#mama nyra!

[dragondreamers]

PRINCESS RHAENYRA TARGARYEN & PRINCE JOFFERY VELARYON in THE PRINCESS AND THE QUEEN

#mama nyra! #hotd #house of the dragon #rhaenyra targaryen #joffery velaryon #hotdedit #hotd gifs #houseofthedragonedit #rhaenyra targaryen edit #1x06 #the princess and the queen #mine* #gifs*

[atopcat]

"(...) there were always rings on her fingers. Whenever she was anxious, she would turn them compulsively around."

— George R.R. Martin about Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Look at the colour of her rings:

A black stone for Jace, he’ll be crowned King Jacaerys I Targaryen and continue the Targaryen dynasty.

Turquoise stone for Luke, he’ll be Lord Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark.

A plain gold band for Joffrey because unlike his older brothers his future hasn’t been set in stone, he can choose his own destiny.

When Rhaenyra’s anxious she holds her sons close, maybe out of reassurance that as long as she has them everything will be alright.

But we know it won’t be 💔

#house of the Dragon #rhaenyra targaryen #queen rhaenyra #pro team black #team black #jacaerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon #joffrey velaryon #hotd #valyrianscrolls #pre asoiaf #house Targaryen #asoiaf meta #hotd meta #hotd costumes #mama Nyra #the strong boys

[soyboywenzie]

don’t like them but alicent’s children never stood a chance, man.

a sick, dying father who spends most of his time arguing with his wife over the succession, showing his support for his chosen successor or playing with his legos, leaving the parenting to his wife.

his wife who becomes a vessel of paranoia, anger, bitterness and hatred towards her husbands chosen successor and her successors to the point that she spreads rumors of life and death to the entirety of court AND her children that creates the violent environment that caused one of her children to lose an eye, forcibly trying to have her personal chosen successor become a usurper even though he does not want it so she starts using scare tactics that she learned from her father.

the grandfather that has a history of mental, physical and emotional abuse that seeped into his daughter, continues that history of abuse on his grandchildren because he does not want the throne, created the terrible situation that led to his daughter become queen and the vessel of negativity that spews to those grandchildren and does it because he wants more power than he already has ( which is A LOT for someone of his rank in their society).

and a random man who shares their mothers hatred and more for the kings chosen heir because the chosen heir did not run away with him, TRIPLING the amount of hateful talk and creation of harsh environments to the point that he only calls her a ‘who’re’ and ‘slit’ so that is all you address her as.

all of that only for the people who were suppose to care about you, can’t or won’t because they are all too obsessed with the chosen heir, her children, her vagina and who’s been in it instead of raising and aiding them in their lives that have now only become reflections of everything they have been force-fed since birth.

which is only made worse because the chosen heir and her children all love and care for each other to the point that they would die for each other even in the harsh circumstances that were made due to your side of the family.

they all realize at some point this is not normal but they can’t leave or change because their mother, their grandfather nor the random man will let them.

they never stood a chance and it SUCKS!

#my original work #house of the dragon #hotd #rhaenyra targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon #team black #alicent hightower #otto hightower #criston cole #viserys targaryen #they also maybe realize they don’t know the chosen heir through their own perspective #but can’t learn about her because THEY WONT LET THEM #yeah Rhaenyra was not close to them but GOD WHO WOULD EVEN WANT TO TEY WITH THESE PEOPLE NEAR THEM 24/7 #aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #helaena targaryen #daeron targaryen #they needed their own mama nyra but got an alicent instead #anti team green #anti alicent hightower #anti otto hightower #anti criston cole #viserys the peaceful #pro rhaenyra #pro team black #queen rhaenyra

[kiyspicedtea]

Alicent: *holds a knife she eventually cuts Rhaenyra with, yammering on about duty and expectations and Rhaenyra finding a way to trample all over her duty without consequences, blah blah blah*

No one:

Me: .............you thought you could slip that "pretty" in there and we wasn't gon peep that gay ass shit, Alicent lol

#house of the dragon #hotd #rhaenicent #listennnnnnnn my girl alicent made some points #argue witcha mama cuz im not going back and forth #howthefuckever she had no business slipping pretty in that sentence #other than to let everybody know that she thinks nyra is pretty #and like....there's no heterosexual reason for that #repressed lesbians ftw

[wcrriorhearts]

@lumoire

Aemond: what was the former Queen like? Rhaenyra: *cries internally* she was my mama...

#ooc #this is probably going to be the most genuinely emotional conversation they'll ever have :D #Nyra loved her mama so much

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

darilaros (princess) │ Chapter 8: Birthright

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 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: As the second daughter of King Viserys, you experience firsthand what it means to belong to the House of the Dragon. Your wish comes true.

Hello! Welcome to the FINAL CHAPTER of this instalment, another 8000+ word chapter! Everyone's long-anticipated 'claiming scene' is here, so please give a round of applause to our angryboi, the Cannibal! Keep in mind that I've officially retconned Luke and Daeron's ages (they're 8 and 9 in gevivys now, not 5 and 6 like they were originally - please let me know if I've missed any instances so far!), Thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing this thingo!

TRIGGERS: more abandonment issues, reference to pervy suitors.

Scarcely any time passes between that eve and the arrival of Rhaenyra’s firstborn son, Jacaerys.

’Nyra’s world changes when her baby comes. She is as perfect a mother as you think any woman could be, spending nearly all the hours of the day looking at him or holding him or caring for him. Having a babe has changed her, softened her hard edges and given her a calmness she had once lacked. All she wants to talk about is him. When she is not talking about him or being with him, she is in Council meetings, or she is with Papa performing whatever tasks the heir to the Throne is expected to do. She tries to find moments to spare for you, though it is far less often than it used to be, and she always brings her boy with her.

Jace is a pretty babe, dark-haired and dark-eyed, so unlike either of his parents, and he always seems quite serious in expression—but there is something that holds you back with him. Even though you love him—and he is one half of ’Nyra, so of course you love him—it is like a wall exists between you and him. His mother is your sister, and his father is your cousin, and you… you have no place there. You are on the outside looking in at a life you cannot have.

A part of you wants to stare down at the babe and tell him that you were here first. That you will always have known his mama for longer than he ever shall, that nothing can take away the fact that she belonged to you before she belonged to him. But you don’t. ’Nyra is a new mother, and her child should be all that matters. If you were her babe, that is what you would want. She does not need the petty jealousy of her little sister to ruin things. It is better for you, for her, for him that you find other ways to fill your days.

Daeron’s birth makes it easier.

It is almost like Alicent barely even notices the arrival of her third son, though you do not blame her. She had screamed so loud that even you had heard her in your own chambers. It was not like that with Aegon or Helaena or Aemond. The commotion had been enough to rouse you from your bed to creep toward the Queen’s apartments, to hear Grand Maester Mellos tell Papa that her belly might need to be laid open like—

No. No. The throb of nausea is so vile just thinking of it. You put it out of your mind, doing your best to ignore the prickle of an old hurt and the word ‘Mama’ on the tip of your tongue, hushed and afraid.

Alicent is weak after the birth, and so you take it upon yourself to visit your new little brother, to keep him company where everyone else would have left him to attendants. He is so, so quiet, as though he is ashamed of the way he had entered the world, the way he had hurt his mother coming out. It is like he is an apology for the pain she was made to go through. He is sweet, barely crying though he goes for times without the attention he deserves, and he never fusses when you reach into the cradle to lift him up. You are not quite strong enough to carry him around places, but it is relatively easy to take him to the chair to prop him on your lap in the nursery while Helaena plays.

When Alicent heals, she makes no attempt to disturb your routine, and it is like you have your very own baby to match ’Nyra’s. Sometimes, you imagine that Daeron is yours like Jace is hers and that you are ’El’s mama too, and that you have the important task of being their whole world. Even though the idea of having babies is beginning to scare you a great deal, being a mama is nice. Playing pretend is nice.

But then, the wet nurses come or Alicent comes, and your brother and sister are taken away. It reminds you that you really are alone, after all. ’Nyra giving birth to her next son, Lucerys—Luke—only worsens that feeling. Her family is growingand growing while yours seems to only exist on borrowed moments. Still, you take what love you can and bury the rest of it—the despair, the resentment, the soft tender parts of you that cry out for someone, anyone at all to really, truly see you—far, far below the surface, so deep that no one can touch it, not even you.

You seek solace in knowledge.

Books become your very best friends. The older you get, the easier reading becomes—you leave behind folktales and children’s myths to begin browsing through tomes with smaller letters and larger, more difficult words. Stories turn into histories and treatises on all manner of topics, with dragons, direwolves, men, and the fall of Old Valyria being but some of your preferred subjects of study. You learn the names of the Lannister kings before the Conquest; you gather as many legends on the Age of Heroes as you can; you peruse chronicles detailing the first coming of the Andals to Westerosi shores. Through books, the very land you live upon seems to unfold like a map through time itself, all the secrets of the continent opening themselves up to you through tooled leather and yellowed pages.

It makes Papa immensely proud. “If a woman is to sit the Iron Throne after I am gone,” he says, “then perhaps a woman ought to be her right hand!”

You can tell this makes his other Councilmen nervous by the way they share glances. For all that Rhaenyra has been heir for years now, there are still many among the court who believe your brother ought to succeed him. But Papa does not seem to want to change his mind, for he is as determined to see your sister continue to attend Small Council as he always has been.

Still, you take it to heart. Being Hand of the Queen someday means that you will get to stay with your sister even if you are made to be married. It means you will be important in a way that you haven’t really been so far. But a good Hand has to know so so much about all the lands and people a King or Queen might encounter during the years of their reign. You outgrew Septa’s lessons moons ago, and the more you read, the more it becomes apparent that books aren’t enough to teach you all you need to know. There is no one and nothing that can help you become the cleverest possible version of yourself in King’s Landing—at least, not one willing to do such a task. The maesters would not abide by schooling a girl in the higher arts.

Thus, you firmly decide upon the gift you would like for your name day. Standing in the King’s solar two moons before the occasion is to take place, you impart your desire to your audience of one.

“I wish for a tutor, please,” you tell Papa. “Someone who can teach me anything I wish to know.”

Papa laughs. “And what is it you wish to know, my girl?” he asks. You are unsure if he is amused or delighted by your request.

His question makes you think. What do I want to know? There is no single answer you can produce. How do you describe the feeling of wanting to know something you don’t know enough about to be sure you want to learn it?

“Anything,” is what you reply with. “Everything.”

“Anything and everything.” Papa takes a drink from his cup, his nose scrunching when the liquid inside hits his tongue. You do not think it is wine. He returns the cup to the table beside him, reaching his hand out to you. You move forward to take it. “A lofty request. But you are soon to be ten summers!” He grins. A scab at his temple cracks with the motion. “That, I think, is a milestone worthy of celebration. Very well, daughter,” he says with a grunt. “If a tutor is what you want, then a tutor we shall find.”

He stays true to his word. Not long after you make your appeal to him, all manner of strangers the Realm over make their way to King’s Landing to seek an audience with you and Papa. It is the first time you are allowed to remain by his side in the Great Hall, though it means you must balance atop a twist of melted-together swords to rest your rear against the edge of the armrest, one of the few places upon the Throne that cannot cut you should you make contact with it. Papa insists, however, for these people have gathered to seek employment with you, and so you must be the one to approve them.

There is frightfully little to approve. Several of those who come to answer Papa’s ravens ignore you wholly, their eyes sliding over you as though you are not even there. One of them, a man named Robert, outright refuses to answer your query as to what would make cyvasse lessons so appealing to a girl of your station. It is enough to put you off the game entirely. But his conduct is by no means the worst. There are younger lads who possess no more skill than the average knight’s squire, clearly hastened to the Red Keep by the promise of a lucrative wage and companionship with the King’s daughter. More than one Septon shuffles in to lecture you and Papa on the merits of providing a holy education to the female mind, sinful as it is. Even noblemen like Lord Rosby come to offer to take wardship of you, suggesting that growing up with another girl your age is more than enough learning for a Princess. You suspect his proposal has more to do with the large sum he owes over East.

You and Papa reject them all, sending them away with nary a further glance. Those who grow angered by the refusal are easily frightened off by Ser Criston’s hand coming to rest on his pommel at the foot of the steps. Since Alicent had appointed him your sworn shield some moons after Rhaenyra’s wedding, he has taken to his task with a dedication that would worry you if not for the fact that he is made to take breaks. You think that if he were allowed, he would set up a pallet beside the door to your rooms to keep constant guard over you.

Four days after your tenth name day, someone different arrives. Someone new.

“Presenting Ser Lysan Marios of… er… the Free Cities!” the guard announces.

You crane your neck in curiosity as this Ser Lysan makes his way into the hall. He is dark-skinned, light-haired, and his robes are an odd assortment of various fabrics stitched together. It appears well-made, if unusual, and the colours are bright. Reds, blues, yellows, greens, oranges—it seems as though every shade is represented in the patches making up his attire, though you note that purple is missing. Not a noble, then. The man ambles slowly inside, helped by the use of a cane.

“I am from Volantis, Your Grace,” he says when he is finally within earshot, bowing lowly. His voice is deep and rich; if a hug were to have a sound, you think this would be the closest you might come to finding it. “But I do suppose ‘of the Free Cities’ works just as well as any other epithet.”

“You have come a long way, Ser,” Papa says. He is smiling like he always does when these visits begin. You wonder how long it will take for it to fade this time. “You are welcome here in King’s Landing.”

Ser Lysan laughs. “I certainly feel welcome! Such pleasant people you have here, Your Grace. Not a single one has attempted to steal my books thus far—and I confess I have brought plenty!”

This is what spurs you to finally speak up. “Books?” you ask. “What kind?”

When his eyes meet yours, it is like they twinkle, like stars. His mouth widens, exposing pearl-white teeth. “And this must be the young Princess to whom I would be most glad to embark upon the journey of erudition with! Salutations to you, Your Highness!”

He bows again, attempting to cast his arm wide in a flourish—but it appears he had forgotten he was carrying one of his aforementioned books in hand, for it promptly clatters to the floor when he flings his hand out. You giggle, charmed. You cannot help it. He seems so kindly.

“Oh! Oh dear,” he mutters, crouching to the ground to collect his quarry. “My apologies, Your Grace, Your Highness. Oh dear…”

Ser Criston darts forward as if to help, but the man has already taken hold of his prized tome by the time he is close enough.

“Ah—might I ask what areas you are learned in, Ser Lysan?” Papa asks, clearing his throat. His brow has furrowed ever-so-slightly, which means he finds the man before him a little confusing. It is more than a little funny. “My daughter has yet to decide upon an avenue of study.”

The embarrassment slides straight off Ser Lysan’s face. It is as though a bolt of lightning courses through him, such is the sudden shift of his expression into one of sparking joy. “Oh! What am I not a scholar of? I have studied in the physicians’ arts with the Healer’s Guild of Lorath; I have attended the great histories of Westeros and Essos with the esteemed intellectuals of Braavos; I have amassed a more-than-considerable lexicon of tongues across the known world—”

For a reason unknown to you, this piques your interest. “Languages? You know different languages?”

He nods. “Oh, yes! I am quite proficient in your ancestral tongue, Princess. Valyrio Eglio udrir jaehenka issa.” High Valyrian is the language of the godly. He winks. “I am also well-versed in the Eastern dialects of Valyrian, though admittedly they have not the lyricism of their originator. But I must confess, it is my particular interest to devote my academic prowess to the Lekh Dothraki, the tongue of those who ride.”

Papa’s knee twitches beside you. “The Dothraki? How have you come to make dealings with them?”

Ser Lysan waves him off. “Oh, I would not profess to be so grand as to make dealings with the horse-riders of the East! Ah, but mine wife was a Dothraki woman, who gave herself to me in payment for preventing a Volantene herbalist from poisoning her brother. A strange and alarming custom, I once thought. She was the most marvellous of creatures.” He sighs. For a moment, he is silent—then he jerks nearly full-bodied, as though he is awakening from some reverie. “The Dothraki are a misunderstood civilisation, Your Grace,” he says to Papa. “It is my hope that, in time, I am able to repay my wife’s goodness and bring knowledge to those who are ignorant of their ways.”

“I see,” Papa says. He coughs awkwardly. I don’t think he has ever met someone so inclined to talking, you muse. “And… what of your wife now? I had thought the Dothraki were opposed to crossing the sea.”

“They are.” Ser Lysan’s expression becomes shadowed, drawn. “It is my great sorrow that she has passed on to the nightlands, to roam the skies among the starry khalasar of her people.”

“My condolences.” This sounds more genuine; you know that Papa too still mourns your mother, even though he has Alicent now.

“My gratitude, Your Grace. But”—at this, he lightens, forcing a smile to his face once more—“that is not what I have come to discuss, is it?” He turns to you. “My apologies, Princess! If I am so fortunate as to be deemed worthy by you, you may well find such tangents a price to pay for the lessons I have to impart. I am not well known for brevity, I am afraid.”

He’s the one. He’s my tutor. You know it. The way he speaks so happily about all the things he has learned; the way he cares so much about showing that some people are not always what everyone else thinks of them; the way he talks to you as though you are a person rather than just a means of earning coin or living in a palace. You want to know what it is like to be surrounded by that happiness, to spend your days learning from a person such as he rather than continue to quail under the yoke of Septa Marlow.

You readjust to curl into Papa, to lean forward and whisper into the shell of his ear. “I like Ser Lysan, Papa.”

“You do?” He exhales, a long-suffering sigh of resignation. His stare narrows at you as though irritated, though it slowly morphs into a grudging sort of smile. “Naturally.” If he were ’Nyra, he would be rolling his eyes by now. To Ser Lysan, he projects his voice far louder and says, “It appears my daughter has no taste for brevity, Ser. If you wish to take up this post, we would be… honoured… to accommodate you.”

Ser Lysan’s brows raise in surprise. “Oh! No, Your Grace! The honour is mine!” He bows a third time, and it really ought to be excessive, but you cannot help how amiable you find him. “I pray I will not disappoint you, Princess.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Ser Lysan,” you say, fighting the urge to leave Papa’s side and go forth to follow the man before you wherever he might go, to let yourself be enthralled by his tales and his rambling, half-formed thoughts. “I hope we shall have a very good time together.”

You are not to know it at this precise moment—but you will.

“We have made our introductions, Princess, and I have learned the lay of the land as best I can, so to speak.”

Ser Lysan is settled in the chair opposite you, having just completed his surveyance of the room around him. You have been granted a solar for the very first time, a whole new chamber to fill with the tools necessary to begin your education. It is empty for now, though the bare necessities are present—namely, the considerable size of the bookshelves just waiting for their occupants to rest safely upon their surfaces. These will, in time, be filled by both your own and your tutor’s collections, or so he has assured you.

The crinkle of a page rouses you from your thoughts. Ser Lysan has unrolled a scroll of parchment, the nib of his quill already inked and prepared for some unknown purpose. He stares assessingly at you.

“What is it you wish to know?” he asks, hand poised to write.

It blurts out of you before you can think to stop it. “You can only be called ‘Ser’ if you are a knight, but you have said you are a scholar. How is it that you have come to be called ‘Ser’, then?”

You wince. Your question is far ruder than you had intended it to be. Thankfully, Septa is not here—she has begun spending more time with Helaena as of late. She would surely have reprimanded you. The query only serves to make the man smile indulgently at you, though. He lays the quill to the side upon his blotting paper. The ink pools dark across the fibres.

“If you must know, Princess… I was a soldier in the Battle of the Borderland. The triarchs sent us in to attempt to wrest control of the Disputed Lands from Lys, Tyrosh and Myr. They were once under Volantene rule, did you know?”

Ser Lysan gazes at a spot on the wall just past you, and it is like he is seeing something altogether different. Something from another time and place.

“At first, we were sure of victory. Volantis has long held dominion in the East for a reason, after all. Our armies were larger; our armour finer; our steel sharper. But then…” He sighs. “Those cities joined forces. Formed the Triarchy. No one saw it coming. We ought to have. Such is hindsight, is it not? We understand now the things we missed then.”

Ser Criston shifts by the door, clearly uncomfortable. You wonder when he will interrupt, when he will instruct Ser Lysan not to tell you such dark-natured stories. You can only hope it will not turn violent.

“One morn—the sun had barely risen—our garrison was set upon by the Triarchy’s forces,” the man continues. “It was… carnage. So few of us survived. Of those of us that did, even fewer still were able to stand. The alliance’s warriors enjoyed leaving a rather particular token behind on the battlefield, as we were to learn. Severed legs are quite effective deterrents, it turns out.”

“That’s enough,” Ser Criston barks, face set in a glare. Secretly, you are glad for the interruption. The tale had grown far too frightening for you.

“My apologies!” Ser Lysan says, coughing lightly. “I forget myself sometimes. To answer your question, Princess—I was able to make my way back to the main encampment, to warn the commanders just in time for our troops to pull back from the region. Many a life was lost; but thousands more were saved that day. I was knighted in the field.” A wan smile curves his lips. “That is where my title of ‘Ser’ comes from.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you say. “I… I am sure it is not a pleasant memory. I am sorry.”

“It is quite alright. I became stronger for it. I learned that if I wish to survive, I must fight for it with everything I have in me. The fires of adversity strengthen the spirit.” He pauses, eyes locked onto your own. They are dark, almost black, like all the light in the world has been quenched. “Let this be my first lesson unto you—if you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.”

Silence lingers for one moment; two; three. All of a sudden, he is cheerful again, shuffling his papers like nothing of import has occurred. You share an uncertain look with Ser Criston, who looks positively bewildered by the shift. Ser Lysan is an eccentric man, you decide. This is no bad thing.

“Back to my previous question, Princess.” Ser Lysan picks up his quill once more, dipping it in the inkwell and tapping it against the rim to return the excess to the bottle. “I am knowledgeable in a great deal about the world in which we live. What is it that you would have me instruct you in? Histories, statecraft, linguistics?”

Before you is a man who has lived. He has come from a strange land bearing a strange name, learned in all manner of strange subjects. He fought for Volantis. His wife was a Dothraki woman. He bears the title ‘Ser’ and yet wears a patchwork robe. What you know of him is bleak and terrifying, and yet here he sits before you, as jovial as a young man in his cups. There is a steady peace to him despite all he has seen, all he has likely experienced.

How has he come to be so merry? You think about the manner in which he’d brightened at the talk of his learning. Could one achieve such simple tranquillity through knowledge alone? Can books, can foreign tongues and foreign disciplines empower you with that sense of fulfilment you crave, that sense of belonging you have felt absent all your life?

You want dearly to discover the answer. It is this that permits you to finally settle upon your response to him.

“Anything,” you breathe. “Everything.”

You are not as brave as your sister. She is able to stand face to face against even the staunchest of her detractors—as of late, this being your very own lady stepmother, determined to discover what she believes to be ‘the truth’ of Jacaerys’s parentage, for a boy so dark of hair cannot possibly be Laenor’s, by her reckoning—without so much as a quiver in her lip. She can endure shouting, the strike of a switch, the endless train of whispers that seep through every crack in the walls of the Keep with barely a pause in her breath to mark the ignominy of it. She can laugh in the face of humiliation and continue on her way with her head held high and some cutting remark poised on the tip of her tongue like a steel barb waiting to meet its target. These are not things you are capable of. But then, you are only a girl; younger than Rhaenyra was when she was made heir.

Yet old enough to finally—finally—claim your own dragon.

It had taken you years to wear down Papa, the scar on your arm serving as a perpetual reminder of the dangers that lie ahead in seeking out your birthright. Whenever you had made the request—“oh, please, Papa! I swear that I am ready!”—he had only to look upon the mark bisecting your flesh before his eyes hardened, the musculature of his neck clenched and poised to shake in refusal.

Once, his rejection had been sufficient to prevent your asking for several moons’ turns at the least; but Ser Lysan has been of great influence in his two years serving as your teacher, your companion, and your dear friend. If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it. These words have remained as carvings in stone within your mind since that very first meeting. It is not within your power to unleash fire and fury the way your sister might—but you have come to learn that such a thing was never in your power. Your strength lay in other qualities. Your courtesy. Your placidity. Your modesty. These are strengths in their own way.

You had continued to ask. Over time, the nature of your appeals changed from churlish, infantile insistence to restrained, unaffected enquiry. Upon rebuff, you had smiled and said, “Very well, Papa. Thank you for listening.” You had repeated this same tactic over and over, sennight after sennight, until, at last, Papa had been worn down to his bones from weariness.

“You’ll not let up, will you, my girl?” he had asked, utterly fed up.

Instead of responding, you had simply maintained your carefully blank gaze, prepared to don your quiet acceptance like armour when his denial should strike. He had sighed; rubbed his eyes. The pull of his skin had cracked open another fissure in the lines of his face, red slowly beading up to the surface.

“Fine!” he had finally exclaimed, his hand thumping down upon the table so hard that you had wondered at his not feeling it. This was before the maesters agreed to remove it from his person, and so the flesh was mottled grey and black from rot. “Do as you will, daughter. Far be it from me to dissuade you.”

Thus, the ravens had been sent to the Dragonkeepers residing on the ancestral isle of House Targaryen; the ship had been made ready; your retinue arranged; and you had been sent off on your first great journey.

The moment you step foot upon the shore in the low light of early evening, you hear it. You feel it. Like a rattling in the core of your bones, or an unearthly siren song catching faintly on the wind. It is not a sound, though, nor a sensation that you can describe in any language you know. All that you are sure of is that there is something here, something… expecting you.

Come, it says. I am waiting.

The Keepers linger past the shoreline, scarcely a stone’s throw away. “Urnēbās, darilaros!” one says, eyes darting nervously about. Be watchful, Princess! “Va īlō Zōbrios issa.” The Dark One is near.

“The Dark One?” you ask, frowning. “Who is that?”

Septa Marlow’s face pales so starkly that she looks like she has applied paints to her skin. She seems entirely distasteful of the island itself, a curl to her lip that she only gets when seeing or hearing something she does not like. Meanwhile, Ser Criston’s fist tightens on the grip of his sheathed sword. He too glances around, tracking the skies like a shadowy shape will make its appearance at any moment. He seems familiar with the name.

It must be a dragon, you think. Very few living creatures reside upon the island, save for those that had been introduced by your blood long ago. Dragons are the only wild things that can weather such inhospitable climes.

The Keeper leans in. “The Cannibal.” He shivers. “He is most wroth as of late. Beware of the beaches—too many of our Order have been lost to his appetites.”

The Cannibal. It is a story you have heard only when one had sought to frighten you—that of a winged beast so monstrous that not even his own kind would endure him. A creature so malevolent that he found his joy through death and destruction, ripping apart the younger members of his species so thoroughly that, at times, it was as though blood rained down from the heavens. The Cannibal, a being so malignant that any man who attempted to ride him had vanished cleanly from the face of the earth, consumed whole or left to rot away in some deep, dank pit below the mountainous terrain.

And yet—for all his supposed cruelties—no cities, no villages, no lands have been brought to waste beneath his flames. It is the one part of those tales that had never made sense to you. If he were as awful as that, surely there would be no one and nothing safe from him?

“Let us not waste our time, then,” Ser Criston says firmly, hand pressed between your shoulders to spur you onward. The weight of it grounds you in the present. He turns to bark orders at the attendants making their way ashore. “To the Keep!”

You are taken past the Great Hall, catching a glimpse of the Painted Table on your way to a smaller chamber. You know the name of Aegon I’s table is not quite correct; that it is made mostly of wood and rock, and that the rock itself is what Ser Lysan has told you is thermoluminescent, ‘thermo’ meaning heat and ‘luminescent’ meaning light. The table glows like lava when you ignite the candles below it, casting the great map of Westeros into fire. You should very much like to see it. But this visit is not to take in the sights of your family’s seat.

Much to the Keepers’ confusion and consternation, you reject the offer to examine the eggs they have concealed within the hatchery. Or rather, you feel that the eggs would reject you if you should try to seek your companion in one. It is difficult to explain even in your own mind, so you make no attempt at voicing these thoughts—these almost-whispers at the back of your mind, like a soft brush of fingers at the base of your skull.

Septa Marlow huffs her displeasure. “This is most unbecoming of you, Princess. You ought to know better than to refuse a gift such as this.”

‘They are not for me,’ you want to say. ‘The thought of them does not rouse me.’

You know not why you feel certain of this—that the mere prospect should stir you beyond simple anticipation. But it is as though you have always known this, for you do not find yourself disappointed by the missed opportunity nor by the censure.

A faint recollection sparks from your earliest youth, an old fear of what should occur if an egg comes into your possession and refuses to hatch, turning to stone over years and years. You do not wish for such a future. No; it is for the best that the eggs are left for another. Another time, another day, another person. Perhaps when it comes time to have your own children, you will revisit the notion.

To make matters even more complicated, however, there are no hatchlings upon the isle. It is what you had counted on all this time, but it seems that this is not to be, either.

“Zōbrios pōnte iprattas,” Acolyte Zūgis tells you, wringing his hands for good measure. The Dark One ate them all.

What a nervous man, you think. Since meeting him on the beach, he has been continuously anxious, ready to jump clear out of his skin at the slightest disturbance. You wonder if his path is best suited to Dragonkeeping if he is so afraid of it.

“Pōntālosa sikagon kostis, yn jēdraro toliot dorolviktys se dorolviktys sittaksi.” His mouth twists. Sometimes they hatch by themselves… but that has become rarer and rarer over the years. Your stomach twists at this. There was once a time where dragons hatched aplenty upon the isle. No more, it seems. “Vermithor dārligon kostā, darilaros. Yn uēpys issa se zaldrīzāeksio bōso jēdo syt mijetas. Qopsa kessa, se avy hinikilāks.”

You can try to claim Vermithor, Princess, he concludes. But he is old and has long since been without a rider. It will be difficult, and dangerous.

Neither Septa Marlow nor Ser Criston understand High Valyrian—but the name Vermithor agitates them nonetheless.

“A dragon of such size and stature is not appropriate for a well-bred lady,” Septa exclaims, fingers like claws clasped together before her. “What of Silverwing? Good Queen Alysanne’s mount? Does it not reside here? ‘Tis far more suitable beast.”

The Keeper shakes his head. “We believe Silverwing is gravid. She has shown much aggression as of late. The last of us to attempt approach…” The silence that hangs at the end of the sentence leaves no mistaking his meaning. He clears his throat. “Well. It is far too perilous at present. Vermithor is the Princess’s best option.”

“The Princess is a child,” Ser Criston says, expression flat and eyes flinty. “Vermithor is a dragon of war. I am sorry, Princess”—he kneels before you, angling his head up so he can look directly at you, and one hand folds around your elbow—“but I cannot let you risk yourself so.”

You know what you are being told, albeit in a roundabout way. The despair renders you mute. What am I to do? What am I to do? You nod, an agreement to your sworn shield’s words, though your heart is scarcely in it.

“Perhaps on the morrow,” the Keeper says, “we may… reattempt with the eggs, then. We have several, though they have been kept for some years now.”

Ser Criston makes his agreements to Acolyte Zūgis, entering into discussion with him and Septa Marlow as to the following day’s schedule. None of them so much as turn their faces to include you, despite the fact that you are central to their plans.

While they talk, another thought comes to mind. You wonder why none have so much as dared to broach another possibility—that there are three wild dragons upon the isle. Silverwing and Vermithor are not your only options.

Sleep is hard to come by, that same, pulsing sensation tingling through your limbs and keeping you awake.

Come, it seems to say. I am waiting.

You rise before the sun comes up. Septa Marlow is likely to be awake at this time, but she will not venture your way until the skies are bathed in light. Ser Criston does not begin his shift until an hour after you rise; his replacement is usually whomever can be spared.

It is even easier than usual to make your escape.

Dragonstone is an old fortress, and so there are a great many secret passages winding between rooms. You need only to check behind the tapestry along the inner wall to determine that an opening has been concealed. Brandishing the candle from your bedside, you slip into the looming maw that awaits.

Inside, it smells of damp and salt, and you can hear a faint, steady drip. It continues no matter which direction your feet take you, and you feel your breath stream from your mouth and nose in a cloud of warmth that gives the skin of your face and neck momentary respite from the wintry chill. The walls are rough-hewn, made for function rather than appeal, so you are careful where you place your hands.

Because you are so unfamiliar with the layout, you wander for what seems an age before you finally surface upon the outdoors, a dim glow emanating from between metal grates at the end of a dark tunnel. The hinges squeak shrilly as you push them open, shutting behind you with a clang. Your slippered feet sink into the sand upon the beach.

You do not know where you are headed—to find Vermithor or Silverwing, to find one of the wild ones, or simply to wander. All you know is that one of them is calling to you through the magic of old, the magic that ’Nyra and Papa have always said lives in the blood of the Targaryen line. It is how Papa knew that he was destined to be Balerion’s last rider. It is how ’Nyra found the courage to mount Syrax when she was so young. You feel it now, singing in your blood as it has since you crossed into the shallows surrounding the island.

Come and find me, it says. I am waiting.

You trudge along the beach, allowing the sand to sink into the opening of your shoes, to fill the small spaces between shoe and skin with stinging grit that collects between your toes and rubs to rawness. The wind whips at your hair and your robe—you did not bother to change from your evening wear—and the sound of the waves crash like thunder.

You walk. And, as you walk, you wait for the purpose to reveal itself, a part of you hoping that whomever you are meant to claim will find you.

You ought to be more careful of what you wish.

A dark shape swoops across the sky above you, casting you even further into shadow, and you hear the rumble of something powerful. The beat of its wings is great enough to be heard from a distance, you think, and stirs up the sand before you into a cloud of dirt and dust. The beast growls, deep and terrifying, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

It lands ahead.

Oh, no. Oh, no.

The Cannibal.

He is enormous, far greater in size than Syrax, than Caraxes, than any dragon you have ever seen or read about. His scales are black—no—blacker than black, the complete absence of colour or brightness, and each muscle honed from years upon years of eking out his existence ripple below the skin. His lips peel back, exposing at least two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. Perfect for tearing me to bits, your mind supplies in your panic. His stocky frame hunches low, claws sunk into the sand, as though poised to attack, and he hisses, a rattling threat that fills you with the urge to run.

His eyes glow green. You feel it again.

Come. I am waiting.

What is it Ser Lysan said, again? If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.

Come. I am waiting.

It may be courage, it may be madness, but you are moving onward before you realise it. The dragon hisses again as you approach, and any moment you expect to be bathed in dragonfire or snapped up in his almighty jaws, but your footsteps remain as rapid as your heartbeat.

The attack does not come. The fire does not come.

Something more is at play here. You may only be twelve summers, but this you know. A dragon as fierce as the Cannibal would never let a person so close as this under ordinary circumstances. Old magic thrums through the air, a tether forming between you and the form ahead. A bond. A claim.

You reach out a hand. Skin to scale. Heat that ought to burn courses through you, but you are safe. You feel his pulse, your pulse, pounding through dermis, reforming your own to match.

Your eyes well. “Gierior glaeson ñuhon avy rhaenagon jumptan,” you whisper. I have waited my whole life to meet you. In the rumble he releases, you think he must believe the same of you.

Dressed only in your nightgown, you make the climb up his wing. He lets you, chuffing irritably as you seek out the correct handholds and footholds to make your way up. It is entirely different from mounting Caraxes; this dragon is much, much larger, and so you are forced to actively coordinate your movements to ascend the perilous terrain. Still, there is enough of memory remaining to you of that day, years ago, that you can draw some reference from. You rely on those recollections to hoist yourself up. Finally, you are able to settle somewhat awkwardly between the blunted spikes below his neck.

From far off, you can hear faint voices. Atop the crest of the Cannibal’s shoulder, you look to the horizon. The sun has risen. The world is awake, which means that Ser Criston and Septa Marlow will be leading the search for their wayward princess.

It startles the dragon. Before you are ready—before you would even have dared to tell him to fly—he shifts, growling so deep that the vibrations buzz through your legs, your toes. You jostle where you have perched, gripping frantically to the spike in front of you as he sets off on a crawl that morphs to a run, building momentum to flap his wings up and up and up—

“Princess!” echoes through the breeze as you rise. Below, you see the forms of the guards, of Ser Criston, of Septa, growing smaller and smaller as the dragon—your dragon—takes to the air.

You keep hold of the Cannibal’s spike as he soars through the skies, letting the wind billow your hair about. It is both the same and so, so very different from your first flight. It is freezing up here, for one thing, and you can discern no sound but that of the air whistling so stridently in your ears that it is like a shriek, and the dragon below you is warm enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay. Your belly swoops and twists with each wingbeat, the momentum rocking you forward every time, but none of the discomfort is enough to tamp down the sheer exhilaration.

The Cannibal turns, revolving away from the distant line where sky and sea meet toward the island again. The change in direction gives you a momentary reprieve from the rush of air hindering all noise, and you hear something else.

Beneath your legs, beneath your skin, you feel it as the Cannibal bellows to the world, a roar that pierces the still of morning and announces to all that his wait is over. That he has claimed his rider, that you have claimed your mount—that you have done what no one else has been able to and emerged victorious.

That feeling—the one that has plagued you—has changed, you realise. You have found me, it seems to say.

Yes, you think, turning your head to admire the expanse of this creature, this being who is and was always meant to be yours. I have.

When you land, Ser Criston and Septa Marlow nearly shake you from your body with the force of their panic, their vexation, their “You do not ever run off like that, do you hear me, Princess?” and their “Just wait until your father hears of this!” They try to dissuade you from your course, but the Keepers wring their hands and mutter that the deed has been done; there is no unbinding what has been bound by the magic of old.

Still, their refrain is just as shocked, just as bewildered. “The Cannibal, Princess,” they say, shaking their heads. “The Cannibal…”

“No,” you reply. “His name is Athfiezar.”

Dothraki is fairly new to you, ‘tis true, for Ser Lysan did not agree to teach you until well into your acquaintance. And there is a certain irony in the choice; many a person will surely raise their brows in question of your use of such a savage tongue, which is rather best suited for a dragon of his reputation. But the word—the name, for he has long gone without one, and it seems only right that he should have something of his own, free of the censure of old—seems apt enough. Love. That pure, uncorrupted kind, the kind you think you have been searching for your whole life, the kind you find in small moments that are never, ever enough for the gaping maw that is your heart awaiting someone to fill it. You just know the Cannibal—Athfiezar—is a creature with a soul like yours. How long has he gone without love?

Never again, you think. Not with me.

You hold onto that thought as Papa rails at you upon seeing the hulking behemoth touch upon the top of the Dragonpit, heralding your return to King’s Landing.

“You could have died! What in the blazes were you thinking, girl?” he yells.

He has never yelled at you before, and perhaps you might have cried once, but you keep firm to the memory of Athfiezar’s eyes upon yours, the life palpitating through his immense form into yours like some sort of cycle, elemental, mysterious. No matter what Papa says, no matter how he says it, it is as the Keepers said. The deed is done.

The news spreads like wildfire, bringing with it a most unwelcome attention. For much of your life, you had been largely ignored by court and commons—now, with having claimed such a dragon for your own, many a considering eye falls upon you. Their thoughts are louder than if they spoke them: perhaps we have gotten the wrong measure of this one. Perhaps she is worth more notice than we had given her. Invitations to tea come to your door with a regularity that is almost predictable; and, maybe worse, many an enquiring lord approaches Papa with the pivotal question upon their lips: “When is she to be wed, Your Grace?”

Your mother was wed at eleven—it is not impossible that you should be given to some man to settle a treaty or forge an alliance in due course. It is your duty as Princess, after all. One day, yes; but not now. Besides, all they truly desire is the power you have suddenly amassed. They do not want you.

You retreat into yourself, using all the courtesies Septa had imbued into you like plate steel to shield yourself from the worst of it. Save for your two freedoms—your Ser Lysan and your boy, Athfiezar—you commit to being the most polite, the most recalcitrant, the most dull creature you can be. You help ’Nyra with her boys where you can, for a useful girl is best kept than discarded, and your sister is the heir which means her rule will someday be law. You take on two ladies, noblewomen from Houses in the Reach, in accordance with your stepmother’s wishes. You try your very best to devote time to each, spreading yourself between what is rapidly developing into entirely separate factions in the Keep—the Princess and the Queen, the Blacks and the Greens, or so they are called. Such silly names, you think. And, over time, it all becomes less performative and more intrinsic. Your propriety is your defence, and you use it well.

But it will not last forever. One day—one day soon—you will be called in by Papa. You will be told that your life is no longer to be your own, but passed on into the care of a man you will call husband. You will be asked to choose he who will be your master, he who will use your womb to give his House sons and daughters of royal blood, and you will be expected to be glad for the opportunity to make the decision, that it was not taken out of your hands entirely.

You wait for the day, spending what evening hours you can in the Sept entreating the gods for their intercession. Please, you think, on your knees before an effigy of the Maiden. Please. Deliver to me a husband who will love me as I am.

You wait, you hold your breath, and you pray.

“The claiming of the Cannibal came as a great shock to the Realm, not least because of she who had claimed him. King Viserys’s younger daughter by his late Queen Aemma Arryn was by all accounts a diffident, well-mannered girl most unlike her elder sister… Several parties were of the view that the Princess ought to be wed quickly to keep her mighty mount out of the hands of those considered less than desirable. However, it was not until the year of 126 A.C. that the King finally consented to the courtship of the girl, with many a man seeking her hand. Of those suitors, only three were truly deemed worthy—Lord Jason of House Lannister, Lord Denys of House Tyrell, and the Princess’s own half-brother, the Prince Aegon.”

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

Read on AO3:

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

To be on the taglist:

Click here to apply for the general taglist! Click here to apply for the terms of endearment taglist!

#terms of endearment │ daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x you #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd #hotd fanfiction #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #a song of ice and fire fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #got #got fanfiction #matt smith #house targaryen #dance of dragons #fire and blood

[fanfictionroxs]

Rahewinicent poly thoughts in my head 24/7 folks with Rhaenyra and Alicent being romantic, Rahenyra and Harwin being romantic, and Alicent and Harwin bing platonic because Alicent is a lesbian while Rhaewin are bi4bi and both my precious girls deserve this Strong brother and not the rapey one. Harwin and Rahenyra have Jace, Luke and Joffrey while Rhaenyra gets Alicent pregnant with the power of lesbian dragonism or something and Harwin gets to be a dad to all 7 of their kids who follow behind him in a line like ducklings following their mama duck. Alicent does always say that Harwin is a better mom than she is and then will drag Nyra away for dates leaving him to try and control their 7 kids with 7 dragons gods help him (Harwin loves it so much, he just knows he was born to be a dad ALSO he is living his best girl-dad life through Helaena <3).

PS Alicent and Harwin bonding over being terrified of dragons and puking all over the floors after flights while Rhaenyra holds their curly hair up and wonders how the fuck her dragon ass managed to fall for, not ONE, but TWO people who hate flying.

#rhaewinicent #rhaewin #rhaenicent #rhaenyra x alicent #harwin x rhaenyra #house of the dragon #hotd #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #harwin strong #jacaerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon #joffrey velaryon #aegon ii targaryen #halaena targaryen #aemond targaryen #daeron targaryen #fanfictionroxs writes #hotd headcanon #helaena targaryen

[zaldritzosrose]

Keeping Up With The Targaryens (social media au) - Through The Years: Laena

Summary: Laena Velaryon is an model, she is close with the Targaryen family through her parents Corlys and Rhaenys, and because of her brother Laenor's relationship with Rhaenyra Targaryen. But when another Targaryen enters her life things are set to change...

Part One will cover her life as model and the first steps in a relationship with Daemon - dating, wife, sneak peek at mama.

A/N Thank you again to Ali (@legitalicat) for the collab, and everyone who's liking this so far! And as always thank you to @alexagirlie @anjelicawrites @lady-phasma for the amazing love and support!

CW: Laena being a queen and icon, Corlys and Rhaenys being the best parents alive, Laenor and Laena being sibling goals, Laena and Nyra being besties, Daemon being a simp, surprise pregnancy, talk of engagement and marriage. (for context, Nyra is still in her 20s while Laena is a little older - but we're using Milly here for Nyra and Nanna for Laena)

Pairing: Laena x Daemon

Was Daemon being a simp online hint enough?

Nah, Laena gave the people something better...

And as if that wasn't enough!? A few months later...

And a few months after that...DadmonTargaryen took his next form...

And, Laena was the prettiest mama to be and bride ever...(plus even married Daemon is a simp!)

Sneak peek of the honeymoon! But they won't say where!

And lastly...mama Laena is glowing!

#keeping up with the targaryens #daemon targaryen #laena velaryon #daemon x laena #house of the dragon #social media au #reality tv au

[gulnarsultan]

rhaenyra targaryen x mother reader, scenario where young nyra goes to her mother and asks her to take a dragon ride with her

Every time your daughter Rhaenyra looks at you with an innocent look, you know something is going to happen or has happened. You raise an eyebrow and begin to listen to what your daughter has to say.

"Mom. I want you to take a trip with me on Syrax."

"Honey. We talked about it. I just flew Balerion with your father. I honestly don't think I'd be able to fly Syrax."

"I will be there with you."

"But."

"Mother please. You don't trust me?"

You can't resist your daughter's sweet facial expression any longer. You entrust your son Baelon to the servants. Honestly, your husband is worried about this land. However, your daughter's determined attitude convinces your husband. Thanks to Rhaenyra's encouragement, you get close to Syrax and caress the scales.

"See? Syrax loved you."

You get on the Syrax by getting behind your daughter. You're holding on tight from the ether. When the dragon takes off, you scream in excitement.

"Mama, you can open your eyes."

You open your eyes slowly. The view in front of you fascinates you. Your daughter flies her dragon over many fields. Honestly, you really like the freedom and the wind of flying. When you return to the palace, you place a kiss on your daughter's forehead.

"Thanks Nyra."

#house of the dragon #game of thrones #hotd viserys #hotd x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #young rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen x you #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #viserys x reader #viserys i targaryen #viserys i targaryen x reader

[howyouloveyourdragon]

ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ ᴍᴏᴍᴍʏ ʀʜᴀᴇɴʏʀᴀ ʜᴄꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɪ

part 1

pronouns: they them warnings: nsfw section but not neccessary

you hate hiding it from Jace

like actually hate it

he's one of your closest friend and has helped you on numerous occasions but Rhaenyra is just so...Rhaenyra

she almost doesn't even feel like Jace's mum anymore, it's like she two different people to you now

everytime you meet up to go and end things, you're pulled into her embrace again and you don't care anymore, it just feels so right for something so wrong. how could it be wrong for the both of you to be together?

of course Jace notices the change in you but he's not suspicious, you told him you got a new part-time job and with the tips you're making you don't have to worry anymore

he's satisfied enough knowing you're happy

(he secretly thinks you might be a stripper now but doesn't say anything)

you go to less of the dinners at the house on weekends because you feel guilty every time Rhaenyra so much as passes the salt and because you almost always wind up back in her room, her swallowing your moans and praising you like a prayer

the next morning always goes the same way, you leave early and then meet up with her later that night for dinner at the same restaurant your relationship started, somewhere out of town and away from prying eyes

eventually you tell him that you're a sugar baby after you're caught out

you tell him you're working one day so he went to check up on you only to hear that you'd never step foot in there before

you don't tell him it's rhaenyra though

how do you even approach that "hey dude you know when i said i was fucking your mum a year ago when you were pissing me off? oops did it again"

did he even know that she and daemon had a polyamorous relationship?

you didn't wanna find out

so instead you answer all his questions except for the big one... who is it

you both love spending the money on things you can do together but that doesn't mean she doesn't absolutely spoil you, loving the way jewellery she bought you hangs on you

the clothes she buys you are often in her signature black and red but just pout those pretty lips at her and the world is yours

you might as well not even tell you what you need because she'll find out anyway, buying your textbooks before your teacher even mentions them, replacing your apartment furniture every few months because she only wany wants the best for her baby

every once in awhile she might ask if it's okay Daemon join you both for dinner but she doesn't want to make you uncomfortable

if you do choose to let him into the relationship then it definitely sparks some competitive tension between them but they both love spoiling you together

it actually brings them closer, going out shopping on thursdays for you, brainstorming date ideas and what would look good on you, talking about you

they don't want their sweet baby overworking themself

Rhaenyra likes to read over your essays and uniwork, offering to fact-check for you or offer any personal opinions but it mostly ends up in her spewing praise and 'rewarding' you

she spends half her nights at your place and half her place at home, she still loves her husband but you're just so inviting

of course the kids are slightly suspicious but they're going through their own phases and tribulations so long as their mama's home when she gets back home from work, they're happy

she likes things sentimental so i think she would like returning to the restaurant you both first made the agreement but will love when you suggest somewhere, it makes her feel special and especially that you're not just doing it for the money

NSFW

mommy nyra lovess eating you out

for every night you spend apart she doubles the orgasms she pulls from you (on some aegon 1 shit)

half her savings are going toward your lingerie at this point, you just look so pretty all dolled up for her and humping her thigh like a good girl

she likes tugging at your hair but only gently as she pulls you against her

she's not especially vocal but she does make breathy moans and praises at you, she likes intimacy so will usually whisper in your ear as you ride her strap perfectly chosen for you

she likes gripping your thighs and leaving hickeys over you

i feel like one day she would take you to a sex shop and tell you to pick up anything you want and just leave you there dumbfounded for half an hour before coming back and buying out half their collection to try

again i feel like she'd be ecstatic if you wanted to let Daemon into the bedroom but she will never force you, your relationship isn't just about sex and she has the most soft aftercare

she likes washing your hair after sex and braiding it for you before bed, wrapping her arms around you like a teddy bear

she wouldn't be above asking to record you both doing the deed, i can imagine it

i think she would call you endearments such as her 'good girl' or 'sweet one'

definitely a service top in this scenario, she wants her pretty girl feeling loved

Taglist: @multi-fandoms-stuff @syzrina

#rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #rhaenyra targaryen headcanons #headcanons #rhaenyra targaryen modern au #rhaenyra targaryen modern #hotd modern au #hotd modern #hotd modern x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd modern headcanons #hotd headcanons #rhaenyra x sugar baby #sugar mommy rhaenyra #sugar mommy rhaenyra targaryen #sugar mommy rhaenyra x sugar baby reader #sugar mommy rhaenyra x reader #hotd x reader #sugar mommy rhaenyra x reader headcanons #sugar mommy rhaenyra headcanons #rhaenyra targaryen x reader headcanons #modern rhaenyra #modern rhaenyra targaryen #modern rhaenyra targaryen x reader #sugar baby reader

[stuckyhahaha]

What a real mother should be

Fk up mother

Nyra: what? Luke is been poisoned and almost die?! Ok he will be fine I don’t need to see him.he can drink some tea and whatever.

Real mother

Nyra: MY SON IS BEEN POISONED!? I need to feed that man to my dragon! The man who dare to give him poison and the stupid husband who couldn’t even provide safety to my boy!!! Don’t stop me Jacaerys!!!! Syrax!! Come to me I will fly to my boy right now!!!! Don’t you dare stop me!!!!!

******

Fk up sons

Lcmd child: oh ok mama is been poisoned…but how dare you ignore me! I am so unloved I need attention!!!

Real sons

Lcmd child: who dare to poison my mama I need to kill that man! ( waving his tiny little dagger) father if you want to stop me I will avenge my mother by myself (at the age of five)😤

******

Fk up husband

Aemond: oh Luke is need poison, and I couldn’t find out who did that……ok let’s pretend it didn’t happen if someone dare to mention it, I will kick him out of my house.

Real husband

Aemond:I will chase that man till the end of the world and I will never forgive myself for that. It’s all my fault not Luke’s.

******

Fk up Luke

Luke: I’ve been poisoned and it’s all my fault, how dare my family blaming my husband…..

Real Luke

Luke: I am the one who has been poisoned because someone else want Aemond’s cock and it’s me to take the blame? Uncle have you prepared to lose another eye?

#lucemond #aemond x lucerys #rhaenyra targaryen #hotd #nyra is a good mom #no matter what nyra will run to her boy without a second thought #of course it’s Aemond’s fault what do you think #for he couldn’t keep his house clean

[dragondreamers]

200 DAYS OF HOUSE TARGARYEN ↳ day 26: rhaenyra targaryen with viserys ii targaryen in the lord of the tides

#mama nyra! #200 days of targaryens #house of the dragon #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyratargaryenedit #viserys ii targaryen #viserysiitargaryen #houseofthedragonedit #hotdedit #s1 #1x08 #the lord of the tides #*

[atopcat]

Just realised Rhaenyra would only tell Jace about the Song of Ice and Fire because it's something only shared between the monarch and their heir. But then Jace dies and Rhaenyra never fully recovers, maybe she does try to tell Joffrey but he's too traumatised to understand her. Soon all she has is Aegon, she's too distressed, all she can think of is getting her only surviving child to safety, not wishing to burden him. Then she's killed, she's killed before she gets the chance to explain the Song, she's killed before she can let future generations know why Aegon the Conqueror united the realm. That's the real tragedy of the Dance of the Dragons.

#rhaenyra targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #team black #mama Nyra #house of the dragon #hotd #valyrianscrolls #hotd meta #asoiaf meta #joffrey velaryon #aegon iii targaryen

[writingsofwesteros]

Hey can I please request Viserys x reader with rhaenyra as a little girl who has a nightmare and runs to her parents room and wakes them up to ask if she can sleep with and viserys and reader comforts her.

By the way love your writing xxx -----  Here you go, I hope you like it xx

The King and Queen were sleeping happily as the storm raged on around them. You hummed happily into Viserys’ chest; snuggling deeper into him whilst his arm stayed protectively around you. The soft, winter sheets wrapped around you both as you were blissfully unaware of anything else.It had been a long day for them both and after some soft love making; the couple had fallen easily to sleep. 

Your legs tangled around his as the night slowly moved on. It was only the bright moon light moving across your face that you realised your husband was no longer beside you. A soft frown began to form.A soft shiver ran down your spine as you slowly turned around. The sheets ruffled as you did. “Shh, sweet girl, you wake your mama.” 

The voice of your husband came to your ears; slightly muffled as you reached for the sheets. They were empty and cold. Sounds of sniffling reached your ears soon after.“Viserys…” You called out softly as a yawn washed over you. Gracefully, you moved to sit up in the bed. Only a second passed before little feet were bounding their way towards you.

”Nyra..” You whispered out; eyes slightly widening as your little girl cuddled into your chest; body heaving from sobs.“What did you do to her?” You teasingly asked Viserys over your sweet girl’s head. You rested your own on top of her whilst wrapping your arms around your daughter. He placed his hands up in faux surrender. “The little dragon had a nightmare.” The King hummed and your heart broke a little.“Oh, my precious.” 

You whispered down to her whilst slowly rocking Rhaenyra. She only continued to snuggle but it seemed her sobs were dying off now. “You know they are not real.” You gently whispered into her ear some more before softly cupping her small face; your thumbs brushing her cheeks.Your free hand moved through her locks whilst Viserys began to climb back into the bed. “Do you want me to take you back to bed now?” You hummed; continuing to stroke her whilst bringing the covers down. 

Rhaenyra erratically shook her head and became even more upset now.“No, mama..want to stay with you.” Rhaenyra whimpered up at you. Oh, she was so precious, you thought as you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Of course, my love.” You hummed and watched a bright smile come across her face. Oh, what you would do to always see such a sight.Soft giggles escaped the Princess whilst Viserys watched on with a soft smile. His heart warmed at the sight as Rhaenyra quickly moved under the covers. She only stayed away for a moment before she was cuddling back into you. “I love you.” She whispered to you both as her own yawn escaped her.“I love you too.” 

You hummed; pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, which Viserys repeated. “You would think her dragon would help her sleep.” Viserys whispered as he brought the covers up around you both. His arm resting behind you whilst you only watched the angel sleep. “Hmm, she’s still our baby.”

#submission

[lovl3igh]

you can be team black, you can be team green (but really? think about it again) but this one scene is not a moment for picking sides!!

rhaenyra was right, alicent was right, no, they both were wrong.

tbf I'ma give one point to nyra, cause all she wanted there, was protecting her children, while alicent used her will to protect aemond to get revenge on rhaenyra, you can see it in the words they use when alicent attacks rhaenyra.

but look at it, nyra just saw her children covered in blood but found out they're mostly okay - while her brother (maybe she doesn't care that much, but still, it's a kid) just lost his eye. let's be real, she did not ask for aemond to be tortured like team green likes to imply, but it's not time to be "sharply questioned" when kid is high on a poppy milk.

she has wrong facts "my sons were attacked", they weren't. rhaena was attacked first, mentally and then physically. jace and luke attacked aemond to protect girls and only ended up protecting themselves. were they wrong for it? i'd say no. rhaena and baela just lost their mother and were insulted for nothing (there was no real conflict between twins and hightowers at the time, simply the girls have better relations with jace and luke), also rhaena lost chance to claim vhagar, the last connection to laena (interesting that aemond went to the dragon at night, like knowing he's doing sth wrong huh). 4vs1 is not fair, but aemond was first to seriously hurt someone and he attempted to kill jace. foolish children fight, when one boy almost died and one lost his eye.

"luke should have been punished". he should have apologized. nyra was there to make that happen, but nothing more. I don't see comments demanding punishment for aemond for attempting kinslaying or hurting girls and luke. and no, losing an eye wasn't a punishment, it was an accident. rhaenyra should have offer an apology, nothing more, but at least that.

on the other hand rhaenyra just realized it's the kind of situation she feared that it's gonna happen since jace's birth. she knew people just wait to harm her children. and now they did and truly she can't do much about it bc it's little prince who hurt them. but she is constantly in mama bear mode - can't blame her.

"over an insult aemond's lost his eye". it was not "just" an insult. it was a death sentence. claiming boys openely as bastards it's like saying "you can harm them without consequences, yes, they're rhaenyra's sons, but who give a fck about that woman". viserys was dying, otto and alicent didn't cared about nyra's sons safety. so she protected there her children and she was the only one who got hurt.

and then we have alicent. too much. she did not only attempt to hurt royal blood, a prince, she tried to take an eye from LITTLE BOY. woman, have you lost your mind? and ended up with hurting the heir to the throne. gurl. if she was not a queen or viserys was even worse husband, she would've met consequences. by her logic - she definitely should have met consequences "over an argument rhaenyra lost blood". and where are we now? over an eye luke lost his life.

"he's your son, viserys, your blood" and rhaenyra is what, alicent? and luke is what? or jace? you can't demand hurting king's grandchildren to feel better about yourself.

"where is duty? where is sacrifice?" so bc you were sold by your father and SA by your husband, everyone have to go through the same? nyra must be rped, neglected by her husband, her sons shouldn't have loving, caring father?

and again. LET THOSE CHILDREN SPEAK. aemond ofc was lying during the whole intervention. he blamed aegon when it was alicent and otto's fault about rumors - how nice that alicent didn't take responsibility there (where is your duty now?) hmm, not mentioning that spreading those rumors, she put the kids in danger - he didn't admit that he was trying to kill jace, nah he was innocent boy attacked by others, the only victim. and alicent ofc believed him bc poor baby lost his eyes and bastards boys must be lying.

if you gotta pick said in this situation - here, there are rhaena and baela. you can fully support them.

#hotd #house of the dragon #rhaenyra targaryen #anti rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #anti alicent hightower #aemond targaryen #anti aemond targaryen #rhaena targaryen #baela targaryen #jace velaryon #luke velaryon #anti viserys i targaryen

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

darilaros (princess) │ Chapter 2: Dolls

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 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: As the second daughter of King Viserys, you experience firsthand what it means to belong to the House of the Dragon. You attend your very first tourney in celebration of your brother or sister’s impending arrival. 

Hello! My apologies for the wait. There was a whole mess of stuff that killed my drive to write for a few days. BUT, I’ve managed to write this one, featuring baby!Babey as a POV character! I’ve tried hard to keep it in a ‘small person’ voice, which got real old real fast, lol. Keep in mind that she’s around 3 years old in this one, so she’s not hella mature or anything. My thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ for reading this asshole over, lol.

TRIGGERS: child doing child things, child narrating Episode 1 of HotD, character death.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl called Hana. Hana was the prettiest girl in the whole kingdom, and she wore fancy dresses with gold and silver necklaces and rings, and she had a pearl hairnet in her red hair. There was also another girl called Marya who was very pretty too, but not as pretty as Hana. When Hana and Marya were lit—

“Ah,” Mama says. “Rhaenyra!”

From your place on the floor in the corner, right in the middle of a patch of sunlight, you see that ’Nyra has come. It’s not nice to have your story interrupted, but ’Nyra’s visits are always fun, so you don’t mind. She is dressed the way she does when she goes to visit Syrax, which means she will smell funny and make Mama cross.

“You know I don’t like you to go flying while I'm in this condition,” Mama adds.

“You don't like me to go flying while you're in any condition.”

Alicent, ’Nyra’s best friend, stands in the doorway. She is very very pretty, you think, with red hair like Hana’s and a blue dress that makes her look like a girl from one of the old stories you like to listen to. “Your Grace,” she says, smiling.

“Good morrow, Alicent.” Mama sighs. She sounds very tired. She has put her coat back on, even though it’s so hot in the room and she’s fanning herself to try and dry the sweat on her cheeks and her brow.

“Did you sleep?” ’Nyra asks.

Mama laughs, quick and soft. “I slept.”

“How long?” ’Nyra takes a seat on the stool beside Mama’s feet.

“I don’t need mothering, Rhaenyra.”

“Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants, all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you.”

That is when Mama’s eyes go to you. “I have my own right here, so there is no need to fear.”

’Nyra turns to look, too. Her frown goes away and she smiles, wiggling her fingers at you to say ‘hello’. Even though she’s your sister and that means you love her, you don’t go over to her. She is older, so she doesn’t care very much about dolls or stories or little sisters who don’t have dragons.

Mama keeps talking to ’Nyra while you listen. “You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the Realm.” None of it makes sense, but you like the sound of their voices.

’Nyra makes a rude noise. “I'd rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory.”

Mama laughs. “We have royal wombs, you and your sister and I. The childbed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip.”

Why would a child’s bed be a battlefield? My bed is nice and big. And what is a stiff lip? Is it something that Maester Mellos should give his herbs for? Are there bones in a lip? Can those bones break like big bones can?

You have lots of questions, but you don’t say what you’re thinking out loud, of course. The Maester only said you could be in here if you were good, so you mustn’t talk unless Mama asks you something or starts saying things to you.

“Now,” Mama says to ’Nyra, “take a bath. You stink of dragon.”

’Nyra stands up and bends down to kiss Mama on her head. Then, she comes over to you and gets on the floor so she can give you a hug and a kiss, and she is warm and smelly like Mama said she is. You like the smell, though, because it is what ’Nyra always smells like.

’Nyra leaves with Alicent, and for a while it is very calm. Mama takes a nap by closing her eyes and leaning with her head back, so you make sure to be very quiet when you continue telling yourself the story.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl called Hana. Hana was the prettiest girl in the whole kingdom, and she wore fancy dresses with gold and silver necklaces and rings, and she had a pearl hairnet in her red hair. There was also another girl called Marya who was very pretty too, but not as pretty as Hana. When Hana and Marya were little, they were best friends, and they played dolls and sang hymns and learned their letters together. But when they became older, they started to fight.

Marya was jealous of Hana. Lords from all over the kingdom wanted to marry her because of how pretty and how kind she was. That meant that not many lords wanted to marry Marya, even though she had lovely dark hair and knew all the names of the Houses and could sing even better than Hana did! So, Marya thought and thought about how she could make more lords want to marry her. She decided to hide all of Hana’s nicest dresses and shiniest jewels.

Naughty, naughty Marya. That’s not how proper ladies act. It was very nasty of you to—

“What are you and your ladies up to?”

You don’t like being interrupted for a second time, but it is Mama who is asking. Everyone’s been using soft voices since ’Nyra came to make a fuss and then left to wash the dragon-stink off. Mama’s question is louder than them all, so it must be for you.

Turning your head, you see that she is looking at you with a small smile.

“Marya hid Hana’s dresses and her best necklace and rings,” you say, holding her up high so Mama can see. You frown at the doll. “She needs to say sorry, so I’m telling her to.”

Mama laughs, but you don’t know why. “Oh, dear. How unkind of her! Why did Marya do such a thing?”

“All the lords want to marry Hana,” you say, “and not Marya. She’s very angry, but—but it’s not Hana’s fault. So I’m going to tell her that, too.”

“My, my.” Mama looks tired, like she has ever since baby Baelon-or-Visenya started growing in her belly, but she still seems happy that you’re here. Her eyes are warm the way they get when she sees you. “Quite a responsibility, you have.”

You nod. “I’m her Mama, like you’re mine. I have to teach her to be good.”

This makes Mama smile even wider. She holds her hand out to you, so you put Marya down beside Hana, making sure they’re not too close together. It would be bad if they started fighting after you’ve been busy telling Marya off so much. Making sure your skirts are neat like a proper lady, you go to take Mama’s hand, letting her pull you close-close so that you have to get up onto the daybed with her. Her skin is hot like fire is when you get too near it.

“Are you going to teach your little brother or sister to be good, too?” she asks, bringing your hand to her belly. When you touch it, you feel the kicking. It’s like a tapping from under a very thick blanket.

“Yes, Mama. I promise. I’ll sing all the hymns so they learn them, and make sure they eat all their supper, and—and say ‘no running’ and ‘no hitting’ and give them lots of hugs and tell—tell them they are naughty if they don’t liste—”

“Well,” she says even louder, smiling so wide you can see her teeth, “you already sound like a wonderful big sister, my dearest.”

Then, a new voice speaks out from the doorway, catching your interest. “Hakorje mandia kesā, sīlāvose.”

It’s one of your favourite people in the whole world.

You scramble out of Mama’s hold, nearly tripping over your dress. “Kepus!”

He chuckles as you race toward him, arm out so that he can catch you and lift you up. Mama hasn’t been able to do that since her belly became big, and Papa is too busy now. Oh, how you’ve missed it!

Uncle Daemon sits you on his hip so that you can stare straight at his face, at the way his eyes scrunch up with how much his mouth stretches. “What about you, Princess? Have you been a good girl since last I saw you?” he asks.

“I’m always good, kepus,” you say, pushing out your bottom lip to show how rude you think his question is. “But—but you haven’t. You’re naughty. You’ve been gone for so, so, so long!”

Even though his brow raises, he sounds like he finds you funny. “Ah-ah. A moon’s turn, nothing more or less, is all the time I’ve spent away. I was here for your name day celebrations, was I not?”

“That was ages ago!”

There were lots of people in the Keep for the party, and you don’t think you really knew most of them. But, because Papa is King and you are a Princess, they were invited to come and wish you a happy name day and give you gifts and eat and drink lots. It was nice at first, but the more they ate and drank, the louder they got, and soon you had to sneak off and find Uncle so that he could take you back to your rooms where it was quiet. He sang a song in High Valyrian, the language that your House has spoken for thousands of years, so that you could fall asleep even after eating so many little frosted cakes. Soon, you had to say farewell to him because he had to go back to Runestone and visit his lady wife, the one he hate-hates but Mama says he has to see.

Thinking about High Valyrian makes you stop. You can’t speak it, but there are some parts you know. Kicking Uncle in the side for being rude, you say, “And—and I’m not ann—annoying. I’m good!”

He looks sorry when you say that. “Of course you are. And I hope you’ll forgive me for returning after such a long time.” Behind his back where you can’t see is his other arm. He brings it out, showing you what he was hiding in his hand.

Oh! A new doll! And this one is special because it has pale hair and purple eyes just like you!

“Please accept this as a token of my apology, sweetling,” Uncle Daemon says, offering it to you. “Perhaps—Marya and Hana, was it?—could do with another friend.”

“Thank you, kepus!” Keeping your new doll pinned between you and Uncle, you wrap your arms around his neck so so tight and squeeze so he can feel how happy you are! You kiss him on the cheek, wiggling very close and smiling when he squeezes you back just as tight. “Thank you, thank you! I missed you so much!”

“Silly girl.”

Uncle pats you on the back once, twice, and then crouches down so that you can stand on your own two feet again. Sometimes, this makes you sad, because his hugs are your favourite and you wish they would never end. But he has to say ‘hello’ to Mama, too. Besides, you have a new lady to introduce!

“How about you play,” he says, “while I speak with Mama?”

“Okay!” You’re already thinking about it anyway.

When you go back to Marya and Hana, you can see that they’ve been good girls and not moved at all. You rearrange them both so that they are sitting, and place your new doll—Alysanne, you decide, after Papa and Uncle’s grandmama—between them, fussing with their hair so that it lies neatly. They are very pretty, you think, red and dark and silver all together.

“And how is Lady Rhea?” Mama is asking, brow lifting.

Uncle makes a noise and curls his lip meanly. “Who the fuck—who cares?” he says, rolling his eyes when you gasp. He said a bad word. “It’s not as though we spent any time in each other’s presence. Think I’d rather the company of sheep, anyway.”

“You were there for an entire moon’s turn, Daemon”—Mama frowns the way she does when ’Nyra says something rude, and ’Nyra does that a lot—“and you refused to even speak with her? She’s your wife.”

“Not one I chose. You would know that all too well, cousin.”

Mama goes quiet, looking to you. Uncle does, too. Then, she starts whispering to Uncle, and Uncle whispers back, and you return to your game.

Dolls make far more sense than people do.

You don’t like tourneys. You don’t like them at all.

It’s loud, and hot, and there are too many smells—of different perfumes all swirling around and clogging in your nose, of dirt and manure from the ground below, of something sharp that clings to the walls that box you in and shield you from being able to see anything interesting. The horns ring out and so many people cheer that it feels like a buzzing in your head. It makes your teeth hurt.

“Be welcome!”

Papa looks happy today, so much happier than he was the last time Mama said a babe was in her belly. That babe was dead, she told you. It went away from inside her and never came back. That’s what death is, and everyone is very, very afraid of it all the time. But you didn’t know that babe like you know Mama and Papa and ’Nyra and Uncle, so you weren’t sad or scared. You wonder if this babe will go away, too.

The sound of clapping is like thunder. “I know many of you have travelled long leagues to be at these games,” he says. “But I promise, you will not be disappointed.”

You watch from beside Papa as ’Nyra sneaks to her seat, but she is not so sneaky because she is wearing a bright red dress that looks beautiful. She sits beside Alicent, her friend and Lord Hightower’s daughter, and tries to make herself small in her chair so that Papa won’t get angry.

After a pause, he keeps speaking. “When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories. And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news that I am happy to share—Queen Aemma has begun her labours!”

There is so much noise that you have to hold your hands over your ears to quiet it just a little bit. Brella pats your shoulder, trying to make you feel better.

“It’s alright, Princess. We can play in just a moment—how about that?”

“I want Mama,” you say sadly, your bottom lip wobbling and your eyes feeling hot like they do when you really want to cry.

Mama has been locked in her chambers since last evening, when the Maester said the babe was nearly ready to come out. You asked and asked Papa, but he wouldn’t let you in to see her. When the door had opened and you tried to go inside, you were too surprised to move at the sound of her yelling. You think that the babe must have been hurting her very, very much. It makes you afraid. But then, Uncle took you away to your rooms and read you a story in High Valyrian, which sounded nice even though you didn’t understand it all.

“May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!” You are not listening to Papa’s words very closely.

“Soon, Princess,” Brella says, stopping for a moment when the horns echo out again. “You must wait for the babe to be born, first. How exciting—a new little brother, all for you!”

You don’t want a brother if it means that Mama has to be in pain. Papa would be very happy—you are three whole name days but you still know he wants the babe to be a boy and not a girl, that you were supposed to be a boy and he was sad you were only a second daughter—but you are happy with the way things are.

It would be very rude to say so in front of Papa, so you keep quiet and nod, letting your nursemaid bring you off your seat and down to the floor so that you may sit amongst Alysanne and Hana and Marya.

It has been very difficult to teach Marya to be nice to Alysanne, because she doesn’t like it when Hana makes new friends and Alysanne is a very pretty new friend. But she has decided she rather likes Alysanne after all, and so you can serve their tea without being scared of anyone being silly or bad to each other. Brella is very helpful in braiding Marya’s hair to look like ’Nyra’s does, and then she pins Hana’s back like Alicent’s. You decide that Alysanne should have hair that looks like yours because you look nearly the same, like she is your baby and you are her mama.

You are interrupted very quickly when Septa Marlow bends forward to speak straight into Brella’s ear. “It is unseemly to coddle her so. She is nearing the end of her infancy—you ought to be preparing her to pass over into my care, not indulging in frivolities!”

You shiver. Septa Marlow is mean. The last time that ’Nyra said something rude to her, she was rapped across the palm by Septa’s willow switch. It left a bright red mark that made you cry when you saw it, but ’Nyra only muttered something nasty under her breath and smiled in a not-very-kind way. You wish you could be as brave as her.

“When she is five summers old, she will pass into your care,” Brella says. It is polite, but the way she looks at Septa makes you think she is not being so nice after all. “Until then, I shall do as I see fit. And that means allowing the Princess to indulge in these frivolities while she can.”

Septa wants to say something rude back, you can tell—but then, the whispers start. It makes you look out onto the field so that you can see what’s happening.

“… of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!”

Uncle rides out on his horse—a great stallion named Varlet that you sometimes give apples to if he is very, very good and doesn’t buck anyone out of the saddle—wearing his nicest armour with the tail of feathers that comes out of the helmet. You think it makes him look a bit like a bird from one of those old books in the library. Uncle takes Varlet up and down the line of men on their own horses, but you don’t know why. You cannot see his face.

Your dolls don’t seem very exciting anymore. You pass them back to Brella and move past Papa to where ’Nyra sits at the very front. Even though there is an empty seat next to Alicent, you go to ’Nyra anyway.

All you have to do is hold up your arms to her and she smiles. “Do you want to see Uncle’s bout?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. You can hear the sound of hooves on the dirt, which means you are missing it, so you stamp your feet and wiggle. Maybe she will hurry up if you do. “Please, please!”

“Oh, alright.” She rolls her eyes and lifts you up so that you can sit on her lap, tucking her head next to yours and wrapping her arms tight around you so you don’t fall off. She is warm like Caraxes and Syrax are, like a dragon, only this time she doesn’t smell like smoke and rotting meat but like flowers and soap. “Can you see?”

You look down. Uncle is at one end of the field and the man he has chosen—Ser Gwayne, you think, from the green he has on and the funny shape of his helmet, like a tower—on the other, their jousting poles held out in front of them. “I can see,” you say.

When Uncle and Ser Gwayne start riding, you really do try to keep your eyes open. But, as they get closer and closer, you cannot help but shut them because you don’t want to see anyone get hurt, or worse­—the horses. Sometimes, it happens. All you can see is the insides of your eyelids when a big CLANG happens, but ’Nyra doesn’t clap so you think it might not be finished yet. Then, you hear a horse neigh and a big thud, and lots of applause. This time, ’Nyra does clap, so you open your eyes and see that Uncle is still on Varlet but Ser Gwayne is on the ground.

Your sister stops clapping when she sees Alicent with her hand over her mouth. Ser Gwayne is her brother, so she must be very worried for him. You reach out and pat her arm, which makes her stop and stare at you for a moment before giving you a small smile. ’Nyra grabs at her hand, too, which seems to help.

Uncle brings Varlet right up to the balcony with his jousting pole all the way up high, so ’Nyra puts you down and grips your shoulder to steer you forward. You are still very small, so the railing is too tall for you to reach, and that means you could fall very easily if you lean too far down. You grab onto your sister’s skirts.

“Nicely done, Uncle,” she says, holding onto the rail.

“Thank you, Princess.” Uncle looks at you, and his face changes—he is friendly now where he wasn’t exactly when he was looking at ’Nyra. He doesn’t say anything to you, but he does wink, which makes you giggle and him smile. He turns to Alicent. “Now, I’m fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favour would all but assure it.”

She goes toward the table where two wreaths lay, one for her and one for ’Nyra. You are not old enough for your own yet, or so Papa says. Taking the green one in her fingers, she comes back to the balcony. Instead of putting the wreath on the jousting pole, though, she holds it out to you. “Perhaps your niece would like to give you my favour?”

Beaming, you accept the wreath and let Alicent pick you up under the arms. It doesn’t feel very nice, but it makes you tall enough to put the favour over the pole and watch it slide all the way down to the bottom, near where Uncle is holding it. He grins, then rides away to have another bout.

’Nyra takes you back to where she was sitting, placing you back on her knee. “Are you going to thank Alicent? She was very nice, letting you give Uncle her favour.”

“Thank you, Alicent,” you say.

She brushes some of your hair out of your eyes. “You’re welcome, Princess.”

You find it strange when Papa rises from his chair after something Lord Hightower says in his ear, a troubled look on his face. He was the one who had been the most excited about the tourney, so why is he getting up to leave?

’Nyra doesn’t notice, holding tight to you when you start squirming. For a while, you stay with her—but the jousting starts to get frightening. When the knights knock each other off their horses, they start using swords and axes and maces and trying to really hurt each other, striking and kicking so hard that it makes your heart race really fast in your chest and your belly rock like it does when you need to be sick. To take your mind off it, you start listening to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys talking to each other.

“…and we expect them to act with honour and grace,” the Princess is saying to her husband. The sound of her voice makes you shiver a little. Whenever she stares at you, it is unkind. You don’t think she likes you very much. “It’s a marvel that war didn't break out at first blood.”

Everyone gasps when the knight below brings his axe down on the man below him, hitting him over and over so that blood sprays everywhere. The man twitches at first, then goes still, the dirt below him turning dark red very quickly.

You cry and cry, loud and ugly. You don’t like it here anymore. You want to go back to the Keep and find Mama and let her hug you until this cold, awful feeling goes away and warmth and happiness comes back.

“Nurse!” ’Nyra says, but you aren’t really listening. You can see that people are pointing at you from the stands and whispering, which makes you even more upset because you truly tried to be good and quiet and not make a fuss this time.

“Oh, Princess.” Brella lifts you off of ’Nyra’s lap and carries you to the back of the royal box, past Papa’s Councilmen and all the lords and ladies that are gathered, heading toward the stairs. “Come now, my sweet. Time for a nap, don’t you think?”

“I want Mama,” is all you can say. “I want my mama!”

It is darker than normal when you wake up from your nap. Usually, the sun is still up, the colour of Papa’s crown as it shines through your window, hot and blinding even though supper is not far away. But now, you have to blink a few times before you realise that you cannot see because night has come.

Your chambers are empty, save one other.

“Papa?” you ask, rubbing your eyes and yawning. You can just barely see him through the shadows. “What—what—”

There is a sharp clack and a fizzle of orange fire, which Papa cups in his hand and takes to the candle beside your bed. As he lights a small flame, you look at his face. Even in the darkness, you can see how sad he is, the shine that forms lines down his cheeks and the red puff of the skin around his eyes.

Oh, no. Something bad has happened. Something… something terrible.

“Whe—where’s Mama?” you ask, voice wobbly. It feels like a hand has reached down through your throat and your stomach to peel your insides out, to turn it all over so that you’re bleeding and broken where the Maester cannot see. “Mama—”

“Sh, my girl.” He is trying to sound soft and kind, but you hear how he cracks a little, how the words seem almost stuck on the tip of his tongue. “Listen to me. Come here.”

You still don’t know why it is, but the rule of life is that you obey ’Nyra who obeys Mama who obeys Papa, which means that you have to obey Mama and Papa even when the others aren’t there. So, when Papa asks you to do something, you have to listen. You’re a good girl, after all.

Kicking away the covers that have made you too-too warm, you crawl on your hands and knees to the edge of the bed where Papa sits. He is solid and real under your fingers, smelling like the Maester’s medicines as always, but also like something sour. Like metal.

He grabs you and puts you on his knee like ’Nyra did before, during the tourney, only the hand on your back is large-large, almost covering from your neck to your bottom. You can feel his thumb moving up and down as he speaks, up and down, up and down.

“Something… something has happened. To Mama,” he says, taking lots of pauses and shaking under you like he is cold. You reach up to pat his face. Your hand comes away wet.

“Is she okay?” you ask. That horrible feeling comes back, and you have to swallow so that you don’t get sick all over Papa. “Where is Mama?”

“Mama… she couldn’t bring the babe out. A boy—Baelon.” This time, you can hear him cry, but it’s quick, not long and loud like yours.

A brother. I have a baby brother. It doesn’t feel very special or interesting. Maybe meeting the babe will make you more excited?

“Where is he?”

Papa cries more. “He… he lived for three hours. Three. Then he—”

“—died.” That’s the word for when someone goes through death. Papa didn’t look like he could say it, but you can. “Sorry,” you tell him quietly. You know how much he wanted a boy. “Mama must be sad, too.”

“She—she—Mama didn’t survive the birth.”

You frown. What does that mean? “So… she is sick?”

Papa shakes his head, eyes scrunching. “No.”

“Where is she, then? I want to say ‘sorry’ to her, too.”

“She—died. She’s dead, my girl. Only, she passed before Baelon.”

You have to stop and really think, think so hard that your head hurts and you feel dizzy from holding your breath. Being dead means going away and never coming back. Mama is dead. Which means…

After Papa says those terrible, awful, horrible words, he pushes his nose into your hair and hugs you so so tight until you feel his tears sliding over your head. You hug him back, pressing your face to his chest and letting his shirt soak up all the crying from your eyes. You don’t know if you understand it all—but you know one thing for certain, one thing that makes you cold and sick and afraid.

Mama went away. Mama will never come back.

Mama is gone.

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