of him. “I have never wanted anyone else. I’ve loved you ever since I was a little girl. You’re the man I wish to marry. My father and his damn ambition forced me into this tough decision. Your mother is trying to convince the king to change his mind, but I don’t think she’ll be able to.”

“Because he loves Rhaenyra more.”

A hard truth he accepted long ago. Rhaenyra, his half-sister, was the only child of his grandfather’s first wife. He’d named Rhaenyra heir to the throne before he married Queen Alicent, their mother. He had twenty years to name Aegon as heir, but never did. If not him, then he never named Aemond, the second son. He was too scared to lose his precious daughter, who came running to him whenever things did not go her way. Everyone knew the truth about her sons. It was written in their dark hair and dark eyes. Two Velaryon sons that don’t have silver hair or dark skin? It made no sense. It’d be like his father to gloss over it. He even cared more about the “lies” being spread about their legitimacy when Aemond lost his eye. He’d lost a part of himself, and his father punished no one.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” you pleaded with him. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me. I had no choice. My father said it was for the honor and duty of my house to do it, and I...I gave into him because he’s my father, and I love my family. You must understand that, right? You know what it’s like.

He leaned forward, taking both your hands in his. The idea came to him at once, “Then choose. Choose to marry me, and they cannot say anything about it.”

“Wh-what?”

“Come with me to the sept. We will get married with or without them.” He cupped your cheek and said, “I love you, Y/N. Be mine, and nobody can tear us apart ever again.”

“We can’t just-”

“-Yes, we can.”

“They’ll find us. They’ll go to the Septon and the Maesters and have it annulled.”

“They won’t.”

They won’t annul a marriage after consummation. They’d need serious grounds, which they have none. There were certain laws that not even a king can undo. He lifted you to your feet and he stood up with you.

“Come. We’re leaving.”

You didn’t protest as he handed you a cloak, and led you out of the keep through secret passages between the walls. His mind formulated a plan. Aemond had studied the law, seeing as all princes should. If he wed and bed you, they’d have a difficult time trying to undo the marriage. And if they did...

Vhagar was the largest and mightiest of the dragons.

You both went through winding streets and back alleys to reach the great Sept on the other side of the city. He still saw people coming in and out. He guessed there’d be a septon there who’d marry them in a hurry for a fee. They kept their cloaks over their faces as he spotted a fat septon in his robes lighting candles around the circle in the middle of the large, stone room. Once Aemond made himself known and showed him the large bag of coins, the septon happily agreed to marry them by the altars below.

They married under the Faith of the Seven, his mother’s religion. You stood in front of him, torch light hitting your face in the right angles. Nerves electrified his body. He did not stumble over his words or forget the vows as the septon tied your hands with his. When you kissed, he never felt happier.

To bed you, he led you down the Street of Silk. A brothel is the last place they’d expect Prince Aemond to be, and there was only one place he knew. The madam of the brothel grinned flirtatiously when she saw him. He recalled her from the last time he’d visited with Aegon several years ago. He told her his predicament, and she offered them a room for a fee. A hefty one. You felt uncomfortable being there at first, but once you both stood alone in the small room, all that fell away. He stripped your clothes off piece by piece, and you did the same in return. He spent the rest of the night learning every inch of your body; the parts that made you sigh softly and the others that made you tremble under his fingertips. You were his, and he was yours. Nobody would part you.

The sun shined high in the sky by the time someone managed to find you both. Ser Criston Cole and two Kingsguard stood in the doorway, shocked and speechless as they stared you both in the bed. Aemond stared right at him.

“Have you...?” Ser Cole asked, not daring to ask it out loud.

“We have.”

“My prince,” he said, “Your father will be angry when he hears of this.”

“My father is a sick, old man who isn’t long for this world,” he replied, arm around your shoulders as he drank from his wine cup. You cuddled up to his side, sheets up around your chest to cover yourself. “I don’t think we should take anything he says seriously.”

“He expressly said your betrothal was broken.”

“He might’ve been under the influence of milk of the poppy,” you added. “He isn’t in his right mind these days. He can’t do much to stop it now,” you said, putting Aemond’s cup aside and kissing him.

“Not a thing,” he smirked, pecking your lips. “You’ve done your job, Ser Cole. You’ve found us,” he pulled you onto his lap, “You may go now.”

“You are meant to come with me to the keep, Your Grace.”

“We will,” he said, beginning to kiss down your neck to your breasts.

“Just not now,” you sighed, starting to grind into him. “I haven’t finished with my husband, yet.”

“Your father will send more men, if you do not come with me now,” Ser Cole said. “You must explain yourselves.” He then saw you both begin losing yourselves in each other again, and said, “At least come to see your mother. She has been terribly worried for your safety.”

“I will see her soon. Now leave, Ser Cole.”

The man turned to leave, then said, “They will not stand for this.”

“They will.”

“They won’t. Rhaenyra isn’t used to not getting her way and that’s extended into her children.”

“If her and her bastards have a problem with it, then they’ll have to answer to my dragon.”

They would run away. He’d take you far from King’s Landing to where they could not find you. He refused to back down to Jacaerys Strong. Ser Cole took this to be his official dismissal and left. Then, he drowned himself in you once more.

When you both came back to the castle, the small council immediately summoned him. His mother sat at the head of the table, with Rhaenyra on one side, and the other council members on the other. He stood in front of them as he recounted his night with you, and the wedding ceremony they cannot undo. Maester Orwyle confirmed Aemond’s story. Once a marriage is consummated, an annulment would be difficult. His mother was more than happy to let it go, since there isn’t much to do about it. Rhaenyra grilled the Maester for a while about the technicalities. Aemond believed she spoke mainly on her son’s behalf, and not her own. They called on the septon who’d performed the ceremony, and named those who’d witnessed the union. A maester was sent to your chambers to examine you, to see whether he’d truly taken your maidenhood, which was confirmed when he returned.

“There is not much to be done,” Lord Hightower sighed, content with the final result. “Lady Y/N Tyrell is now Lady Y/N Targaryen, it seems.”

He could tell this bothered Rhaenyra highly, most likely worried at how upset her son would be. Aemond had no interest in the problems of a bastard boy. He had you now, and he’d never let you go.

****

A/N: okay, I know this didn’t really go with the whole running-away-on-vhagar thing, but I’ve done something similar before and wanted to go a different route. I like to think Aemond would do anything possible to make the marriage happen regardless lol thank you for requesting!

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd drabbles #hotd fanfiction #hotd imagines

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generic-man-in-suit-battle · 11 months

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64 nearly identical, incredibly generic dudes have stepped to the plate to find the LAMEST, most BASIC man in a suit as determined by Tumblr.com! You, the viewer, get to choose who gets to continue and who has to go home and change!

Send propaganda for your favorites in the asks or in the reblogs when polls go live!

SIDE ONE begins June 5th. A week after, on June 12th, SIDE TWO begins. Matchups under the cut:

SIDE ONE, GROUP ONE: June 5th

Richard Watterson (The Amazing World Of Gumball) vs Artemis Fowl (Artemis Fowl)

Dad Egbert (Homestuck) vs Tony Dinozzo Jr. (NCIS)

SIDE ONE, GROUP TWO: June 6th

Spongebob Squarepants (Spongebob Squarepants) vs Herbert West (Re-Animator)

Trey MacDougal (Sex and the City) vs Jeff Winger (Community)

Tyrell Wellick (Mr. Robot) vs Patrick Bateman (American Psycho)

Pheonix Wright (Ace Attorney) vs The Narrator (Fight Club)

Kim Dokja (Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint) vs Bob Parr (The Incredibles)

SIDE ONE, GROUP THREE: June 7th

Mark Scout (Severance) vs Jimmy McGill/Saul Goodman (Breaking Bad)

John Reese (Person of Interest) vs Dwight Fairfield (Dead By Daylight)

Tally Hall (Real Life) vs Nathaniel Plimpton III Esq. (Crazy Ex-Girlfriend)

Larry (Pokemon Scarlet/Violet) vs Agent Brick (Milo Murphy's Law)

SIDE ONE, GROUP FOUR: June 8th

The Elsen (OFF) vs RTGame (Real Life)

Shin (Dorohedoro) vs Stanley (The Stanley Parable)

John Constantine (DC Comics) vs super ☆ business ☆ dancing ☆ night (The Internet)

Vincent Freeman (Gattaca) vs Tad Strange (Gravity Falls)

SIDE TWO, GROUP ONE: June 12th

Frank (Subway Surfers) vs The Slenderman (The Internet)

Almond Cookie (Cookie Run) vs Julian Fawcett (BBC Ghosts)

Frederick (Fire Emblem Awakening) vs Paul Matthews (Hatchetfield)

Jim Halpert (The Office) vs Ted Templeton (The Boss Baby)

SIDE TWO, GROUP TWO: June 13th

Kishibe (Chainsaw Man) vs Anthony Lockwood (Lockwood & Co.)

Koutarou Amon (Tokyo Ghoul) vs Ianto Jones (Torchwood)

Brian Pasternack (Yuppie Psycho) vs David Tennant (Real Life)

Thomas "Neo" Anderson (The Matrix) vs Connor (Detroit: Become Human)

SIDE TWO, GROUP THREE: June 14th

Elder Price (The Book of Mormon) vs Roddy St. James (Flushed Away)

Frank Grimes (The Simpsons) vs Robert Philip (Disney's Enchanted)

Meursault (Limbus Company) vs The Entire Cast Of Succession (Succession)

Mumbo Jumbo (Hermitcraft) vs Roland (Library of Ruina)

SIDE TWO, GROUP FOUR: June 15th

Kaz Brekker (Six of Crows) vs James Wilson (House MD)

Castiel (Supernatural) vs Jonathan Harker (Dracula)

Tohru Adachi (Persona 4) vs Bobby (Company)

Aaron Hotchner (Criminal Minds) vs Francis York Morgan (Deadly Premonition)

All polls are in the tag #round one

#poll info #round one

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theforgottenmcrmy · 2 years

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Storms (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

᯽ Part 1 of this story, “Safety”, can be read HERE.᯽

᯽ Part 2 of this story, “Captivated”, can be read HERE.᯽

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: GOT typical sexism, canon divergence, violence, references to a sick parent, death of minor characters.

Word Count: 7,800 ish.

Summary: A royal wedding should be a joyous occasion for the realm- but there’s something ominous in the air. Dark clouds linger over the royal family, and the rest of Westeros. Even you may not be able to make it through what lies ahead unscathed... Fortunately, you’ve found someone who you know you can count on to always be by your side.

A/N: Y’all... I’m still shooketh over here.🥲🖤 I really appreciate all the support so very much. I’ll keep writing for this as long as I have ideas and as long as there’s a want for it. If anyone is interested, I highly recommend listening to The Green Dress score while reading the second half- it’s what I did while writing it. The score is just *chef’s kiss* and sets the tone for the whole feast so well. I hope you all enjoy, and please feel free to let me know what you think!

PS, before you come after me because of the little time jump, I politely ask that you keep reading... I didn’t skip over *the scene*, I promise!😂

The winds of change had come to blow through Westeros.

Princess Rhaenyra’s tour of the Seven Kingdoms in search of a future King Consort had abruptly come to an end. Though the death of one of the suitors during Lord Boremond’s host at Storm’s End would have put a tainted mark on the remainder of her tours to come, the Princess had declared the tour over herself shortly thereafter… Despite the two months of traveling that remained.

Prince Daemon had finally returned from his war in the Stepstones, and presented King Viserys with the crown he had been bestowed upon him following his victory. The two Targaryen brothers reunited in a touching scene witnessed by most of the Court. He was welcomed at Court once more… until one day, he wasn’t.

Following an incident that you did not know the entire truth of, though you wouldn’t have spoken of it if you did know, the King had exiled him again. You could tell Princess Rhaenyra grieved the absence of her uncle once more, but then Ser Criston Cole had been suddenly much more attentive to her…

King Viserys had dismissed Lord Otto Hightower from his duties as Hand of the King, an event that had not only generated a large amount of whispers among the Reach, but among the other kingdoms as well. The King had appointed Lord Lyonel Strong in his stead.

Following Princess Rhaenyra’s denouncement of the tour, King Viserys had arranged the marriage for her with Ser Laenor Velaryon. Like a few others at Court, you had heard rumors of her cousin’s… preferences, and were worried, though it was not your place to offer up your opinion on. Eventually, she noticed your reservations, and had subtly, but full-heartedly, assured you that she and Ser Laenor had reached an arrangement. Besides, King Viserys’ mind was made up, and Princess Rhaenyra did not try to change it. Despite your initial hesitation, you shared the opinion of King Viserys- the match was a good one. Uniting the two branches of the Targaryen House and healing old wounds could only bode well for the dynasty.

From then on, you threw yourself into your work even more, supporting Princess Rhaenyra in any way you could with the royal wedding preparations. It kept you very busy, but you were grateful for something else to focus on.

After many weeks of planning and preparation, the week of the royal wedding celebration had finally arrived.

You and Princess Rhaenyra stood on a balcony amongst the far end of the palace gardens, looking over Blackwater Bay in the distance. Though Ser Criston Cole may have accompanied you previously, he had not chosen to this time. He’d been standoffish lately, and regarded Princess Rhaenyra with much more formality than you were used to seeing him display. Something had happened between them, you deduced… but, much like the circumstances that led to the sudden exile of Prince Daemon, you knew better than to ask unless the Princess spoke of it first.

Both of you watched in comfortable silence as ships, almost all of them bearing the Velaryon coat of arms, sailed toward King’s Landing. The vessels spanned as far back and across the water as your eyes could see. The fleet appeared to be moving slowly- but you knew that to be a fallacy. In what would be no time at all, the Princess’ betrothed, his family, most of their household, and various bannermen and members of the guard would make land.

An odd whistling noise ran out from the sky. You tilted your head upwards, as did Princess Rhaenyra, and three large, majestic beasts broke through the clouds up above. The three dragons and their riders flew downwards, their wings skimming the water between ships before flying up ahead.

Princess Rhaenyra pointed to one, then another, and finally, the third. “There’s Seasmoke… Meleys… and of course, Vhagar.”

More whistling could be heard as the dragons flew over the castle, rustling the trees and shrubbery around you with the wind. They descended from the sky before finally disappearing from view- presumably landing in the periphery of the Dragon Pit.

Dragons were fascinating creatures, but they were still terrifying. Unlike many others throughout the Seven Kingdoms, you were glad not to have been born a Targaryen… No one had ever heard of someone being burned or eaten alive by roses.

You would have been content to stay there and watch the incoming ships sail into the bay with the Princess until the sun set, but you knew you both had duties to attend to elsewhere. You looked over at her with an apologetic look.

“We should return to your chambers soon, Your Grace. The earlier you are dressed and ready, the better.”

It went without saying that Princess Rhaenyra being late to the welcome feast would simply be unacceptable.

“We will, shortly,” she promised distractedly, her focus having returned to the bay.

You felt sympathy for her. You had a feeling that, would it have been possible, Princess Rhaenyra would have had heirs for her line whilst forgoing marriage altogether. Alas, not even the Targaryens were that magical, and a King Consort would be needed for some things.

“Princess Rhaenyra… Lady Y/N.”

The pair of you turned around to face the third party who had joined you.

“Ser Harwin!” Princess Rhaenyra gleamed, before looking at you with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “To what do we owe the pleasure, My Lord?”

Ser Harwin smiled patiently. “A messenger informed me that you had requested my presence, Your Grace.”

“Did I?” Princess Rhaenyra feigned, looking at you with mock confusion. “Well, I simply cannot recall why I may have done that… My sincerest apologies, Ser Harwin.”

“No apologies needed, Your Grace,” Ser Harwin assured her cordially.

His eyes drifted calmly over to you. In a flash, you caught a wink he sent in your direction, causing your eyes to fall to the dirt path beneath you.

“Well,” Princess Rhaenyra said then, taking a few steps away from the balcony and back into gardens. “You are absolutely correct, Lady Y/N- I should return to my chambers and get ready for the feast at once.”

“Would you like me to go with you, Your Princess?” you asked her, though you already knew her answer.

Princess Rhaenyra came to a stop beside Ser Harwin and vaguely waved you off over her shoulder. “No, no, no. Take your time. The girls will assist me until you arrive.”

Ser Harwin looked amused.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” you called to her, smirking.

“Princess,” Ser Harwin nodded her respectfully as she proceeded to walk away and head back towards the Red Keep.

Such had been a little “game” of hers as of late. The Princess seemed to take far too much amusement out of summoning the knight nicknamed Breakbones, finding a convenient reason to excuse herself, and leaving the two of you alone. Though her game had the potential to create quite the scandal for the pair of you, should you be spotted together in a compromising scene without any escort, you knew without a doubt that Princess Rhaenyra meant no harm. In fact, you were rather grateful for her meddling ways.

Once the Princess was out of earshot, Ser Harwin took a step forward, closing the distance between you. He nodded to you in greeting, but when he spoke this time, his tone was far more tender than it had been just a few moments before.

“My Love.”

You tilted your head upwards to look at him better. The mere sight of him caused you to smile so widely that it felt as though your face might go numb from the joy you were trying to contain. “Dearest.”

Of all the changes that had been occurring in Westeros, none had bore more of an impact on or immersed as much as your newfound courtship with Ser Harwin Strong.

“You look breathtaking today, as usual.”

Your cheeks burned. “Thank you, My Lord.”

You still weren’t used to Ser Harwin’s praises, but part of you hoped you never would be. The fluttering you felt in your stomach upon hearing the sweet words reminded you just how much you cared for the man in front of you.

You attempted to joke, “If you think of me as beautiful now, you should see me in the gown I am to wear to the feast.”

Ser Harwin happily took the bait. “I assure you, I have been counting down the hours until my eyes are blessed with the sight.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling any wider. You took a moment to glance around you, ensuring that the two of you were alone. Once you were confident that you would not be heard, or overseen, you took another step closer towards the man that held your heart, extending your hands outwards to him as you did so.

Ser Harwin took his hands in your own hands with practiced ease. His hands were calloused from years of training and fighting, but you wouldn’t have changed that. The feel of your intertwined hands was grounding… and you needed to be grounded whenever you spoke with him lately, as his words tended to leave you bogged in an enamored daze.

His eyes, which looked upon you with nothing but the utmost care, tended to cloud your mind terribly, too.

“You look particularly happy today,” you noted, an unspoken question lingering in your tone.

“Seeing My Lady does tend to uplift my spirits,” Ser Harwin admitted playfully, his thumbs running lightly over the back of your hands.

You gave him an equally playful stern look. “My Lord,” you chided, laughing once. “You are a charmer, I will grant you that… But you know that is not what I meant.”

Ser Harwin gently raised one of your hands to his lips, placing a gentle kiss upon it. The action would normally have caused you to nearly swoon, but you pushed onwards, desperate for an answer to your question.

“Harwin,” you plead, lowering your voice as you addressed him informally, in the hope that it might cause him to focus. It worked- something shifted within his eyes, and suddenly, he looked more alert, more attentive.

“Please tell me,” you asked of him, “Has there been any news?”

The news which you sought was that of your impending betrothal.

Much had happened in both of your personal lives since Derron Tyrell’s visit to King’s Landing some time ago. Ser Harwin Strong’s letter that he’d written to your father had compelled your brother to travel to discuss the matter with him, and his father, Lord Lyonel, in person. Upon his arrival, your brother’s first inquiry in the matter was as to whether a betrothal to Ser Harwin was something you truly desired.

The Strongs were a noble family, and Harrenhal was the largest castle in all of Westeros, despite the ghastly tales. It was also worth mentioning that Harwin was now son to the newly appointed Hand of the King. But you were the only daughter of Lord Larris Tyrell, Defender of the Marshes, Lord Paramount of the Reach, Warden of the South… and all those other titles. You were from the Great House of the Reach, and Ser Harwin, while the oldest son and heir, was of a smaller noble house from the Riverlands. Not to mention that the Hand of the King was not a position that guaranteed any permanency.

Your father and brother had long since decided that they would choose a suitor for you, but they had also made no promises about denying you a suitor who they deemed as unworthy. They both wanted reassurance that this marriage would bring you true happiness, and not one arranged merely because Ser Harwin Strong had been the first to make an offer. After all, there were more advantageous matches for you that could be made… and there had been a mention of a certain Lannister or two.

You attempted to tell your brother about how your attachment to Ser Harwin, and his to you, had developed. You hoped it might explain why Ser Harwin had been compelled to write such a letter.

“Am I to understand this is a love match, then?” your brother had asked then, hopefully.

It most certainly was.

You could still recall the scene in your mind…

…

Your heart pounded in your chest. You had sent word through a personal messenger, one whom the Princess used frequently for her own devices when subtlety and discretion was of the utmost importance.

Ser Harwin must have gotten your message, as he was already waiting for you out in the castle gardens, in the exact secluded spot where you had requested to meet with him.

“Lady Y/N… I heard the Red Keep welcomed a visitor from the Reach today,” he jested, visibly nervous once more, just as he had been when you had spoken with him last. “Perhaps they are an acquaintance of yours?”

You wordlessly withdrew the letter, which you had clutched tightly in your fist, and presented it to him. “This letter… This letter that you wrote to my father. What does this mean?”

“Have you read it?” he asked, eyeing the parchment with an emotion you couldn’t quite place.

“Please,” you begged. “I have spent the better part of my memory believing that you were taken with and about to be betrothed to another. My heart simply cannot take any more jests or delays at its expense… Speak plainly, My Lord. What does this letter mean?”

Upon the seriousness of your tone, which was a far cry from your usual playful banter and jovial attitudes the two of you had exchanged, Ser Harwin fell quiet, and his nerves immediately dissipated. You heard his jaw close, and for a moment, as he looked down at you with gravity in his eyes and upon his face, you feared he might not speak at all.

When he did, he spoke in a very calm voice.

“I can make my intentions very plain to you, My Lady,” he vowed. “If you will grant me permission to do so.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, and you were slightly off put by his choice of phrasing. “Of course, but-”

Ser Harwin silenced you by leaning down and capturing your lips with his own.

You froze, unsure of how to react to the foreign gesture. Before your brain or heart could fight for control of your next move, Ser Harwin withdrew from you, leaving you stunned, and, to your mild embarrassment, gawking up at him.

“You have captivated me, and stolen my heart right out from my chest. I know I have wronged you by not admitting this truth to you first, as I had intended. As punishment, know that my heart is yours to do with as you see fit… Though I would dare to beg you for mercy, Y/N. If you feel the same for me as I do for you, I ask that you grant me an honor which I most likely do not deserve, but will strive everyday for the rest of my life to be worthy of… I ask that you pledge yourself to me, and become my wife.”

…

How could the truth have been right in front of your eyes for so long, and yet you had mistaken it for something else entirely?! It was a folly you would not soon let yourself live down, that much was for certain.

“And, should you not feel the same,” Ser Harwin continued, noting your silence, “and I have now wronged you in more ways than one, you need only say so. I shall leave you at once, and without a word. We shall never speak of this aga-”

With a newfound sense of courage you did not know you possessed, you stood up on your toes, and kissed the man you loved right back.

It was Ser Harwin’s turn to be silenced.

There was no telling how long the pair of you stayed out that night, tucked away from the rest of the Red Keep and all of King’s Landing, just enjoying being in the presence of each other. But there was one more moment you recall definitively.

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“Also, my answer is yes.”

“I… hoped as much, My Lady.”

…

You almost let out a wistful sigh. The memory of that night was still clearly visible in your mind’s eye, just as clear as Harwin was now, standing before you.

Had you both been commoners, you would have already been wed. Ser Harwin had admitted as much, and you agreed. But as both of your families were of the nobility, the two of you were forced to wait as your fathers negotiated the finer details of the exchange instead.

After your brother had learned the truth of your feelings, and after having a private conversation with Ser Harwin shortly after, Derron met with Lord Lyonel to begin the discussions. But, as your father was to be made privy to every detail, the negotiations had not been complete by the time your brother was due to return to Highgarden.

Lord Lyonel Strong had presented your brother with the details of his most recent offer, and shortly after, you returned to Highgarden with your brother to see your father. You were glad to visit him, and to learn that his health had improved from what you had last heard and feared. Your father was happy to see you too- not only as a faithful and dutiful servant to Princess Rhaenyra, but also as a woman who was soon to be wed to her love, an honorable knight who was more than capable of providing for and protecting her.

Your father reviewed the offer made by Lord Lyonel, and wrote his own counteroffer. You presented it to Lord Lyonel upon your return to King’s Landing, and the waiting began. Since then, for a long few weeks, ravens flew from King’s Landing to Highgarden and back, many, many times, as the negotiations continued.

The issue of your dowry proved to be a significant hurdle. At first, Your father couldn’t help but be a little suspicious of the Strongs’ motives with the proposed alliance. Throughout all the Seven Kingdoms, the Tyrells were second in wealth only to the Lannisters. You knew that acquiring wealth was the last thing on Ser Harwin’s mind when confessed his feelings to you, and he’d said as much several times since. But eventually, a dowry amount was settled upon that was found to be acceptable for both families. There was an additional stipulation- all of the funds were to go towards repairs to Harrenhal and its surrounding grounds. The hope was that doing so would make the castle safer for you and your husband… and eventually, your children.

Since then, the negotiation points had been of little concern to either of you: where the wedding would take place, who would pay for what parts of the celebration, where you would spend parts of the year, and what surname your children would have. It was all trifling. Both you and Ser Harwin just wanted the negotiations to conclude, and the sooner, the better.

“Unfortunately, I have no news for you today, My Lady,” he informed you, his thumbs still tracing lightly over the backs of your hands. His gaze lifted from your intertwined hands, and he looked deeply into your eyes. “But my father assures me that they are close to reaching a final agreement.”

You didn’t have the heart to point out to him that he had already been telling you that for quite some time. “Let us hope.”

Ser Harwin looked about your surroundings briefly, confirming that you were still alone. In consolation to your disappointment, he leant downwards, and placed a soft kiss upon your forehead.

Despite your frustrations, and his own, it could always be said that Harwin never hesitated to do whatever he could to reassure you that the match between you was one worth waiting for.

“You look beautiful, Your Grace.”

Princess Rhaenyra turned her head over her shoulder and smiled at you as you entered her chambers. Two ladies- who happened to be none other than Ser Harwin’s younger sisters- attended to her. One smoothed out the skirts of her dress while the other was putting some adornments in her silver hair.

After their father had been appointed Hand of the King, the two girls had only recently been chosen by the Princess to serve as her junior ladies in waiting. They were a few years younger than you and the Princess, but old enough to have some scrutiny and tact about them, and they were eager to please. Both were already dressed and prepared for the welcome feast.

You looked over the Princess’ appearance with mock scrutiny, but ultimately smiled. “The two of you did such an excellent job… I fear I shall no longer be of service soon.”

Princess Rhaenyra rolled her eyes playfully. “Come now, Lady Y/N- how ever would I get on without you?” One of the girls presented her with a hand mirror. The Princess looked over her appearance for a moment before giving a small nod. “This will do. Thank you very much, My Ladies.”

The girls smiled, giddy with her praise.

“You two should head on over to the throne room,” Princess Rhaenyra dismissed them. “I’ll have Lady Y/N attend to whatever is left.”

The girls nodded in understanding, curtsied, and promptly left the Princess’ chambers.

Princess Rhaenyra picked up the small mirror again, and apprised her appearance once more. You caught a glimpse of her face in the reflection from your place a few feet away, and it was with a twinge of sadness that you realized how downtrodden she looked.

“Are you well, Your Grace?” you asked her quietly, subtly offering her an opportunity to speak about whatever was on her mind.

Unfortunately, the Princess did not wish to speak of whatever was troubling her. She put the mirror down and turned to face you. “Yes, all is well,” she answered, though her tone still left you questioning the sincerity of her words. She smiled at you teasingly, and inquired, “Is everything alright with you, Lady Y/N?”

You pursed your lips, fighting off a smile.

“Has there been any news?” the Princess asked, eargerly and expectantly.

Though you still were in her service, Princess Rhaenyra had become a true friend and confidant of yours. She was knowledgeable of the negotiations stalling your marriage to Ser Harwin, and was sympathetic for you.

“Not yet,” you answered, unable to disguise the disappointment in your voice.

“I am sorry to hear that… But the night is still young,” Princess Rhaenyra noted optimistically. “I bet that by the end of the week, another betrothal announcement shall be made.”

You certainly hoped so, but didn’t want to get your hopes up.

“You should get ready for the feast,” she said then, giving you something else to focus on. “The seamstress put the finishing touches I asked for upon your dress, and left it over there.”

You walked over to the bed, where Princess Rhaenyra had gestured to. Your eyes immediately spotted the gown in question. The Princess had requested that all her ladies wore similar gowns, all of the same color, for the welcome feast. Your gown was a little bit more… revealing, than what the Strong ladies had been given, but it was more suitable for each of your ages that way.

“The color matches the jewels in your hair,” you observed with a smile.

Princess Rhaenyra returned the smile, pleased that you found the gown as gorgeous as she did.

The welcome feast had begun.

The esteemed guests from all across Westeros who had traveled to King’s Landing for the festivities were announced one by one, before paying their respects to the King and Princess.

The Queen had yet to arrive.

You were the only representative of House Tyrell to attend, and conveyed your apologies to King Viserys on your family’s behalf. Your father had taken ill once more- another factor that had played a role in the pace at which the marriage negotiations were taking place- and your brother Derron had no choice but to stay in Highgarden to help him manage affairs.

Since you were alone, you had no one immediately obvious with which to sit for the meal. Your betrothal to Ser Harwin was not yet official, so you had been assigned a seat beside the Hightowers and other noble families of other houses from the Reach. You knew most of them well enough to be able to carry out polite conversation, to accept well wishes for your father, and to inquire as to the state of their own houses and health.

But you couldn’t help it as your eyes drifted forlornly down towards the opposite end of the table, where Ser Harwin was seated with the majority of his family. You caught his eye every now and then, and when you did, the two of you played an unspoken game to see which would be the first to break and look away.

House Velaryon was the last to enter the throne room, and the attention of everyone else in the room was commanded by the sight. As House Velaryon strode over to the high table, which was positioned just in front of the Iron Throne, thunderous applause rang out. Though Lord Coryls had been no stranger to the Court during King Viserys’ reign, his wife, the Princess Rhaenys, and their children were not so often seen. Everyone was eager to lay eyes upon the future King Consort, Ser Laenor, and his sister, Lady Laena.

The princess rose from her seat to greet her betrothed, and shortly thereafter, the Velaryons and the rest of their household were seated. Everyone else in the room followed suit, save the King, who looked over the crowd. You looked over towards King Viserys and waited for his speech to begin.

But suddenly, the King’s cheerful face fell, and muffled whisperings around you filled your ears. You followed the King’s appalled look over to the entryway, where none other than Prince Daemon was making his way into the throne room. Ser Harrold did not bother to announce him- he was probably as shocked as most everyone else in the room.

The whispers did not cease as Daemon approached the high table calmly, acting as though he had not been exiled by the King, again, not too long ago.

You looked over at Rhaenyra and tried to gauge her reaction to the uninvited guest. If she had known about her uncle’s impending return for the wedding, she had not told you of it- though you honestly could not say whether she would have. The pair of you had a special bond, but the bond between her and Prince Daemon would always be stronger.

Thankfully, the Princess looked just as surprised to see her uncle as everyone else, though she was much better at concealing her facial reaction than the King. Once Daemon was before the high table, you thought King Viserys might call for his head right then and there. But instead, after a moment of thought, he beckoned for a chair to be brought out for him. Prince Daemon was seated beside the Hand, Lord Lyonel, and the room began to settle from the interruption.

King Viserys smiled once more, though it was more strained than genuine, and began his welcoming speech. Unfortunately, he was not able to get very far into it, before it was disrupted once more.

All eyes in the room once again turned towards the entryway. Unlike with the previous tardy guest, no whispers erupted this time. Instead, the room was overcome with a bone-chilling silence.

Queen Alicent had finally arrived. But what was more shocking than her blatant disrespect of King Viserys was the outfit she had chosen instead.

She wore a bright, emerald green gown.

Those seated rose respectfully as she made her way over to the high table. Despite those who you were seated with- other members of House Hightower being seated just a few seats down from you- your eyes involuntarily narrowed as the Queen passed you. Just what point was she trying to get across with her choice of garment?

You’d never seen the sight with your own eyes before, only having read about it in books and having heard it in tales from your father. But you knew, very well, what color the beacon in Oldtown glowed when the Hightowers called their banners to war.

Green.

Once the Queen was seated, the King was finally able to finish his speech, and dinner was served. You still snuck glances at Ser Harwin as often as you dared, though the looks you gave him now were probably laced with little else but concern.

Once the meal was over, you were grateful for the dancing to begin, for it gave you a perfect excuse to stand and socialize with other guests whom you were not immediately seated by. Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor were the first to take the floor, as was the tradition, but once the dance was complete, the other guests slowly but surely joined in the fun.

You rose from your seat and walked over towards the end of the table, joining the group of nobles who had gathered there to observe those already on the dancefloor.

“Lady Y/N.”

You turned, and were pleasantly surprised to find Lord Lyonel Strong standing beside you.

“My Lord,” you greeted him with a smile.

“Are you enjoying the feast so far, My Lady?” he inquired then.

The question was innocent enough, but difficult to answer truthfully. Your eyes darted over to Queen Alicent, and then Prince Daemon, who were both still seated. Well aware of the fact that you could be overheard, you simply answered, “This feast will be remembered for quite some time to come, I am sure.”

“I do not disagree,” Lord Lyonel said knowingly, having noted whom you had glanced at. Lord Lyonel, on the surface, gave the air of an uncomplicated man. But you were beginning to suspect that there was more to him than one might assume. A lord from a small noble house in the Riverlands didn’t become appointed Hand of the King by mere chance.

“Lady Y/N,” he said then, in a much quieter tone that grabbed your attention immediately, as was its purpose. “I do want to thank you for your patience as this business with Highgarden is negotiated.”

Lord Lyonel’s statement was decently vague, but you knew immediately what he was referring to. “Thank you, My Lord. I understand that such matters are necessary, though I would deny that it has not begun to feel tedious at times.”

Lord Lyonel gave you a sympathetic smile. “Perhaps you are right. Even so, I will be glad once everything has been settled. I must admit, I was, and still am, pleased by the proposition. I think all parties involved stand to benefit greatly… specifically, my son. I am grateful that House Tyrell has considered him to be a worthy business partner.”

He approved of the match; that the subtext of his cordial words. But even more so, Lord Lyonel was pleased that the match contributed greatly to the happiness of his son.

“There is more to Ser Harwin than his nickname,” you said decisively. “I believe Lord Tyrell and my brother simply needed some guidance in order to see that.”

Lord Lyonel nodded courteously.

As if he had known he was the topic of your very conversation, Ser Harwin made his way through the onlookers. He came to a stop before the two of you, and nodded to Lord Lyonel in greeting. “Father.”

Then he turned to you. He looked remarkable, dressed in finer clothes than what he typically donned, and a significant section of his hair had been pulled up and tied back, revealing the handsome features of his face. You were so lost in the sight of him, you almost didn’t register that he had spoken to you.

“Lady Y/N,” he greeted, giving you a charming smile. Said smile was offered to many, but it never was accompanied with the twinkle in his eyes that shone now. That had become exclusively reserved for you, a thought that both made you feel humble and filled you with pride. “I think it to be an insult that you have not been asked to dance thus far. Could you find it in your heart to grant me the honor?”

You looked towards his outstretched hand, and attempted to minimize the love-sick expression you undoubtedly wore. “It would be my pleasure, Ser Harwin.”

With one last glance at Lord Lyonel, you took Ser Harwin’s hand and allowed him to escort you to the dance floor.

You seldom had the opportunity to spend such time with Ser Harwin in public, and you reveled in every minute of it. The incredible ease you felt with him, whether it was while dancing, talking, or simply being in the presence of each other, was one that had yet to be matched.

As the pair of you went on about the dance, turning and spinning and stepping about as the song dictated, you conversed quietly.

“You truly are a vision tonight,” Ser Harwin complemented, causing your cheeks to burn both with mild embarrassment and in pain from your amused smile. “Better than I even dared to dream of.”

“Thank you, My Lord. … But now, I wonder- do you dream of me often, Ser Harwin?” you jested, taking his hand and twirling once.

Once you had turned around, you nearly came face to face with his broad chest; the two of you were suddenly much closer than before.

“Since you asked,” Ser Harwin said, leaning down so as to speak directly into your ear, “There are few nights that you do not haunt my dreams, My Lady.”

Before anyone could notice the inappropriate distance between yourselves, you each took a step back, and continued the dance smoothly.

You were taken aback, but pleasantly so. “Haunt?” you echoed. “Am I a ghost, plaguing you with nightmares?”

“I assure you,” he said, suavely stepping beside and turning to you in time with the music, “Not all ghosts are bad. Nor could any sight of you gracing my mind whilst I am asleep ever be considered a nightmare.”

Before you could think of something charming or witty to respond with, you noticed someone making their way onto the dance floor. It was with dread that they were headed directly towards you.

“I fear our time together is about to be cut short,” Ser Harwin announced, also making note of it.

You forced a smile as you greeted the interrupter of your lovely moment. “Lord Loreon.”

Loreon Lannister merely nodded cooly to Ser Harwin in his own way of greeting. The gesture made you want to give him a verbal lashing for his impoliteness, but since you were surrounded by others, and it was not yet socially acceptable for you and Ser Harwin to show any sort of attachment to the other, you were limited.

Ser Harwin knew just as much, too. He politely refused to acknowledge the disrespect, and greeted the other man anyways. “My Lord.”

“Might I cut in?”

Ser Harwin had no choice but to allow Lord Loreon to do so, and he knew that. The little weasel.

“I hope you enjoy the rest of the feast, Lady Y/N,” Ser Harwin said to you.

“And I you, My Lord.”

You watched with mild sadness as your love wandered off the dance floor before disappearing amongst the crowd of nobles watching on the outskirts.

A new song began, and you forced your feet to move, engaging in a dance once more.

Lord Loeron, though a few years your junior, had grown into a man since you had last seen him. However, he was still a young one at that, and you had your suspicions that the passing years made him no more wise. The boy- young man- had always lacked some tact. You’d hoped his father, Lord Jason Lannister, had instilled some sense in him, as Loreon was his only son and heir. But from what Princess Rhaenyra had shared with you regarding Lord Lannister’s own behavior and choice comments as of late, you severely doubted it.

“You’ve grown since I last saw you, My Lord.”

“Perhaps,” Lord Loreon granted. “Though I am afraid that I am nowhere near the size of Breakbones.”

You frowned in displeasure at his insinuating comment.

Your courtship with Ser Harwin while your fathers worked out the details of your marriage was not exactly a secret. But, other than Lord Jason on the occasion, Lannisters had been sparse at Court as of late… You concluded that the walls must have had ears. You only hoped that they did not have eyes as well.

“I am surprised by your choice of gown, Lady Y/N- I thought you might wear green, as it is a color of your House.”

And also the color with which Queen Alicent had chosen to draw a metaphorical line in the struggle for power.

You answered, “Princess Rhaenyra deemed it fit that all her ladies should wear gowns of Targaryen red tonight.”

“A wise decision by the Princess,” Lord Loreon declared. “I’m sure you look just as lovely in gold, as it is the other of your House’s colors... Though, perhaps a gown of red and gold would suit you best?”

You paused briefly, before forcing yourself to continue the steps. You feigned, “I’m afraid I do not understand what you mean, My Lord.”

“No, I suppose you do not. Perhaps my father shall arrange to meet with yours, and they can sort it out for the two of us. We would not dare spend any longer than necessary on negotiations. We know how much a marriage to the daughter of Lord Tyrell is worth, just as I am sure you know how valuable the marriage to the son of Lord Lannister is.”

You let out a small sigh, your patience for pleasantries completely diminished by his goading words. “If that is your way of proposing marriage, My Lord, it seems there is still vast room for improvement to be had in ways of your eloquence and common sense.”

Lord Loreon narrowed his eyes at you, but did not cease his dancing. In a threateningly low tone, he demanded, “You dare insult me?”

As suspected, time had not made him more wise. Lord Loreon’s pride was wounded just as easily as it always had been.

“It is I that has been insulted, My Lord. Asking for my hand so crudely, and during the wedding feast for the future Queen, no less?” you countered swiftly. “I think my father would be most displeased with House Lannister if he heard of this, not to mention the King.”

Lord Loreon finally stopped partaking in the dance. He looked very cross. He opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by several loud, piercing screams.

Immediately, the dance floor descended into a state of chaos. Initially, you were shoved backwards, as some sort of altercation took place in the middle of the dance floor. You could not see the individuals throwing fists, but you heard the sickening thuds of their punches landing mercilessly upon the other, despite the commotion of the crowd.

You looked back over towards Lord Loreon, only to discover that he had taken the moment of distraction to abandon you. However, you had expected no less of him.

Suddenly, the tune of the crowd changed. Encouraging shouts as the brawlers went after one another turned into horrified screaming. Guards flooded the room and attempted to make their way towards the middle of the crowd.

As the crowd shifted with the movement, you were unceremoniously shoved backwards and down onto the ground. The legs of others nearby as they shuffled backwards and out of the way were encroaching upon you rapidly.

Despite your position, you heard Princess Rhaenyra cry out, “Laenor!”

A horrible thought struck you. The Princess had been on the dance floor as well- you had seen her not but a few moments before. Was she still entangled somewhere in all of this mess? You had to help her.

You tucked your chin, and used the chair you had fallen up against as leverage to hoist yourself up and off the ground. Your eyes searched the crowd, and you felt dismayed when the Princess was not immediately in sight. “Princess?!”

Before you could decide on your next move of action, someone promptly picked you up, and threw you over their shoulder.

In the midst of everything going on, you were unable to get a good look at your sudden captor. You shouted protests and fought back, kicking and punching the man who had decided to take advantage of the situation as he proceeded to push his way through the crowd and away from the dance floor.

“Y/N,” a very familiar voice huffed, before gently placing you back on your own two feet.

It was Ser Harwin.

He hadn’t been your captor, no- but rather, your savior.

You watched in a stunned silence as Ser Harwin quickly looked you over with concern, putting his hands on your shoulders to get your attention. “Are you alright?” he demanded, gently but urgently. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no,” you replied quickly. “I’m fine.”

He’d placed you near the high table, where his father, and the rest of the royal family, even Queen Alicent, looked onwards towards the fight that the guards were still attempting to break up.

“Where’s Rhaenyra?” you heard the King ask, his increasing worry audibly evident.

“The Princess!” you said, suddenly recalling what you had set out to do before Ser Harwin had whisked you away- find Princess Rhaenyra, and make sure she was alright. You looked up at him pleadingly, before gesturing over from whence you both had just come. The Princess was still nowhere to be seen. “I heard her, right over there!”

Ser Harwin looked from where you had gestured and up towards his father. Lord Lyonel, also looking concerned, nodded over to the chaos as a silent go-ahead.

Ser Harwin fought his way back into and through the crowd, and you watched with bated breath as he did so. As much as you were concerned for the Princess’ safety as the seconds passed, so were you worried for him, as he quite literally punched and pushed his way through the half rioting and half panicking crowd.

Some ways away, he bent down and disappeared beneath your line of sight. Just as quickly, he stood once more, with Princess Rhaenyra over the top of his shoulder, as he had done to you. He couldn’t make his way back through the crowd quick enough.

Ser Harwin deposited Princess Rhaenyra down on the ground beside you, and you fussed over her immediately.

“Your Grace!” you exclaimed worriedly. “Are you hurt?”

Thankfully, Princess Rhaenyra looked more upset than physically injured. “I’m fine, I’m fine… What in Seven Hells is going on?!”

“Rhaenyra!” Her father beckoned her over to him, and she did not hesitate to heed him. With one last glance at you, she thanked Ser Harwin before joining the King.

The shouting silenced abruptly, drawing your attention back to the fight.

The crowd parted down the middle, revealing a gruesome scene. Ser Criston Cole was laying fatal blows upon another man, who laid practically motionless beneath him. You could not recognize the man from here, but you recognized the colors he wore as someone who was likely to have attended the feast with House Velaryon. The crowd stepped back further still, forced to do so by the guards who had finally managed to intervene. Then, the room went still.

Ser Criston, bloodied, and with a look upon his face that had been numbed with pure rage, halted his blows.

The man beneath him was dead.

Like wildfire, the crowd dispersed, fleeing the throne room. Nothing good would come of this- at the very least, the feast would not be able to continue. A member of the Kingsguard had just punched a man to death!

“Go, you two,” you heard the light but commanding voice of Lord Lyonel from behind you. To Harwin, he added, “See to it that Larys and your sisters make haste as well.”

You looked over at Rhaenyra, who was watching the results of the madness unfold with a sombered look on her face. But you had no time to decide whether or not to try and console her, for Ser Harwin had already begun to guide you out of the throne room. As instructed, he corralled his brother and sisters and made certain that they headed towards the exit too.

“Don’t,” he told you quietly as you passed the dead man’s body, evidently having read your mind. “I wouldn’t look.”

You were thankful that Ser Harwin had strategically placed himself between you and the body as you walked by, for it had been your gut reaction to do just that. You gripped his arm as he escorted you that much tighter, thankful to have been spared from seeing such a ghastly sight.

As you passed under the threshold, the anguished sobs of Ser Laenor echoed off the walls behind you.

That evening, in a private ceremony witnessed by only the families of those involved, Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen and Ser Laenor of House Velaryon were wed. The remaining festivities that had been planned for the rest of the week were canceled. King Viserys decided that, given the events of the welcome feast, the sooner the two were wed, the better.

Despite the sense of gloominess that hung over the Red Keeps in the days to follow, personal good news had presented itself to you the very next morning. A raven had arrived, from Highgarden, no less. Negotiations were complete.

Your betrothal to Ser Harwin Strong was, finally, to be official.

At the end of the week, Princess Rhaenyra and her new husband Prince Consort left King’s Landing for a small post-wedding sailing trip.

Your betrothal was officially announced the following day. You were ecstatic- for now, you no longer had to hide or deny your attachment to the strongest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms. Instead, you could celebrate it. And you would, too- with any luck, the two of you would be wed in less than a few fortnights, a few moons at the most.

The day after the announcement brought another raven from Highgarden. But this time, the news was not the cause of any celebration.

Your father, Lord Tyrell, had succumbed to sickness.

Perhaps the Maesters had been wrong in their diagnosis of the ailment and ineffective with their treatment… Perhaps your father knew what was inevitable, but had held on just long enough to see to it that you would be looked after once he was gone.

…

The winds of change had come to blow through Westeros. With the winds, came storms.

But with Harwin by your side, you knew that you would be able to weather them all.

᯽ Part 4 of this story, From This Day, Part 1/2, can be read HERE. ᯽

A/N: Thank you so much for reading!🖤 I have (at least) one more part tentatively planned for this, but after started writing this, I came up with another idea... So, how do we feel about seeing the wedding?👀 Cuz I was gonna do another little time jump to the next part, but now I’m not so sure... Let me know what you think!

ALSO... does anyone else wanna talk about last night’s episode?! Because I have so many thoughts... ugh. It was so great. I cannot.

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