#red jeyne

[call-me-schmidt]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Sansa Stark & The Bastard's Girls Characters: Sansa Stark, Bastard's Girls, Kyra (ASoIaF), Grey Jeyne, Helicent, Jez, Alison, Maude, Red Jeyne, Sara, Willow, Ramsay Bolton, Myranda (Game of Thrones), Roose Bolton, Theon Greyjoy Additional Tags: I'm back on my love for the bastard's girls, Anyways..., Blood and Gore, Corpses, Ghosts, Supernatural Elements, Creepy, just girls bonding over a little murder and revenge, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canonical Character Death, It's people we hate so it's fine, All girls not named but I will be tagging them, its what they DESERVE Summary:

It wasn't brides that became these dark creatures. It was girls. Women wronged so dearly in their life, that death twisted them into vicious creatures that hunted their once predator, turning them into prey instead.

After her wedding night, still shaking from anguish, Sansa is saved in the most gruesome way.

#schmidt recs something #the writings other people do #fanfiction #thesuspiciousflyingjellyfish #deathly voice sings soft from the grave #i tag everything #ghosts #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #sansa stark #kyra (asoiaf) #grey jeyne #helicent #jez (asoiaf) #alison (asoiaf) #maude (asoiaf) #red jeyne #sara (asoiaf) #willow (asoiaf) #ramsay bolton #myranda the kennelmaster's daughter #roose bolton #theon greyjoy

[jokey05]

Theon Greyjoy during all of ASOIAF:

#theon greyjoy #a game of thrones #a clash of kings #storm of swords #a dance with dragons #winds of winter #winterfell #robb stark #asha greyjoy #ramsay bolton #balon greyjoy #stannis baratheon #bran stark #rickon stark #jeyne poole #the red wedding

[fuckalicent]

he had a pretty face, he thought, but her eyes were sad and weary.

#jeyne poole #asoiaf #asoiaf fanart #jeyne poole fanart #jeyne #game of thrones #valyrianscrolls #a song of ice and fire #fanart #digital art #drawing #artists on tumblr #my art #the scratches on her calf are made to look like a flayed man.. #i’m going to vomit everywhere #very much understated her injuries here but i didn’t feel like being too graphic plus this is some light wound drawing practice #and emotion practice #ignore the red eyes in the first one this was a scrapped alys piece but i changed it to be jeyne #LOL

[connorswhisk]

no but guys. guys guys guys. what do y’all think they did with robb’s head

#asoiaf #chatter #robb stark #red wedding #meta #DO YOU THINK THEY SENT IT TO JEYNE. DO YOU THINK JEYNE HAS IT. #fanfic incoming……

[tbtgtr-incorrectquotes]

#rhea royce #jeyne arryn #incorrect quotes #tbtgtr #the blacks the greens and the reds #the red falcon #tbtgtr au #yobert royce

[naerys-arryn]

Laena & Laenor: *laughing at portrait of toddler Leonyra in a dragon costume*

Gael: Who wants to see little Laena dressed as a sailor and little Laenor dressed as a seahorse???

Laena & Laenor: *family guy death pose*

Jeyne: Lol

Naerys: And we also have one of little Jeyne in her falcon costume.

Jeyne: ...gods damn it

Embarrassment, glorious embarrassment!

#the red falcon #naerys arryn #jeyne arryn #laenor velaryon #laena velaryon #gael targaryen #anonymous #incorrect quotes #from maelor

[beyond-far-horizons]

I can’t wait for Season 2′s secondary cast for HOTD, I’ve loved this story for years and just refreshing my memory gives us feminist lesbian Jeyne Arryn, Daeron the Daring and the Blue Queen Tessarion, Black Aly Blackwood with her bow and her lesbian bestie Sabitha Frey, them shepparding ‘the Lads’ Kermit Tully (son of Elmo, I kid you not), Oscar Tully and Benicott Blackwood, a bloke called ‘Roddy the Ruin’ and his Winter Wolves who literally mows through his foes on the verge of death, Red Rob Rivers who’s the best archer of the lot and kills a very hated character, and guerrilla fighter called ‘Black Trombo’ and Cregan f*cking Stark who literally says ‘the North Remembers’ as he cleans up the Lannisters’, the Baratheons’ and the Targs’ mess.

Not to mention Nettles, Addam of Hull and this witchy woman you might have heard of called Alys Rivers. 

#house of the dragon #fire and blood #cregan stark #black aly blackwood #roddy the ruin #sabitha frey #jeyne arran #daeron the daring #tessarion #kermit tully #oscar tully #benicott blackwood #Red Robb Rivers #black trombo #nettles #addam of hull #alys rivers #don't know how much we'll get of them but we better get something

[asoiafandotherbooks]

TWOIAF/Fire & Blood: Maegor's Final Campaign Against The Faith Militant

Warning, Spoilers Ahead…

Ignoring the fact that they have been curb-stomped by Maegor every time they have encountered him, the outlawed remnants of the Faith Militant have once again decided to make waves.

Maegor left King’s Landing in late 45 AC, leaving Queen Tyanna and the new Hand of the King, Lord Edwell Celtigar to rule King’s Landing.

How is Maegor finding people to fill these positions? He’s gone through three Grand Maesters and is now on his second Hand of the King. None of those men died of natural causes! Two of his three queens have died! I understand Westeros is all about the “game of thrones”, but life expectancy isn’t good for a member of Maegor’s Small Council.

Maegor and his forces scoured the great wood south of the Blackwater, hunted down dozens of Poor Fellows. They had the option to join the Night’s Watch or hang. Poxy Jeyne Poor eluded Maegor until she was betrayed by three of her followers. Jeyne’s betrayers received pardons and knighthoods as their rewards.

Maegor must be in the top three Westeros kings who had men sent to the wall. The Night’s Watch ranks swelled under his reign. Granted, Maegor wasn’t sending men to assist in Aegon the Conqueror’s prophecy but still.

As an aside, for the all-importance of Aegon’s prophecy which Targaryens have done anything to prepare Westeros?

Aegon and his siblings used the prophecy as a justification for their conquest of Westeros and the murder of tens of thousands of people and then did…nothing.

Aenys? Nothing

Maegor? He sent many people to the wall but not to assist the prophecy?

Jaehaerys? Nothing. Alysanne did grant the Watch the new gift but the not the funds to make use of it.

Viserys? Nothing. Despite the obsession he had with the prophecy in House of the Dragon.

Aegon II & Rhaenyra? Nothing. Per the show, Rhaenyra knew of the prophecy but was too busy having a pissing contest with Aegon II, resulting in the annihilation of their family and the dragons. Aegon and e Rhaenyra may be the worst when it comes to the prophecy because they actively caused the destruction of the main weapon (dragons) against the White Walkers. Aegon II, Rhaenyra, and Daemon are the worst in general. I hate that the writers inserted the prophecy into the HOTD show to justify both Rhaenyra and Alicent’s lust for the throne. The Dance of the Dragons wasn’t about needing the best heir to prepare for the coming of the Long Night, it was about power, greed, selfishness, hatred, etc. There was no nobility in that spat, or the suffering Westeros endured because of it.

Continuing with the kings…Aegon III, Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Viserys II, Aegon the IV, Daeron the Good, Aerys I, Maekar…nothing! Bloodraven was in this era and he was actively attempting something but his motives are unclear. Aegon V (Egg) attempted to bring dragons back, resulting in the Summerhall disaster, but he seemed to want dragons to make the lords listen to his peasant reforms and not to combat White Walkers. Jaehaerys II? Nothing!  Aerys II? Nothing. Rhaegar wanted to combat the Long Night but so badly misinterpreted the prophecy and the actions of his father and him caused the final downfall of the Targaryen dynasty.

Viserys III (Beggar King)? Nothing. Daenerys will be active in the final night but if one of her dragons is turned in the book (as in the show) it may be a mixed blessing.

In summary, Martin asserting the prophecy was the reason behind Aegon’s conquest of Westeros was not a great choice. It makes the entire Targaryen dynasty appear incompetent as they did little/nothing to prepare for the upcoming Long Night even before the Dance of the Dragons began their destructive downfall.

Back to Maegor…

Maegor had three septons traveling with him who declared Poxy Jeyne a witch. Maegor ordered her to be burned alive in a field beside the Wendwater.

When the day of Jeyne’s execution came, three hundred of her followers (Poor Fellows and peasants) burst from the woods to rescue her. Maegor had anticipated this and had the rescuers surrounded and slaughtered. The last to die was Ser Horys Hill, who had escaped the carnage at the Great Fork three years earlier.

The people of the realm have begun to reach the end of their tolerance for Maegor’s shenanigans. There has been a lot of mass murder, some justified, some not. Smallfolk and lords have come to despise Maegor for his cruelties.

Septon Moon, the “High Septon” raised up by the Poor Fellows, roamed the Riverlands and the Reach, drawing huge crowds wherever he appeared.

The hill country north of the Golden Tooth was ruled by the Red Dog, Ser Joffrey Doggett, self-proclaimed Grand Captain of the Warrior’s Sons. Dennis the Lame and Ragged Silas remained at large, hidden by the smallfolk. Knights and men-at-arms vanished after being sent out to bring them to justice.

In 46 AC, King Maegor returned to the Red Keep with two thousand skulls, the fruits of a year of campaigning. Maegor claimed the skulls belonged to Poor Fellows and Warrior’s sons but many believed the skulss belonged to simple crofters, fieldhands, and swineherds, “guilty of no crime but faith”.

Maegor has fallen down the “slippery slope”. Was this campaign needed? To an extent. Most of the remains of the Poor Fellows had turned to banditry and innocents were harmed. But two thousand skulls? That is extreme. And less than a year after the massacre of the Harroway family and the brutal execution of Prince Viserys? Not good. It’s no surprise the people of Westeros are turning against him.

Up next, Maegor still doesn’t have a child. The solution? More wives!

#asoiaf #game of thrones #hotd #house targaryen #maegor targaryen #maegor the cruel #faith militant #poor fellows #warrior's sons #septon moon #Poxxy Jeyne Poore #horys hill #edwell celtigar #joffrey doggett #red dog of the hills #dennis the lame #ragged silvas #twoiaf #fire and blood

[daenerysies]

i think the biggest problem i have with the whole team discourse in f&b + hotd is that it isn’t just about which characters you like more/who you want to sit on the throne at that end; it’s that each side is fighting for completely different ideologies, regardless of one members personal beliefs. grrm could not have made it anymore clear.

team black isn’t just fighting for rhaenyra to be queen, they’re fighting for the monarch’s right to choose an heir, for the oaths they swore years before, for the complete opposite of precedent/tradition: the king’s word is law. team green isn’t just fighting for aegon to be king, they’re fighting for tradition, that no matter the words of a king being law sons will always come before daughters, that oaths are fickle and don’t matter. each side is in some way fighting back against what’s already been established for the kingdom, but the end goal is completely different.

we’re not given as much insight into why most of the houses initially sided with rhaenyra, but we do have an inkling into how the green council felt and acted, however. jaehaerys choosing baelon over rhaenys (against andal tradition, the king can choose his heir) is one point. the great council of 101 is another. alicent, despite being the leader of the council, is removed from the equation and shoved off to the side when it comes to swearing oaths of loyalty between the members on account of her womanhood. daemon being a second coming of ‘maegor’ (despite what we know would be a better suited title for aemond, but i digress) is also used. when discussing who would side with them the vale is automatically disqualified from the list, due to them presently being ruled by a woman, jeyne arryn. she doesn’t choose to fight for rhaenyra for the sole reason of them being kin, but because her own right to rule can and will be put into question if aegon steps over rhaenyra. because she is a woman. she does so in spite of her dislike for daemon (and his supposed maegor-ness) too.

even if one were to look at each characters personal feelings about the succession the fact of the matter is that rhaenyra is usurped because she is a woman. it’s stated almost blatantly multiple times before and during the war. the greens use scapegoats and smokescreens in attempts justify it (her ‘bastards’ chief among them, but legally her sons live and die as the trueborn children between her and laenor, with the reminder that septon eustace refutes this claim to begin with). even when she is killed grrm has her breast pricked to arouse a dragon that doesn’t want to kill her (and why is that?). aegon ‘wins’ against her and is king, but then why is jaehaera, as his last living remaining child not named his heir? why is aegon iii put ahead of her, despite being the enemies son? these are rhetorical questions. aegon had no plans to ever consider her his heir, he made it clear with how excited he was to marry cassandra baratheon and produce more ‘strong’ sons. his dragon (who had fought and bled for him the entire war) wasn’t mourned properly, he couldn’t wait to hatch a ‘new dragon, prouder and fiercer than the last.’ yet he wasn’t even capable of doing that in the six months before he too was killed.

it’s also safe to mention that grrm created an entire separate lore story, one that would seem to have no bearing on the original story unless you’re capable of understanding symbolism. the amethyst empress is usurped by her younger brother the bloodstone emperor, and the first long night ensues from this decision. rhaenyra (amethyst = arryn blue + targaryen red) is usurped by her younger brother aegon ii (bloodstone = hightower green + targaryen red) and the dying of the dragons, the very creatures needed to stop the next long night, are eradicated, along with the magic needed to hatch them and keep them alive (until). the war is the blacks (power, death, grief, rebellion, restraint) versus the greens (ambition, greed, jealousy, anger, wealth). the amethyst empress is important to the main story in the same way that rhaenyra is important, that snubbing the women (an integral aspect to the power the targaryens held) of house targaryen can lead only to disaster. daenerys is the key, the one to break the cycle and fix the wrongdoings caused by her ancestors obsession with power. mother of dragons, mhysa, breaker of chains, slayer of lies, daughter of death, the dragon queen, azor ahai come again, the prince that was promised will bring the dawn.

you can argue for technicalities sake all day, but there is a meaning to this story beyond the scope of rightful heirs. and it shouldn’t be shoved off to the side just so you can praise your favorites and hate those who go against them. it makes for a poor consuming of the actual story. fire and blood was created as a history book to expand on daenerys as a character. her family, what and where she’s come from, and how she relates to them. she’s the antithesis to every targaryen that’s come before her, a hero in her own right. the only targaryen’s we can say are radically important to dany’s story are the conquerors (aegon the conqueror with teats) and rhaenyra (the amethyst empress). i don’t know, just some food for thought.

#asoiaf #fire and blood #hotd #rhaenyra targaryen #pro rhaenyra #daenerys targaryen #pro daenerys #team black #anti team green #anti aegon ii targaryen #the amethyst empress #the bloodstone emperor #the amethyst empress 🤝 rhaenyra 🤝 daenerys #i’m sick and incredibly tired so please excuse any typos in my ramblings lol

[drakaripykiros130ac]

Question: Why didn’t Alicent Hightower call a Great Council after Viserys died, and just straight out committed treason and usurped the throne?

We have it on record that she made the suggestion months later, after Rhaenyra took King’s Landing. The question is: why didn’t she do that from the start? If she was so sure that the Lords of the Realm would choose her son, why didn’t she? It would certainly be easier to go about the correct/legal way of handling things as King Jaehaerys did when he called the Great Council of 101, wouldn’t it?

The answer is simple: the Hightowers were not 100% certain that the Lords of Realm would choose Aegon over Rhaenyra, as they did years before when they picked Viserys over Rhaenys.

That is the only possible explanation for why the Greens chose the dishonorable/treasonous way in order to get power for themselves.

Rhaenyra had many things in her favor, that Rhaenys didn’t:

1. King Viserys I formally named Rhaenyra his heir, while King Jaehaerys didn’t support Rhaenys.

2. The Lords of the Realm swore oaths to Rhaenyra. No one swore anything to Rhaenys. Oaths meant a great deal in those days.

3. Rhaenyra has five sons at the time of King Viserys’ death. When her father, Prince Aemon died, Rhaenys was pregnant, but no one of course knew if her child would be a girl or a boy. The Lords of the Realm have a much easier time accepting a woman in power if they know a son will follow. Prince Baelon was older, a known warrior, and already had two sons when he was named heir over Rhaenys.

4. Rhaenyra was married to the most feared/respected man in the Realm, Prince Daemon Targaryen. The only people who truly hated Daemon were the Lords in the Red Keep. Many others across the Realm respected him, especially for his work in the Stepstones.

5. Both Rhaenyra and Daemon were adored by the smallfolk, and that’s a fact. Rhaenyra was the “Realm’s Delight” and Daemon was “Prince of the City” and “Lord Flea Bottom”. Daemon had gained many friends in King’s Landing, even those in dark places. He had the necessary influence.

So, yeah, how could the Greens do the “right thing” and call a Great Council when they knew that things would most likely not go their way?

Their suspicions proved to be correct later on, when Rhaenyra was supported by the great majority of the Realm, namely 53 Houses (and the largest territories with the most powerful armies), while Aegon only had 28.

And certain people are still under the impression that the Realm has a hard time accepting a woman in a position of power. How can that be when Lady Jeyne Arryn is living, breathing proof of a woman commanding the entire Vale, and one of the most powerful armies in the Realm?

#team black #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #rhaenyra targaryen #pro team black #anti alicent hightower #anti team green #queen rhaenyra #the dragon queen #daemon targaryen #fire and blood #anti greens #house of the dragon #hotd #canon asoiaf #house targaryen #a song of ice and fire #the blacks #pro rhaenyra #anti green stans #anti alicent stans #anti aegon ii targaryen

[pessimisticpigeonsworld]

D&D saying that one of their favorite plots from the books is the Boltons in Winterfell is a massive sign of their sexism. Now, for anyone one else, I'd probably not care, in fact, I'd agree it's a very interesting part. However, when it comes to the showrunners who needlessly wrote in excessive rape and violence against women, I see it as a red flag. That's compounded by the way they wrote it.

From the beginning of the show, D&D sabotaged the storyline by removing Jeyne Poole. Keep in mind, ADWD was released in 2008, while GOT premiered in 2011, meaning there was no possible way for D&D to not know everything necessary to bring about that specific plot. Add to that the fact that GRRM was heavily involved in season one, them blatantly ignoring Jeyne makes even less sense if they truly cared about adapting it properly.

Knowing this, that D&D themselves sabotaged their own story, the way it was handled makes a bit more sense, though not nearly enough. Without Jeyne there to play the part of fake Arya, a new bride for Ramsay was needed. Sansa was D&D's favorite character, they were unsatisfied with the story GRRM had written for her, they wanted more screen time and plot relevance for her. It seemed like making Sansa take Jeyne's place was a good solution to both these issues.

Except it wasn't. Littlefinger sending Sansa out of the Vale to marry Ramsay makes no sense. Not only is Sansa the object of Littlefinger's obsession, a replacement for Catelyn in his mind, she also was important to Littlefinger getting the Vale on his side (in the show). She was charming the lords and knights, balancing their intense dislike for him with their desire to help/protect her. Not to mention she was his only alibi to save him from accusations of Lysa's murder. Sending her away from the Vale harms Littlefinger's plans. She also would definitely not be "protected" from Cersei; after all the Boltons were loyal to the Lannisters and hated the Starks, what's to stop them from killing Sansa or handing her over once the Northern lords are more settled?

Speaking of the Northern lords, D&D removed the Northern Conspiracy. Throughout the book plot, the Northern lords are plotting to save Arya and depose the Boltons (in a nutshell, it's actually much more complex, but I'm not going into that rn). It's an excellent expression of how the Northerners loved the Starks and hate the Boltons. In the show, the lords are a bit disgruntled, sure, but they have no interest in deposing the Boltons and saving Sansa.

Another major part of the storyline minimized by the show is Theon/Reek. Theon's struggle with identity is a major part of his character throughout the series, and ADWD is no different. He's been stripped entirely of his identity by Ramsay's torture and Theon's own choices. Part of his arc in this book is discovering himself apart from the Starks and the Greyjoys.

That's definitely not what the show did. As I said earlier, Sansa is D&D's favorite character, so naturally she became the center focus of this arc, while Theon was pushed aside. He's essentially reduced to the method of Sansa's escape and goes on track to return to his pre-season one perception of himself: a Stark. This is a massive disservice to his character, Theon isn't a Stark; his life with them is important to his storyline and will definitely inform what he becomes, but it's not the true culmination of his arc. Basically, Theon was turned into a side character in his own story. It's through his pov we see this story, he's the character most tied to Ramsay. Obviously Jeyne is important and a main character in her own right for this arc, but she is not the central character we see the story through. So why is Sansa? She has no stake in this story, Jeyne is forced there after being sex trafficked and Theon is a captive.

So what does this leave for the show version of the plot? There's no conspiracy, Theon's pushed to the side, and politics and overall story are sacrificed. Well that leaves torture and violence against Ramsay's bride. Without the many moving parts of that storyline, it's just a story of a woman being abused horribly by her husband and eventually escaping. However, the escape isn't even the main aspect of the story focused on, that's always the abuse. It's also purely Sansa's abuse, not Theon's or the many people tortured and murdered by Ramsay, Sansa is the sole focus.

So basically, D&D took a plotline that's filled with the inner workings of Northern politics and the complexities of battling identity loss and reduced it to another excuse to show a woman be raped and abused on screen. The desire to turn this stroy into another way to make Sansa suffer is disturbing, and to make matters worse she fucking thanks Ramsay later on?? This whole storyline in the show is disgusting and yet another sign of how sexist D&D are.

#anti got #anti d&d #also sophie turner had just turned 18 when the season was filmed #disgusting #theon greyjoy #ramsay bolton #sansa stark #jeyne poole #asoiaf

[kckt88]

Take My Breath Away I

Summary:

The Dance of the Dragons is over and the Greens have emerged victorious.

A broken King sits the Iron Throne and in order to secure the succession, the last living daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen is summoned to the Red Keep to do her duty to the realm and provide the King with an heir by marrying her Uncle Aemond Targaryen.

Vaeryna answers the summons and willingly marries the man responsible for the deaths of her brother and father, but what are her motives for doing so and what other secrets is Vaeryna hiding?

Warning(s): Swearing, Angst, Mentions of Death.

Word Count: 3117

GREENS WIN - SLOW BURN - ENEMIES TO LOVERS.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

"With the King no longer able to sire children, an heir must be provided by other means."

"-And what means are those, Lord Westerling?" asked Aemond narrowing his eye.

"Vaeryna Targaryen"

"The girl is a bastard" sneered Manfryd Mooton.

“A bastard she may be, but she is the only living child of Rhaenyra and Daemon, her Valyrian blood is valuable” said Alicent firmly.

“If she were to marry Aemond and grant him a son, the boy could be named heir to the Iron Throne, we could also betroth him to Jaehaera, and secure the succession of the one true King” said Larys.

“There have also been rumours that Rhaenyra’s last act was to betroth her daughter, to Cregan Stark. We cannot allow that marriage to take place. There are still remnants that are loyal to Rhaenyra, we cannot have them and the entire North conspiring to put Vaeryna on the Iron Throne. The seven kingdoms cannot survive another war” exclaimed Alicent as she picked at her fingers.

“Where is the Princess now?” asked Aegon, grimacing in pain as he shifted in his chair.

“In the Vale with her Cannibal” replied Larys.

“Bit odd isn’t it. That Rhaenyra’s biggest asset in the war was sent away to the Vale”.

“Mayhaps, she thought to keep the girl safe” said Alicent.

Aegon sat silent at the head of the table, it was true that he could no longer sire babes and his only surviving child was his daughter Jaehaera.

He was the King, and he was without an heir.

Whilst indeed there were people who called him King, there were still those that called him usurper.

His claim to the Iron Throne was on shaky ground, and with no male heir, he was at risk.

If Vaeryna was their only salvation, then so be it. Bastard or not.

“Send a raven to the Vale, inform the Princess of her betrothal to my brother Prince Aemond and that her King commands her to come to Kings Landing by weeks end” ordered Aegon.

“Is he actually serious?” raged Jeyne.

“Is who serious?” asked Cregan furrowing his brow.

“That usurper cunt that sit’s on the Iron Throne, he has summoned Vaeryna to Kings Landing” retorted Jeyne angrily.

“For what purpose?”

“He has betrothed Vaeryna to the kinslayer” snarled Jeyne.

“Has he lost his wits?” said Cregan aghast.

“The rumours of the Kings inability to sire more children has proven true, his only remaining child is a girl. Obviously, he cannot name her heir lest he be labelled a hypocrite. So, his only option is to have his brother marry and produce a son that will be named heir” replied Vaeryna.

“He summons you to Kings Landing to be a broodmare for the kinslayer?”

“It’s an outrage. It’s a scandal” snarled Jeyne as she quickly downed a cup of wine.

“They know their grip on the throne hangs by a thread, I am the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, they can’t risk me marrying elsewhere, lest my lord husband develop the idea of putting me on the throne” replied Vaeryna.

“Which is exactly where you should be. Your mother was the rightful Queen, you are her heir. It should be you sitting on the Iron Throne” stated Cregan, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Maybe in another life, but this is the one we currently live. I cannot ignore a summons from the King” muttered Vaeryna.

“Your not actually considering this?” gasped Jeyne.

“What other choice do I have? I can’t exactly ignore it. Sooner or later, they will come for me, I do not wish for either of you to suffer for my ignorance and I cannot risk them discovering that-“

“-I understand your reason Princess but to marry the kinslayer, to lay with him and birth his children, it is too great a sacrifice,” said Jeyne.

“You above all know what I promised my mother, and If marrying a kinslayer is the only way, then I will do what I must” replied Vaeryna firmly.

“Surely there has to be another way” exclaimed Jeyne.

“Princess-“ muttered Cregan sadly.

“I know that I have no right to ask this, but please Cregan would you-” exclaimed Vaeryna.

“-I swore an oath to your mother, and now that oath extends to you” replied Cregan.

“Both of you have my eternal gratitude. I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me and-” said Vaeryna sadly.

“-We but do our duty to you sweet Princess. If ever you have need of us. All you need to do is ask” said Jeyne softly.

Vaeryna stared at her Cannibal and took a deep breath, the time had come for her to bid farewell to the peace and serenity of the Vale and travel to Kings Landing.

Cregan had already left the Vale earlier in that morning, wanting to get back Winterfell as quick as possible. Their farewell had been bittersweet. Whilst her mother had expressed a desire to see her married to the Lord of Winterfell, nothing official had been declared, not that it mattered anyway as no doubt the King wouldn’t have given his blessing.

Vaeryna was sure she would have been happy married to Cregan, but she wasn’t so sure that her Cannibal would enjoy the snow.

So with a heavy heart, Vaeryna bid farewell to the Lord of Winterfell and pressed a gentle kiss to the forehead of the small hooded figure hidden in Cregan's fur lined cloak.

Saying goodbye to Jeyne was hard. Vaeryna had been sent to the Vale at the start of the war and Jeyne had provided much comfort when all the only news they received was that of death and destruction.

After giving Jeyne one last hug, Vaeryna climbed on the back of her Cannibal and took to the skies, heading away from the Vale towards Kings Landing.

One she was air borne, Vaeryna couldn’t help but think about Aemond. From the sweet shy boy, he was, to the kinslayer he became.

News would often reach the Vale of Aemond’s exploits at Harrenhal and his burning of the Riverlands and Vaeryna would despair as countless innocents had lost their lives to Vhagar’s flames. But for his crimes Aemond suffered, as his witch whore was captured and executed by Sabitha Fey after she had seized control of Harrenhal.

Aemond didn’t have much time to grieve for his fallen witch as he faced her father in a dragon battle above the gods eye not long after and when he emerged triumphant, he had returned to Kings Landing to revel in his victory.

A few hours later, Kings Landing appeared on the horizon and Vaeryna couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive. Of course, she was expected to marry Aemond and birth his babes, but how would she be treated outside of their need for her.

She would be hidden and patient, she was the daughter of the Rogue Prince, she was blood of the dragon and she had made a promise to her mother, and by the gods of old Valyria she would see it kept.

If she was blessed with a son, he would be named heir, her blood would one day sit the Iron Throne, her mothers blood, her father’s blood. All was not lost.

Once Vaeryna arrived in Kings Landing, she had Cannibal circle the Red Keep a couple of times before he landed with a colossal thud on the stone walls that surrounded the castle. Announcing his arrival with a thunderous roar, Cannibal manoeuvred himself off the wall and lowered himself to the ground.

After taking a moment to gather her bags that were attached to Cannibal, Vaeryna elegantly moved off Cannibals back and descended down the wing that he’d pressed against the ground.

Cannibal lingered by her side for a moment, observing the two guards that had appeared at the entrance to the castle. His low rumbling growls echoing around the courtyard.

“It’s ok my sweet” urged Vaeryna as she ran her hand along Cannibals scaly neck.

Cannibal who was still hesitant to leave her side, bared his teeth as the guards moved closer.

“I’m fine, they are merely escorts. Go hunt and find a place to rest. I will see you soon” said Vaeryna as she pressed a quick kiss to Cannibal’s snout.

Cannibal trilled as he nudged her gently, lingering at her side for a few moments longer before he opened his large wings and took off from the ground with a huge gust of wind.

Vaeryna held her satchel close as the guards slowly approached her.

“Princess Vaeryna. Welcome to Kings Landing. Allow us to escort you to the King”.

“Thank you” replied Vaeryna.

Vaeryna silently followed the guards as they walked through the Red Keep. Ignoring the curious looks of the maids and servants as she went passed.

Eventually the guards came to a stop in front of a large ornate wooden door. The Throne Room.

The great doors opened and Vaeryna steeled herself for what she was about to face.

“Princess Vaeryna, of house Targaryen”

After she was announced Vaeryna walked into the Throne Room, her fingers clutching her satchel tightly.

Ignoring the whispers of those loyal to the King as she passed.

What a sight she must have made, dressed in her riding leathers, her long silver hair twisted into many elaborate braids that Visenya herself once favoured. Her red and black sash that represented her house and her dragon draped over her shoulder, the silver dragon chain that crossed from her shoulder to her waist twinkling in the light with every step she took.

“Welcome to Kings Landing Princess, I trust that you agree to the terms that were presented too you?” asked Aegon.

“Yes, Your Grace”.

“Very well, you shall wed my brother Prince Aemond within a month, I suggest you both use that time to get to know one another” said Aegon.

“As you wish” replied Vaeryna as she stared at the King, he looked so small sitting upon the Iron Throne, the blades of Aegon the conquerors fallen enemies looked like a twisted and gnarled hand that had sunk it’s claws into the usurper’s back and wouldn’t let go.

“Temporary chambers have been assigned to you for now, but I think it’s for the best that once you and my brother are wed, that you share chambers. To increase the chances of producing children of course” said Aegon firmly, ignoring his mother who tutted.

“Yes, Your Grace” muttered Vaeryna.

“I will also assign Ser Arryk to be your personal guard” spoke Aegon.

Vaeryna look at Ser Arryk who gave her a courteous nod before he resumed his post at the foot of the Iron Throne.

“I will expect your attendance at dinner every night” ordered Aegon.

“Yes, Your Grace” replied Vaeryna. She figured it was for the best that she keeps her answers short and polite.

No matter what she thought of his crowning or who was the rightful heir, which was her mother, it wouldn’t do well to anger the King.

“Is there anything you wish to request in return for your acceptance of my terms?” asked Aegon curiously.

“Only that I be allowed to see my Cannibal as often as I desire” replied Vaeryna.

“You could ask your King for anything, yet that is your only request?” inquired Aegon.

“Yes, Your Grace. I don’t require anything else” muttered Vaeryna, making the mistake of looking at Aemond who seemed to be eyeing her intently.

His arms folded behind his back, his posture rigid and firm. But it was the glint of silver at his hip that suddenly caught her attention.

Dark Sister, her father’s Valyrian steel sword.

Aemond followed her gaze and he smiled, wrapping his hand around the pommel of the sword.

Vaeryna’s lip curled in disgust, her hands clenched the material of her satchel so tight it began to rip.

It was only Aegon’s voice that broke her out of her anger induced haze.

“Very well. I grant your request. You may see your dragon whenever you wish”.

“Gratitude Your Grace” replied Vaeryna bowing slightly.

“I will have Ser Arryk escort you to your chambers so that you may bathe and get settled, I will see you at dinner” said Aegon firmly.

After she had changed out of her riding leathers and bathed. Vaeryna decided to pass the time by making sure her things were unpacked and placed exactly where she wanted them. Not like she brought many of her things with her anyway.

A few dresses, and books and her most prized possessions that she kept in a small, locked box; a seahorse pendant that Luke had given her just before he died, her mother’s Valyrian steel necklace, one of her father’s rings, a few scraps of parchment that Aegon and Viserys had drawn on, some dried flower petals and letters from Jace.

Vaeryna unfurled one of the letters and smiled as she read Jace’s messy looping swirls.

‘Issa gevie zaldrīzes’ (My beautiful dragon).

Jace wasn’t as proficient in high Valyrian as she was. He kept putting it off, until he gave in and ended up learning with Maester Gerardys.  

When her mother had married her father, after the incident on Driftmark. Daemon had insisted on teaching her himself.

It was his way of making up for not being there for her when she was born. By that time, he was living in Pentos and married to the Lady Laena.

Her father wasn’t a bad man, not really. He didn’t want power. He didn’t want the throne as so many others believed. He just wanted to be with family. To be important.

Vaeryna shook her head and continued to read.

‘ēva istan hēnkirī arlī’ (Until were together again).

A solitary tear slipped down Vaeryna’s cheek as she read the rest of Jace’s letter.

She would never admit it out loud. But deep in the depths of her mind, she missed him the most.

His deep brown eyes, his cheeky smile, and the way he would always make her laugh.

She even missed that god awful haircut that he’d given himself. He’d sheared off his beautiful dark curly locks just before they’d travelled to Kings Landing to defend Luke’s claim as heir to Driftmark.

Suddenly a knock at the door broke her out of her reverie. It was a maid informing her that dinner was ready.

Vaeryna silently followed the maid down the corridor. The only sound was the slap of her shoes against the stone floor and of course the clanging of Ser Arryk’s armour as he followed.

“Princess Vaeryna. Your Grace” said the maid after she had opened the large wooden door.

Vaeryna took a deep breath and entered the dining room. Sitting at the long table was Aegon, Aemond and Alicent.

The dowager Queen’s loyal dog and former hand of the King Ser Criston lingered in the corner.

“Welcome Princess. Pease come in” said Alicent smiling.

Vaeryna nodded slightly and slowly approached the table, suddenly becoming very aware of everyone staring at her.

“Perhaps an introduction-” suggested Alicent nudging Aemond who rose from his seat, he was much taller up close, his body lean and covered with leather, his features were sharp yet perfect that his face looked like it had been carved by the gods themselves.

His long silver hair tied back, the scar that bisected the left side of his face only added to his allure, his missing eye covered by an eyepatch.

Never had Vaeryna seen a man so handsome, just a shame he was a kinslayer and a loathsome cunt.

“-I have no need to be introduced. I’m well aware of who my uncle Aemond is and what he is” retorted Vaeryna as she took a seat.

Aemond scowled at her before he resumed his seat, glaring at Aegon who scoffed loudly.

“As the King said. Your courtship period with Aemond will last approximately one moon, after that the two of you will marry in the sept under the faith of the seven” said Alicent sternly.

“Of course,” whispered Vaeryna, fidgeting with the hem of her dress.

“You will be expected to be virtuous, chaste and do your duty as a wife and only bear my son’s children”.

Vaeryna of course picked up on Alicent’s thinly veiled dig at her mother, and obviously Alicent was waiting for her response as she stared her pointedly.

“I’m well aware of my duty Your Grace. Despite what you all may think, I have no such desire to sully myself or my husband by birthing bastards” muttered Vaeryna, looking at Aemond who was smirking.

“Pretty words Princess. Surely you can understand my reluctance to believe such things”.

“I honestly don’t care what you believe” shrugged Vaeryna.

“You will show respect to the dowager Queen” snapped Ser Criston.

“I only show respect to those who respect me” replied Vaeryna.

“You have given me no reason to respect you-”.

“-Neither have you” retorted Vaeryna.

“Mayhaps we should start this conversation again?” suggested Alicent.

“You talk about the importance of my virtue and purity, yet it was your own son who was involved with that Riverlands bastard” said Vaeryna.

“He didn’t-“ muttered Alicent glancing at Aemond who lowered his head slightly.

“-Apologise, but there is no point in denying it. Everyone from Storms End to the wall knew of your favourite sons frequent visits to Alys Rivers bed” replied Vaeryna.

“Don’t you-” warned Aemond.

“-Seems as though she had quite the fondness for Targaryen’s, as my father also enjoyed her company during his time at Harrenhal” said Vaeryna smirking.

“That’s not-“ exclaimed Aemond his eye wide.

“-What true? Of course, it is. Surely you didn’t think you were that special. I must admit it’s quite poetic, isn’t it? Given your dislike of ‘strong bastards’. Yet you take one as your bed mate” retorted Vaeryna.

“That’s enough” warned Alicent.

"Boy it must really sting that when you were imprisoned, your precious son was far to busy getting his cock wet to even bother coming home to save you" said Vaeryna smirking.

"I said that's enough" exclaimed Alicent.

“Quite unfortunate that she died. As I dare say she would have given you your own little strong bastard eventually” retorted Vaeryna, looking over at Aegon who was sniggering into his cup of wine.

“You are excused. Return to your chambers. NOW” ordered Alicent as she slammed her hands down on the table.

“Your Grace” muttered Vaeryna bowing slightly to Aegon and then leaving the room with Ser Arryk.

“She should be punished-” snarled Criston.

“-For what? Telling the truth?” asked Aegon.

“Your Grace-“ muttered Alicent.

“-Oh, come on mother. We all know about Aemond’s little slip at Harrenhal, let’s not pretend otherwise” replied Aegon taking a sip of wine.

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd aemond #aemond x oc #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfiction #aemond x original female character #hotd fic #aemond fic #aemond #aegon ii #aemond one eye #aegon ii targaryen #alicent hightower #alicent

[huramuna]

a maid's folly - chapter 1.

dark aemond x maid ofc minor aemond x floris baratheon work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

previous | next

summary: a new maid from the Vale arrives at the Red Keep during a tumultuous time and becomes ensnared in the One-Eyed prince's web.

word count: 2k

i got a few requests for dark aemond x maid / servant / lowborn so here is my amalgamation of all of those! this will be a mini series!

warnings: smut (eventually, will add further tags on chapters with smut), power imbalance, dark Aemond, canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, Aemond being a touch starved weirdo, possessiveness, jealousy, this is going to be ANGSTY

guilded lily - cults • christmas kids - roar

It was an eve of spring, a gentle breeze whistling through the corridors of the Red Keep. A particularly strong gust rippled the bandanna atop the maid’s head– she slapped a hand to the crown of her skull, pulling it taut once more.

She shouldn’t be getting knocked over by a mere gust of wind– in the South, no less. The newly appointed maid was a young girl of nineteen name-days passed. She was known by Rosemary; Rosemary Stone. Originally from the Vale, more specifically, she was raised in the Eyrie. Her mother was a handmaiden to Lady Jeyne Arryn– the two women were particularly close and Jeyne took Rosemary under her wing as if she were her own after her mother passed. Rosemary knew there had been a deep love between her lowborn mother and the Lady of the Vale.

Rosemary’s mother spoke little of her father, if at all– she had heard rumors swirling around the Eyrie that it was a bannerman of Lady Jeyne’s, but she paid no mind to it, it didn’t matter to her either way. She was raised as well as a bastard could be and received much love from Lady Jeyne and her mother.

“Rosemary, you must listen to me, my dear,” Lady Jeyne had said just a few moons prior, “The world is changing. You’ve grown in the safety of the Vale, but I fear that… you are unprepared for your future. You’re a young girl, beautiful and you could become something one day, something beyond your name,” she paused, taking Rosemary’s hand in her own, “You must leave the Vale.” 

Rosemary blinked, recoiling slightly as if she’d been hit with a physical blow, “W-what? What do you mean, ‘leave the Vale’?” she asked, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly, “All I know is the Eyrie— all I know is you, all I know is… is…” she sniffled, clenching on Jeyne’s hand tightly before letting go. 

Jeyne let out a small sigh, getting a bit closer to her, their knees touching, “My sweet girl— that is exactly my point. I… cannot in good conscience let you live out the rest of your life here. You’re young, you have no titles, no land,” she paused, “No blood relatives keeping you here— you may see your bastardry as a hindrance and in some ways, it may be— but you have more freedom than anyone else in this Keep. More than I have, more than your mother had.”

The girl wiped the tears now pooling at her lashes, “I don’t wish to go— I don’t know anyone, and if… if I do, where would I go?” 

Lady Arryn took Rosemary’s hands in her own once more, rubbing small circles on them in a soothing manner, “I’ve been corresponding with King’s Landing— I believe you may be a good fit in the Red Keep, mayhaps as a handmaiden or a servant. I will make the necessary arrangements,” she let out a small sigh, “Between you and I— I’ve heard that King isn’t well, and that it is the Hightowers who sit the Iron Throne now. The Vale is impregnable— but it is also where information goes to die. I shan’t be uninformed, up here in the Eyrie with none the wiser if a war is brewing right under our noses— I wish for you to send me letters of anything you deem noteworthy. We are safe from legions of soldiers but we are nothing against dragons— Maegor saw to that.”

Rosemary’s brow furrowed, “You wish for me to… spy?” 

“In a way— think of it as your secondary goal,” Jeyne hummed, “Your priority is socializing, getting acquainted with other people and mayhaps finding a nice lover or two along the way, hm? You shan’t find any of those in the Eyrie, dear.”

The girl cracked a smile, albeit a small one. Slowly, she nodded. She didn’t wish to disappoint Jeyne. In a way, she was another mother to her, and she felt a strong desire to please her. 

But she still felt a deep pit in her stomach— she didn’t know what to expect in King’s Landing.

Rosemary was pulled from her reverie by a tap on her shoulder. It was Magelle, one of the older serving ladies. 

“Wake up, girl,” she whispered in a harsh tone, “Take this tray to the prince.” the older woman shoved a silver platter of hot water and tea leaves at her.

“The… prince— y-yes, the prince,” Rosemary stumbled, “Which one?”

Magelle rolled her eyes, “Do ye see wine on this tray? I told ye— the older prince only drinks wine. I’ll be rolling in my grave when that boy asks for tea. This is for the younger prince, Aemond. Remember what I told ye— no eye contact, especially with the second son. Ain’t a pretty sight none anyhow. Now get goin’.” she huffed, swatting the younger maid on the bottom, practically spurring her into action like a horse. 

Rosemary stumbled through the halls with the tray, getting lost a few times— what was the point of all of these damnable hallways? 

Eventually, she found her way to Maegor’s Holdfast, where the royal apartments were. She counted, Aemond’s chambers were third from last.

A gentle knock on the door was heard as she walked up to it. Her hand was shaking ever so slightly as she adjusted the hood of her kerchief , pushing up a single, errant hair. The teacups rattled on the tray she was balancing with her other hand. She was to serve the prince– the second prince, to be clear. If she were to serve the first prince, she would’ve just had to come with a decanter of wine and call it a day. But this prince– Prince Aemond ‘One Eye’-- was an enjoyer of tea, apparently. Rosemary thought it a much better choice than wine— she found the liquid to be sour and unappealing. 

“Your g-grace,” she murmured, then cleared her throat, enunciating once more, “Your grace– your tea.”

“Enter.” a voice said– it was quiet, but something about it made her want to prick at her nail beds.

She opened the door with her shoulder, scurrying into the room with her head down. As a servant of the Red Keep, she was taught to not make eye contact with her betters unless addressed, especially Aemond, as Magelle had warned.

“Do you require sugar or cream, your grace?” Rosemary asked, putting the tray to the small wooden table, looking down at her feet. 

She heard shuffling from her right, the creaking of leather and light footsteps growing closer. The scent of sandalwood and fire permeated her nostrils— it wasn’t unpleasant, just different.

“You’re new,” Aemond said, not even facing her. He walked past her to the table she placed the tray upon, pouring the rich brown liquid into his cup, “Are you not?” 

Rosemary put her hands together, sinking her thumb nail in the soft of her palm, “Y-yes, your grace,” she replied, blinking profusely, “I’ve just come from the Vale less than three days ago.” 

“The Vale?” he hummed, “Hm,” he dropped two cubes of sugar in his cup, stirring it, tasting it, before adding another two cubes. 

She watched from below fettered lashes, her eyes landing upon his hands— they were large and calloused. She heard that he was a proficient swordsman and rode the largest dragon in the world— and yet he took his tea with four sugars. Quite curious.

“If… you needn’t anything else, my prince,” she bowed slightly, “I will leave you to your tea.” Rosemary began to move, eager to escape. He was quiet enough, but something about him unnerved her— as if she was being taken apart in his head. 

“Wait,” his voice broke through the silence like a whip, “Come here, girl.” 

Her heart stopped in her chest— she was surely dead. She must’ve done something wrong, and he was to execute her. Rosemary was not an optimistic thinker. The maid turned towards him, head bowed. 

“Eyes up, little lamb,” he murmured, his already quiet voice rasping slightly, like flames licking at his throat. His hand, calloused and all, tucked under her chin, tipping her head up. 

Rosemary, ever diminutive, raised her eyes to him— her two deep, brown eyes met his one violet. She wasn’t breathing, her fingertips shaking ever so slightly. 

From her briefing about the royal family, she thought she was to look out for the older prince, Aegon, as he was known to be handsy with maids and servants alike. But no one had told her of Aemond except the warning not to look at him— and if they had, they said he was reserved, quiet and broody. 

Magelle said that he was a sight for sore eyes— and after looking at him now, she wondered if the old bat was blind. He had chiseled features and a pleasantly shaped mouth, like a taut bowstring. She glazed over the nasty scar over the right of his face, but didn’t pay it much mind. 

“Your name, little lamb?” he asked then, turning her head to the side, up and down, back and forth, as if appraising her like a slab of meat. 

“Rosemary, my prince,” the shaking maid replied, so quickly and quietly that she thought that she almost didn’t speak at all. 

The only indication that she had spoken was the tug of the prince’s upper lip in something akin to a grin. “Fitting. Lamb goes well with rosemary— or so I’ve heard.”

She felt a bead of sweat fall from her brow, “I don’t much like lamb, your grace.” 

He snorted at that, “You valemen, or valewomen, raise sheep, do you not? My uncle once said that the sheep of the Vale are prettier than their women,” he let go of her face, but not without looking at her a bit more, “He never had any taste, truly.” 

Rosemary felt her hands twitch as they came back together. What on earth did that mean? Was he calling her a sheep— more beautiful than a sheep? Was he calling her ugly? She was truly puzzled by the prince’s words, but said nothing of it. 

“Thank you for the tea. You may go now.” he hummed, turning away from her, attending back to his tea. 

A sigh of relief was felt throughout her body as she curtsied— it was still shaky from her nerves, but she managed to keep herself upright. “Have a good evening, my prince.” she murmured at last, leaving his chamber. 

She heard him once more, emitting a small ‘hm’. She could practically see the twitching sneer on his face like before. 

As she descended down the hallways, she unwrapped her kerchief from her head, her light cream colored braids falling out of their delicate shape and strewing across her back. Something about Aemond unnerved Rosemary so completely and her skin crawled as she left. 

She had never met a dragon before— how could she have? — but she felt as if he was an embodiment of one, bones made of obsidian and ash. And she was just a lamb in the face of a dragon. 

Descending back to her room— a chambered closet with a straw filled mattress— she curled into her bed, tossing her apron and dress aside. One of the things she brought from home— if she could even consider the Eyrie ‘home’ anymore— was a quilt sewed with thick, blue threads. It had depictions of the stars and moon, with little lambs and nightingales and dusk roses, sewn by her mother— with contributions from Jeyne— before her birth. Her hands traced the stitches, eyes filling with tears. The hem was frayed slightly from her habit of doing this very thing over the years. 

It was the only thing she had left of her mother, both of her mothers. Her chest ached at the thought that she would likely never return to the Eyrie, never see Jeyne again— never have her hands held by her, never have their knees touch, never have her kiss her forehead and tell her that everything would be okay. 

She was alone. A lamb alone in a castle of vipers and dragons. 

How truly precarious. 

Her sleep, when it came, was fitful. Tossing and turning, she dreamt of nightingales and lambs being torn limb from limb between dragons, some black and some green. Her skin was charred ash, her chest skewered by a stag’s horns until she bled out, wolves coming to feast upon her corpse. 

tag list: @watercolorskyy @queen--kenobi

#aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #the maid's folly #aemond x servant

[tbtgtr-incorrectquotes]

The Red Falcon

Flames In The Vale—Chapter 16: On The Edge

At last, Daemon & Rhea wed. It's not fun for anyone except Jeyne. Jeyne gets to have fun at least.

#the red falcon #naerys arryn #rhea royce #daemon targaryen #jeyne arryn #kella stonecrow

[naerys-arryn]

Jeyne A: You know my rules about cousins?

Random Arryn: N-no, my Lady.

Jeyne A: *points* That's the corner of the paintings of cousins allowed to have rights.

RA:

RA: There's only one painting there, and it's of Princess Leonyra.

Jeyne A: Exactly

Jeyne: You will also see on the other wall there lays Aunt Naerys’s eldest son and eldest daughter.

Jeyne: They do not count as cousins but as my siblings. Do with that what you will.

#it’s funny because she doesn’t know what ED will do later #the red falcon #jeyne arryn #character quotes

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 9: Reconciliation (NSFW!)

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

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. You mend a broken bond.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04​​​, @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ and @ajthefujoshi​ for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, discussion of abortion, medieval beliefs on abortifacients and contraceptives.

You leave under the cover of darkness.

So scattered and stunned are you that you do not think to question being roused by a wide-eyed Bethany and dressed by a yawning Jeyne, led slowly from your chambers with Daeron all but nodding off at your side, conveyed down the stairs and out to the courtyard where Daemon and the wheelhouse await. The particulars seem unimportant. You drowse on his shoulder all the way to the harbour, where the ship is docked and ready. When you are brought aboard and borne to your quarters for the journey, you fall immediately back to sleep.

It is as though some kind of spell has lifted when you awaken once again. You blink as you take in your surroundings: the wood-grain slats spanning up the walls and along the ceiling in shades of tawny richness; the light streaming brightly through the windows adorned with damask curtains of crimson, in complement to the vast rug of Targaryen red and black rolled across the floor; and the subtle signs of Daemon’s presence, from the overcoat carelessly tossed across the back of a chair to Dark Sister placed in her sheath on the table, belt and all. It is the first time in days that you truly see the world around you.

There is something cursed about the capital, you muse absently to yourself. Something strange and unnatural that seeks to steal the joy from all who enter it.

You startle slightly at the sound of your name. “You frightened me.”

Truthfully, you are more than a little relieved to have Daemon in your presence, wanting little else but the surety of your husband by your side. He smiles as he approaches, gentle steps rather than the strident thud of boots against the floor that you are so used to. Your mournful mood has unnerved him greatly.

Poor, poor kepa.

“How do you feel?” he asks, obligingly slotting a hand behind your back as you struggle to pull yourself upright. You wince at the catch and snarl of fabric over your nipples, the sensation of something sticky being ripped from flesh too quickly, sharp and stinging. At the sight of your grimace and the sound of your frustrated huffs as you try and fail to find a comfortable position to sit in, he settles himself along the pillows behind you and coaxes you to lean back against him. He is warm and firm and smells of all the things you love, of smoke and leather and something intrinsically masculine and safe. His lips find the shell of your ear. “Hm?”

You had forgotten to answer. “I am well,” you say.

Grabbing for his hand, you lead him to the place where one of the babes has decided to make themselves known, kicking indignantly out at the side of your belly from within. He laughs at the sensation, pressing back against the assault and engaging in a tussle with the audacious little rascal.

You elbow him gently, frowning up at him. “Do not encourage his behaviour, kepus! He is being terribly rude.”

“She’s just being her father’s daughter, little girl.” Using his free hand to cradle beneath your chin, he leans down to kiss you. It is a soft brush of lips upon lips, barely there, the heat of his thumb tracing a line across your jaw. His eyes glow like vivid spring in the morning sun, vivid beneath his browbone. “No harm in that.”

“They are both free to be their father’s children after they come into the world,” you say, though it is more of a whisper than anything else. “Not while they can use my insides as target practice.”

“Of course.” It sounds distinctly mocking, but not quite insulting. You roll your eyes.

With the heaviness of your middle making it taxing enough to move about on land, it seems all but impossible to take the fresh air while on board a steadily rocking ship. Thus, Ūlla decrees that you are to stay abed for the sennight’s voyage back to your island home. The thought of hauling your body—rife with aches and pains across your spine, your chest, your knees, and swelling unpleasantly at the ankles—around such unstable terrain sounds positively exhausting, and so you submit to her directive with little fuss. You cannot claim boredom, however, for your temporary apartments are a revolving door of visitors come to break up the monotony of each day.

Your new ladies are a near constant presence, which provides you the opportunity to get to know them better. It had grieved you greatly to dismiss Senna, especially so soon after the passing of Miriam, but you knew you could not keep someone capable of such treachery in your service. You had asked Helaena to make enquiries to the court; Bethany and Jeyne were the very first parties to express their enthusiasm for the role. Being from minor Houses, their families bear no particular allegiance in the strife between Green and Black. Your initial meeting with the girls proved them to be every bit as guileless and courteous as you would have hoped.

Mayhaps they are a little dull, you think as you listen to them chatter about the new gowns their fathers had paid for as going-away presents, but there is time to remedy that.

You are gladdened to have Ser Alton also make an appearance, scarred and limping heavily with the use of a cane. He will remain in your service, perhaps as guard to your babes’ nursery when the time comes. Whatever use Daemon finds for him, you are insistent that he be given a worthy stipend for the remainder of his life, though it will be but a mere pittance compared to his great sacrifice. You feel guilty when he grins at your pronouncement of this, for he would not be in such a predicament were it not for you.

You cast the thought aside. What is done is done.

Daeron is your favourite guest of all, though. He reads to you in halting Valyrian, childish cadence shaping around unfamiliar sounds. Though he struggles so, his stubborn perseverance is adorable. He babbles about the ‘tricks’ Athfiezar has taken to the skies to perform, your boy dutifully flying back and forth from his roost to observe your progress home. Your heart aches at the fact that you are missing his little routine, that you are unable to get up and see him as you have craved since first hearing his almighty caterwauling from the highest parapet of the Red Keep, your devoted mount always protecting you from afar. But mostly, your young brother lays about with you, cheek to your belly so that he can feel the babes’ kicks upon his skin.

“Ouch!” He jerks back, glaring at your middle and looking so comically outraged that you cannot help but to laugh. “That one hurt!”

“I am sure they did not mean to,” you say, hand reaching forth to card through his hair fondly. “They just want to say ‘hello’.”

In truth, the sensation is inexplicable. You understand now why it is so difficult for mothers to describe it to one who has not experienced the same. At times, it feels as though your body has become a host to something foreign and frightening, an arcane entity that saps your energy and threatens to burst out from within. But you are strangely relieved by the oddness of it, the bruising signs of lives that are thriving in spite of all that has occurred.

“There’re better ways to say that,” Daeron mutters, bringing you forth from your musing as he returns to his previous position. His next words are muffled into your gown, the sounds vibrating through to your skin and making you giggle. “Be gentle, baby.”

When you arrive on the shores of Dragonstone, it takes everything within you not to cry at the familiar sight of sharp stone contours looming from grey mist, the salt and smoke in the air filling your nostrils with the scent of home. You have missed this place more than you realised. You are guided from the ship to the rowboat to the shore by Daemon and Harwin both, the latter taciturn to the extreme since the discovery of his brother’s crimes. He cannot be faulted for this. You convey what gratitude you can in your silence, leaving him to his thoughts. The sway of the boat makes you queasy, and you are forced to a standstill upon reaching the dock so that you may bend as far as you are able to retch into the sea.

Daemon does his best to soothe you, patting your hip as you grip tightly to his arm for balance. “The worst is over, sweetling. There we go.”

“Ugh.” You wipe the bile from your mouth with the back of your hand. “Never again. Never—never again.”

He chuckles. “If you say so. Hardly a loss. I’ve always fucking hated sea travel.”

You side-eye him irritably. How infuriating he is with that grin stretched joyously across his face, his silver hair ruffling in the wind, expression gleaming with amusement and something wicked.

He is so handsome, you think. You despise him. No, I do not. I cannot.

Suddenly, there is a voice on the wind. You hear your name being called, high and frantic. You cast your gaze down the dock to see a cream-and-scarlet shape advancing quickly toward you, pale hair white and streaming in the weak light. Rhaenyra.

“Sister!”

She is wan and tearful when she reaches you, all but barrelling into you and folding her arms around your shoulders. The smell of her perfume—of jasmine and sandalwood and childhood and simplicity—transports you to another time, a time when you were small and she was so big and not just in stature, but in temperament too, and her embrace was the safest place in the whole entire world. In this moment, you cannot recall why you ever had cause to feel anger, why you had not spoken to her in what feels now like an age. You have missed her, you have missed her and she is with you and all is right and good. All the rest is ash and dust upon the breeze.

“I am here,” you murmur into her shoulder, or perhaps you weep it, tears wetting the fabric of her gown and belly crushed to hers. “I am home.”

“I wanted to come, but Father…” Rhaenyra’s nostrils flare.

It is a profound relief to find yourself in familiar chambers, the rooms where you feel safe and most at ease. Little has changed. The same grim dark walls stand etched with screaming dragons above a stately bedframe swathed in wine-dark velvet, the same bookshelves are stacked with tomes shared between you and your uncle, the same balcony carved from stone is lit by the setting sun. The babes’ eggs remain warmed in their braziers by the hearth, chasing the chill from the room and bringing a merry glow with the crackling flames. You take this all in from your place on the chaise.

“I know,” you say quietly, uncertainly. Despite the fact that your hand is clutched in hers and her eyes are ringed red and raw with worry, you do not quite know where you stand. “Daemon told me.”

She had tried to bully her way to King’s Landing, or so you had been told. Having both witnessed and been on the receiving end of her temper, you do not envy the poor souls who had been made to inform the Princess that she could not mount Syrax to venture forth to your aid.

That she had made such fuss is encouraging, you think. A sister who means to break ties would not threaten to have her staff executed or destroy countless priceless artifacts or scream loud enough to wake the dragons on the other side of the island in her desperation to come to you.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens to the point of pain, her eyes shadowing with malcontent and the polychromatic thunder of untapped wrath.

“I cannot believe Larys fucking Strong. That he is capable of such—such—” She cuts herself off after a glance at you, huffing in lieu of what would no doubt have been an impressive string of profanities. Shaking her head, the corners of her lips curve up weakly. “I’m surprised Uncle allowed the cunt to live. And Father’s sent ravens, you know—he’s rather put out by the manner in which you left.”

From what you have gathered, Daemon had readied your household with extreme discretion, taking only days to collect what he deemed essential so that he may deliver you from the city without so much as a by-your-leave in the earliest hours. Save for a cursory message passed along to the servants, there was no proclamation made of your departure to the King or the court.

“Yes, well.” What arrogance he has to be wroth after the manner he had discarded my right to justice!  “As for Lord Larys… I do not think Daemon intends to let the matter lie,” you say. “He is going to… well, I do not know, exactly. I did not ask. I just—wanted to come home.”

At that, her countenance lightens. “I’m glad you’re back,” she says, as though it is some great secret wrested from deep within her. You could have guessed such from the way she is looking at you like you are returned from beyond the veil.

And yet, it makes you frown. “Are you?” you ask, the memory of the garden threading through your mind, that terrible argument that had shaken the foundations of your bond with your sister.

You can almost hear her echoing words again, vicious and biting. You don’t even realise how spoiled you are.

Rhaenyra closes her eyes and swallows, and you catch the faint shakiness to the exhalation that follows as she prepares to answer you. She extricates herself from your hold, though it carries no air of rejection, and gazes pensively down at her lap where her hands now lay. You notice that she is turning the ring upon her middle finger with her thumb over and over. She is nervous, you realise. You wonder how it is possible that you are able to elicit such uncertainty in one so unwavering. She suddenly scoffs, though from the brooding set of her brow you suppose she directs this to none but herself. “I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I—hated myself the moment I said those awful things…”

“Why?” This is far kinder than she had been last time you spoke. You do not want to incite her displeasure now. “Why were you so cruel to me?”

As the days have passed, you have found this to be the query of paramount importance. It is not as though you had not known her capable of rage. She is a creature of passion, of fire, and she had rained flames down upon you for a reason. But you cannot—will not—accept the blame for it.

“I was angry. Jealous, even.” Rhaenyra sighs at the expression on your face. “I know. It’s horrible of me.”

You are sure you appear every bit as bewildered as you feel. “But why? You’re Rhaenyra.”

“And you’re very sweet, darling.” A beat, then two; she hesitates, staring past you for a moment before refocusing, eyes returning to yours with steely resolve. “You… you know that Laenor is not like—other men. He prefers those of a… particular persuasion. Of which I am not.”

Here, she pauses. You grasp for her hand again, squeezing encouragingly. She takes a breath. “We tried. Of course we did,” she says. “But no child would come. I needed heirs if I was to ascend the Iron Throne one day. So, I… sought assistance elsewhere.”

“Harwin.”

She flushes at your prompt declaration, glancing down. “Yes, Harwin. And he’s been good to me. They were both good to me. He and Laena.”

It grieves you still to hear your cousin’s name, but you keep yourself from lingering overlong upon the thought of dark skin and silver coils and merry laughter.

A wry, pained sort of smile curves Rhaenyra’s lips as she speaks, drawing you further into the present.  “But I always knew—I’ve always known, in the back of my mind, that the gossip is true,” she says. Her eyes shine like polished glass, but you know she will not break. “My sons are the best part of my life, but they are not Laenor’s. Everyone sees it. Everyone knows it. It’s so… draining, living that lie.”

Your sister is a proud woman. After having spent so many years denying your nephews’ illegitimacy to the court, the people, the Greens, to Father, to the gods themselves, it must be dreadful indeed to admit to this truth, even if it is only to you.

“And you…”

She lifts her chin to look at you, forehead wrinkling with the drawing together of her brows. Her tone is not quite accusatory, though the hurt of past wounds brings a weak rise of defensiveness rushing over you. You pull away slightly.

Her countenance gentles. “You have a husband who can give you children. Children whose blood will never be questioned, never be whispered about or mocked or insulted. No one will ever dare accuse you of being a whore. I… It finally became too much for me.”

You do not feel guilty for your response to Rhaenyra’s malice, for the venom you had voiced in that argument from what seems like so many moons ago now. Despite this, you cannot help but to pity her.

‘Tis the folly of youth to think her unmoved by the slander bandied about across the Realm, you chide yourself. You ought to have considered this. “I did not know,” you whisper, regret bitter and tickling in the back of your throat. “I didn’t realise. I thought—”

‘I thought you wanted my husband.’ You let the implication hang in the air. A swooping sensation in your gut heralds the uncomfortable reminder that you still—still—have not told him of this argument.

“Yes.” She nods, anticipating the statement before it has even been made. “And I told you before, when first you were wed. That prospect died long ago. I have no need for Daemon.” She rolls her eyes as though the idea of desiring your uncle is some great folly. You might be insulted on his behalf were it not for the relief that it brings. “None of this was your fault. My own recklessness has led me here, I realise that. I know I do not deserve it, but… please. You’re my sister. If there is anyone I need, it is you. Please forgive me.”

“Oh, ‘Nyra.” Your belly gets in the way, forcing you to contort awkwardly to the side as you move to wrap your arms around her. Her chin falls to the dip between your neck and shoulder, her laugh gusting across exposed skin at the sensation of the babe that is snugged between you kicking out against her body. You giggle with her, angling yourself toward her ear so that she may hear you fully. “Next time you are feeling this way, talk to me. Stop shutting me out. I can handle it, I’m old enough now—”

“I know, I know.” Tugging out of your embrace, she lets her hands fall to your middle.

It is the first time she has truly felt the change in you of her own volition. You remember when you had forced her to touch the burgeoning swell upon first announcing the lives you bear, how reluctant and feather-light her palm had felt, how the strain had unveiled itself at the corners of her eyes and in the weak tilt of her mouth as you had chattered at her in excitement.

“Gods,” she says, fingers mapping the span of flesh in interest, “but you truly are a woman grown now, aren’t you? Look at this!”

“They are already unruly. I feel as though I am perpetually seated in the privy, such is their insistence on entertaining themselves with my insides.”

And once my ablutions are complete, you think ruefully, I am not capable of seeking other locales until someone deigns to find me and help me up. It had not been the best task with which to induct your new ladies—but needs must.

“They’re strong. That’s good. Father must have been pleased.”

“Hm.”

“I’d love to have seen the look on Alicent’s face when she first saw you.”

You shift uncomfortably at the mention of your stepmother. I do not wish to think about her. Not here, not now.

Rhaenyra does not seem to notice your recalcitrance, persisting along her chosen avenue of oration. “She never could stand it whenever I announced another babe. Worried about her precious Aegon, no doubt…” She stops. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I—I—”

At the sight of her concern, so warm and welcome after moons of silence and avoidance, your terrible secret spills forth like water breaking through a dam, unstoppable, rushing torrentially and obliterating everything in its path. You trip over your confession in your haste to get it out, to purge yourself of the burden of carrying it alone.

When you are done, the stillness lingers unnaturally, so quiet that you can almost hear the sound of your blood pumping through your veins.

“Alicent—she… what?” Rhaenyra’s eyes are wide, horrified, face blanched.

“Yes—do tell.”

You turn to see Daemon standing in the open doorway to your chambers, stiffer than the draconic stone carvings that man the entrances to the Keep. Scarcely stemmed rage emerges thunderous beneath the cracks in his control. It seems to vibrate out of him like the dust that quivers on the air after Athfiezar’s landing, deceptively calm until you look closer. The forbidding cross of his arms and the violence that looms in the shadow beneath his brow is enough to tell you without risking inquiry that he has heard you. Has heard everything.

Oh. Your heart twists anxiously. Oh, dear.

“I—”

Speak, for the gods’ sake, you urge yourself, but the sounds refuse to shape themselves into words. Your mettle has fled, leaving you all but a quailing child sitting silent before her elders, awaiting the burn of remonstration.

He advances like a soldier upon enemy territory. “Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps my little wife did not just say that that whore of a Queen has been dosing her with moon tea since who fucking knows when. Perhaps I’ve been struck with madness, or I’m hearing things.”

The last time he was this angry with you…

A blast of inappropriate hilarity washes through your mind as you consider it. Does the instance where you had ignored him for days and danced with Lord Serrett at Helaena’s wedding count? He had certainly been rather put out. You are unsure if it matches with the near tangible ferocity contorting his face into something bestial, barely suppressed and weathering severe hollows into his forehead.

He is already cross, you think. I could tell him about the fight with Rhaenyra. You have been meaning to. Now seems as good an occasion as any.

“Daemon—” Your sister jumps in her seat when he barks at her.

“Quiet!” he hisses, rounding back on you.

You discard your notion, deciding to not to bother divulging that particular secret here. Another time, then. No need to send him to his grave early. He is positively apoplectic. It cannot possibly be good for his heart.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” he asks. “I’m your husband! You don’t answer to Rhaenyra. You answer to me!”

“Excuse me—”

“I wanted to prevent bloodshed,” you say, cutting your sister off. You reach for the arm of the chaise, preparing yourself for the arduous task of rising from such a low surface. You keep your voice soft and light like one who is soothing an agitated stallion. “Kepus—”

He lets out a humourless chuckle, scowling and derisive. Standing in the middle of the room, he makes no move to close in upon you. You think you might prefer it if he would.

“Oh, so you’re protecting her? Excellent.” He laughs again, wild, as though it is a great joke. “She’s murdered how many of our ba—” 

You watch him break off at the end, swallowing convulsively.

“Shit.” His eyes are bright and his teeth grind together beneath closed lips. “I cannot even say the words, and yet you’re defending her? You’d better have—”

“I was not protecting her!”

Grunting, you gratefully accept Rhaenyra’s mutely offered arm of support to hoist yourself up, her other hand pushing against your back. Daemon steps forward, arm outstretched as though to assist you in place of your sister, a rote movement borne from days and weeks of doing the same. It is not needed. The business of getting to your feet winds you for a moment, the uncomfortable bend of your upper half forcing the babes into your lungs and the breath from your body.

“I was protecting us!” You rub your belly with a grimace. “I was protecting you!”

“Protecting me?” He hangs frozen, fingers twitching. A battle rages plain upon his visage. He wars between the need to cosset and the desire to castigate, your loving, hot-tempered dragon of a man.

Sensing a shift in his disposition—or even a fissure through which you may slip through to gentle him with sweet words and a light touch—you make your tentative approach. “I know you,” you say, wincing with each step as the weight pulls low in your spine. It is becoming far too difficult to move about in your current state. “If I had told you when I first found out, you would have slaughtered her.”

“Too fucking right, I would have—”

“Stop. Listen to me.” You lay your palm on his chest. He tenses under the contact, then releases, much larger hand coming up to blanket yours against his body. His chin dips down, eyes closing and brows contracting as though in great pain. “You would have stopped at nothing to take her life in recompense for… for what she has done. You would have killed her. And what then? The Queen dead, and the slayer in close quarters. Papa would have had no choice but to take your head for it.”

You drop your volume low, too low for Rhaenyra to hear, letting bitterness suffuse your hushed tone. “Only a King can kill a Queen, after all.”

It is an old hurt, a terror from so young an age that you had scarcely the words to describe what it was you dreaded.

Mama, whimpers the small, frightened girl locked away in the corner of your mind, snivelling to the echo of dimpled cheeks and crinkled eyes in the barest shape of a woman, a shade of a memory. Is this stabbing pain in my chest what betrayal feels like? Is this how you felt when Father held you down and let them cut you apart? Must I forever wish, hope, pray that he will choose me for once?

You shake your head. This is not the time nor place for such thoughts.

“And I… I would be alone. With child. Forced to contend with the world as a widow not yet twenty summers old. Without you. Without my kepa.” A sharp, plaintive tremor colours your cadence, fear of the picture you paint too real and near to remain impassive. “And do you think Papa would allow his second daughter to remain unmarried with the others wed, even with a womb already full? I was protecting you. I am not sorry for it. I am only sorry that I had not yet had the occasion to tell you myself.”

The world is still as he absorbs what you have said, gaze stormy and troubled and not quite meeting your own. Then, Daemon leans down, presses his forehead to yours, and you believe in this instant that the worst of it is over.

But he bears down harder, and for several moments it is too much, too forceful, and his hand upon your cheek feels less like love and more like punishment, stinging, branding. He shoves himself from you bodily. Taking deep, shuddering breaths, he strides away with his back to you.

“Daemon?”

“I—I cannot,” he says, so low that at first you are unsure if you heard it. He does not turn to meet your stare, just tosses the words over his shoulder like you are someone unimportant, distant and detached.

This is not rage, you realise. This is something else. This is worse.

“We’ll speak later.” With that, he walks to the door, out, footsteps echoing along the hall outside, fainter, fainter, until they are wholly gone.

The first thing you proceed to do after Daemon’s exit is invite Ser Lorent into the room.

You had not expected him to accompany you to Dragonstone, given the self-evident vocation of a Kingsguard to swear himself to the highest man in the Realm. However, he refused to return to his Commander upon discovering Daemon’s intent to take you home, being entirely possessed of the belief that it was his sacred duty to defend those whom the King deems fit. Given that your father had named him your shield in the wake of Ser Alton’s maiming and had not un-named him, it seems he had little desire to forsake this assignation when learning of your impending change in locales.

“Please make sure that my husband is not allowed to take to the skies,” you tell the knight, ignoring the sound of Rhaenyra murmuring your name behind you. “He is not to mount Caraxes today.”

He frowns. “With all due respect, Princess,” he says slowly, “I don’t think I am the one to tell Prince Daemon that—”

You wave him off impatiently. “I am the second-born of King Viserys. He is the brother of the King. Tell me, Ser—which of these is the higher station?”

It is a crass comparison to make, but effective. Ser Lorent’s countenance smooths and he sighs, genuflecting before you in recognition of your case. He offers a cursory farewell and a solemn vow that ‘it will be done’, spinning on heeled boot to march himself off to his task. His golden armour gleams with each movement of limb.

“Sister.” Rhaenyra is insistent.

You turn to her with as patient a countenance as you can muster. She is pallid, carved out to her core, and it plays out in the abrupt weathering of her face, supple-skinned youth mirroring the bone-deep weariness of a thousand summers past. Making your way to her, you decide not to risk sitting on the seat this time. Instead, you lean against the arm of the chair, from which lifting yourself will be a far easier undertaking to perform.

“Alicent is not—the Alicent I knew was not so vile as this,” she says numbly, frozen.

You reach out to lay your palm upon her hunched back, the river of moonlight spilling from her head catching soft between your fingers. Her gaze is far-off, like she is not truly seeing what is before her, instead watching a mirage from another time play out upon the stone floors of your chamber. She lets out a chuckle, but it sounds more like a cough or a sob.

“When I was a girl, all I wanted to do was fly away with her. Far away, where babes and Lords and thrones and kingdoms meant little. I think she would’ve done it if I truly asked it of her. She was my best friend. Sometimes I wonder…” Her voice fizzles like the flame that has burned down to the very last of the wick.

You hush her. “The Alicent you knew is gone. She is not the girl from your childhood, Rhaenyra, not anymore. She… she is something else. Warped.”

“She is the Queen.”

It is all you need to hear to know that she understands in a way so few do.

Power destroys the goodness in people, even those upon whom it is forced. The promise of it had turned Maegor to madness; had made your father a coward content to spurn the needs of his children for the sake of satisfying others; had created a villain of the woman who had once helped you learn your letters from history books. It is slow-eating poison consuming its prey, unseen, unnoticed, until it is far too late and the person it has claimed is no more.

Rhaenyra’s expression changes as she sits up, nostrils flaring and skin tightening around her eyes, flinty and dark.

“For now. Not forever.” You marvel at how something delivered in such hushed volume can sound so much like a proclamation. She looks to you, taking your hands in hers with a rancorous glimmer in her stare. “Lo Sīkudo Dārȳti jemēban, ziry gūrotrir mazemilza. Drīvī aemilā, kese kīvio isān.” When I rule the Seven Kingdoms, she’ll get what she deserves. You will have justice, I swear.

You nod shakily, the tightness in your gut easing. Truthfully, you had been unsure if she would support you after having ignored you for weeks. The attack had served at least one good purpose, you think. It does not bring you much joy to consider for all that has come to light in its wake.

She leaves you with a kiss to the temple and a promise to return to your old routine. “I’ll have dinner relocated to your solar until these two arrive,” she says, stroking your cheeks with her thumbs and glancing down at your belly. “You won’t have to go far, that way. Alright?”

You smile gratefully, acquiescing to her suggestion. Traversing the Keep in your condition just for the sake of a meal hardly seems worth it.

In the silence of your rooms, you contemplate searching for the caps you are stitching to protect the babes’ heads in the cooler weather. They are among the luggage still being brought up from the ship, you remember. Damn.

You ponder upon seeking a tome from your solar next door—within which your ladies are currently installed for the sake of privacy with your sister—but you do not fancy carrying further weight for any measure of distance. Your books are far too heavy for the enterprise to be worth it. Sighing, you shuffle to the bed, always in eager anticipation of a nap to replenish the energy the twins sap for themselves.

Awakening an indeterminate amount of time later, you are bleary and fatigued, gown damp and back aching and stomach rumbling. Thankfully, your ladies seem to have ventured back into your rooms during your slumber.

“How long until the evening meal?” you ask through a yawn, using both arms to push yourself upright and bracing yourself for the rush of blood spotting your vision. You refocus a moment later upon the pair seated by the hearth, the fire lit and crackling merrily behind them.

They both startle lightly at the abruptness of your waking. “There are—some hours yet, Princess,” Jeyne says nervously, eyes darting between you and Bethany.

I make her nervous, you realise. You do not wish to contend with fearful companions. Smiling, you try to settle her, though the learning of such unfortunate news as having to wait so long brings tears to your eyes. You are starved.

She begins to stammer at the sight. “If—If you’d like, I can ask for the kitchens to prepare you something small?”

“That would be lovely, Jeyne,” you say, sure that the trails spilling down your cheeks coupled with the wide-set gleam of your teeth has only served to further frighten her. You must seem positively deranged.

You try to distract from the picture you make by requesting scones spread thick with honey and raspberry conserve, a staple in your diet as of late. The longing that arises at very thought of it speeds the trajectory of the moisture sliding down your face. You hurry to ensure she passes on a further request for honey-glazed goat with mashed turnips for supper.

I may just sprout black-and-yellow fuzz at this rate, you muse. You almost consider asking for a jar of honey to be brought with a spoon to consume by itself—but you are certain the imbibing of so much sweetness will only send you rushing to heave into a basin.

As Jeyne speeds off to fulfil the task you have set her, you turn to Bethany and petition her to arrange for a bath to be brought in. The relief at having something to do other than make stilted conversation with her new mistress appears to relax her greatly. She quite happily consents, placing her book of prayers upon her empty seat to make the necessary enquiries.

Soon enough, you are cleansed and steeped in warm water laced with milk and rose oil, leaning happily over the side of the tub to partake in the buttery desert. Your ladies leave you in peace after helping you into the bath before the hearth and scrubbing you down with soap, and so you are able to enjoy the simple joy of it without unfamiliar company to encumber you.

The scent of flowers and berries and floured goods swirl together in a haze of saccharine richness, calming you greatly and easing the last of your worries. Daemon could burst in this very moment and scream loud enough to be heard in the capital, and I do not think I would care overmuch.

You ought not to have.

“Looking rather pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

Eyes widening as you slosh about to face your uncle, you brace yourself for the fulfilment of your most recent deliberations. Instead, your gaze alights on his form leaning against the wall, relaxed in a manner that contradicts your suppositions. His lips curve at the display you make, crumbs strewn across the small table beside the bath and collected in the corner of your mouth. The smile does not reach his eyes.

“I was hungry,” you say by way of explanation. “And sore.”

“Hm.” Daemon pushes himself forward, sauntering over at an unhurried pace. You watch him cautiously, attempting to gauge his mood through the mask of inscrutability. He reaches forward to—

“Hey!” You squawk in outrage as he swipes the last of your scones from the plate and lifts it to his lips, hand darting up to try and snatch it back.

“Ah-ah.” He holds it up and out of your grasp. “Consider this payment for being barred from riding my own dragon this afternoon. Care to explain that?” His brow raises even as he stuffs the treat into his mouth, chewing smugly while you flail with indignation.

You pout up at him. “I was worried you would… fly to King’s Landing,” you say, scowling. To murder Alicent Hightower. The implication hangs heavy in the beat of silence after your sentence.

“I thought about it.” Sucking the remnants of conserve from his thumb with obnoxious emphasis, he keeps his tone light, though it is belied by the piercing intensity of his stare. “I wasn’t able to actually do anything, though, thanks to you.”

“Good.” That scone was mine. You sigh, resting your chin upon your hands over the rim of the tub. “I know you are angry—”

“Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it.” That performative gaiety in his voice persists, carrying with it the threat of heated censure should you misstep and say the wrong thing.

You swallow, measuring your words carefully as you grip onto his hand. “I know.” You are encouraged when his fingers fold over yours. Despite the severity reflected in his eyes and the hard line of his lips, his touch is soft. “But you cannot touch her while she is Queen. When Father dies, Rhaenyra will rule, and then we can ensure that she will pay. Justice shall prevail, Daemon—when the time is right. Leave her be. Please?”

His hold tightens and he lets out a harsh breath, wrinkles forming between his brow as they contract. Peering up at him through your lashes, you wait. Then, a minute dip of his chin, a barely-there jerk of assent.

He does not like it, but he agrees.

“You shouldn’t have kept it from me.” There is no utterance of acquiescence. You had not expected it. His voice is low, cross, vibrating through your joined flesh, and the pale hairs on your arms stand upright at the sensation. “I shouldn’t have had to eavesdrop on you to learn something this important.”

“I know. I am sorry,” you whisper.

He grunts. “I know you are.”

“I will be truthful from now on.”

“Good.”

“And you will stop running from me each time we argue.”

At this, he frowns. “I don’t—”

“You do,” you say firmly. “You get upset and walk out, and I have to sit about wondering where you are, if you are well, when or even if you intend on returning. I worry.”

Daemon glances toward the fire pensively, clasp slackening around your hand. When his gaze returns to yours, it is serious, violet so deep that it is like lifting your head to look up at the night sky, profound and unknowable. “I’ll try,” he murmurs, palm ghosting over your cheek, callouses scratching comfortingly. “For you.”

You allow the corners of your mouth to turn upward, cupping his hand with both of yours and turning your head to press your lips to his skin. He smells warm, like the salt-smoke of the isle and something earthy, wild. He smells like home.

You startle when he pulls away to fumble with the buttons on his doublet. “What are you doing?” you ask blankly.

“What does it look like?” Grinning, he tosses first his outerwear and then his undershirt to the floor. He kicks his boots off haphazardly, a movement so thoroughly ungainly that you cannot help but laugh as he stumbles a pace or two. He wiggles his brows, gesturing at you. “You’ve a large bath there. It so happens I’m in need of one, too.”

You hesitate, glancing down at the opaque water, beneath which is your body thick with the weight of carrying two babes and scrawled dark with the evidence of skin forced to stretch too quickly. You do not feel attractive right now. “But—”

“But what? Are you in pain?” He stops for a moment with breeches at his knees, concerned,  shaft half-plumped between his legs and ruddy with the rush of blood attending to its rise.

“No, I just—I am not at my most… inviting, currently.”

“What utter shit.” When he shucks off the rest of his clothing and bares his undressed form proudly, you bite your lip at the view, at wide shoulders and corded arms and firm thighs, skin swirled with old burns like a brand of savagery. He makes toward you. “Go on, there—there we go, sweetling. Ah”—he readjusts you to his liking, settling in before you—“not your usual temperature.”

“I cannot have it hotter.” You grumble as he tugs you to him, tilting you to the side so he can press his face to your bared neck. “The babes.”

“Yes, don’t want to roast the little dragons,” he says, greedily caressing your belly below the water. His nose drags across your jaw. “Mm, you’re soft. Smell good.”

You shiver. “Daemon—”

“Nervous thing tonight, aren’t you? A silly little girl with silly little thoughts.”

He chuckles, mocking and mean, grasping at your wrist and drawing you down, down. His tongue laves a line up your throat even as he coaxes your fingers around his cock, using you to bring himself to full mast.

“Feel that? Fuck. Keep fucking going.” His forehead presses to your temple, his length twitching in your grasp, iron, steel. “Doesn’t feel like someone repulsed, does it?”

“No.” Your eyes water, mortified and desperately aching. Why would I doubt him? Why is he not touching me ? Your breath comes quick like a rabbit’s, puffed little exhales, frantic with desire.

“No,” he says, roughly cupping and squeezing your breasts. You cry out, nipples tingling with a strange heaviness that you are unsure if painful or pleasurable. “Up”—he is already hoisting you by the waist—“show me your tits. There’s a girl.”

You gasp, scrabbling at his hair with your free hand as he dips down to swirl his tongue around a nipple, sweep the flat of it across your flesh, fix his lips over you and suck, hard pulls that shoot straight to your gut, pulsing. It feels good. It hurts. There is a tension climbing, climbing—

“Uh!” A foreign release clenches in your cunny and in your chest, not a climax but something intuitive, primordial, extending from your breast and radiating inward to the very heart of you.

Daemon pulls away with a noise of surprise. “How long has this been happening?” he asks lowly, quivering against you as though poised to strike, wild and barely restrained.

Glancing down perplexed, you spy the moisture collected in the corner of his mouth. You wonder why he has reacted so to the taste of the bathwater until you see the beads of gold-cream collected thickly right at your nipple, too dark to possibly be anything but mother’s milk.

It is too early, you think, but in the same token you are also thinking my gowns, the stickiness on my gowns is from this, from my body preparing the way for the babes to come.

“I—I do not know, I—”

His cock lurches in your hand as he leans back down to collect the slow amber trickle from your skin, shuddering full-formed at the pooling of it on his palate. He mouths leisurely, covetously at you, tongue-tip tracing and prodding droplets from the hard peak. Your untouched breast hangs impossibly heavy, throbbing.

“If you taste like this now”—his lips scarcely leave your flesh to shape the words—“I’m hiring a fucking regiment of wet-nurses. They can feed the babes. This’ll be for me.”

You can do naught but keen as he returns to his task, taking great pulls to eke out the scant fluid. Each suck throbs molten in your core, as though someone has seized your pearl between thumb and finger and yanks in tandem with Daemon’s avaricious swallows. His insistent fondling and gusty snuffles and obscene slurps ratchet you beyond the point of speech, feeling so much more than you recall.

He draws back with a slick pop, mouth as rosy and glistening as your flushing chest. “Gods, you’re sweet all over, aren’t you? I don’t know which I prefer to sup from—your tits or your cunt.” His voice is slurred, prompting memories of little Joff each time Rhaenyra had removed him drowsed and milk drunk from her own breast. Daemon looks the same now, eyes drooping and dazed as he stares up at you. His knee pushes between your thighs and knocks your grip away from his shaft, hands angling you to seat yourself firmly over him. “There. Ride my leg like the fucking slut you are. Go on.”

You squirm in his hold, lips parting shakily as he proffers one final wet kiss to your cherry-tip nipple and abruptly switches tack, latching onto the other with a wordless growl. That same sensation akin to the bursting of a bubble radiates through your skin. The renewed greed in his nursing drags tells you that he has lured forth a fresh supply.

With a tremulous whimper, you brace yourself against his arms and slide your core over him, rutting mindlessly and allowing instinct to take over as the sparks coil hotter inside you. The wiry hairs on his flesh rasp against your bud like whetstone across a blade, a pure unadulterated sting that somersaults, swooping, between throbbingpoundingpleaseneverstop and something darker, a bite of agony that feeds into the mounting end. You slide, sticky, viscous, too thick to be water alone, helpless vocalisations escaping as you coat him in your wet. The bathwater splashes about with every movement, spilling over the edges of the tub and onto the floor.

“Kepus!”

Your entrance tightens and your belly tautens, convulsing and contracting with the intensity of a powerful crest, eliciting a roiling heat in your breasts and thighs and cunny. His eyes flick up to yours and dance roguishly in the firelight, his leg bouncing into your pearl so that you can ride out the waves of ecstasy.

Daemon’s teeth graze over your nipple as he pulls away, crowding you back against the edge of the tub as he stands swiftly, sending bathwater careening wildly and swilling over the sides with a slick splatter. He drags you up by your braided hair, giving you clear access to the sight of his hand stripping frantically at his cock.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he snaps, crouching slightly to dig his thumb into your mouth and force your jaw wide. He leers down at you with teeth bared, the head of his shaft burbling pearly white that he spreads across your open lips. “I’ve got my own milk to feed you with. No point dirtying the water when I’ve got a perfectly good hole to spend in right here, hm?”

You beam, rising up on your knees and batting his hand away so that you can take hold of his manhood, welcoming the familiar heft of it with a firm pump and glide of lips along the vein running underside. From the way it tremors at your touch, a flower reaching desperately for the sun, he is not long to finish.

“Uh-huh.” You stick out your tongue and feed him into your mouth, wiggling happily into his groin as far as you are able. It is only when you gag hard enough to incite nausea that you withdraw, taking a breath even as you tongue the stray droplets of seed from the tip, hot and bitter. “‘M all for you. All my holes—they’re all yours.”

He grunts, fingers twisting in your hair tight enough to hurt and cock spasming between your lips. “Fuck!”

You smile, fisting vigorously at the base and suckling over the head in draughts that mimic his earlier movements at your breast, moaning with delight as the syrupy astringence pumps onto your tongue in thick spurts. Daemon’s head tips back above you, eyes closing and hips juddering into your face reflexively. You swallow it all, obedient and eternally eager to please.

“Fuck,” he repeats emphatically, loosening his grip and nearly wheezing, winded and depleted.

You laugh. He hisses as the vibrations travel through his sensitive flesh, extracting himself with a weak groan. Flopping back into the tub with a huff, he seems to care little for the amount of water he has wasted in his endeavours.

“The bath is half-emptied now,” you say, pressing your lips together to stave off the grin that tries to overtake your expression.

Daemon snorts, folding you against his chest like a child cradled by her father. He is firm and warm beneath you, so warm that the water seems cold by comparison, and you rub your cheek over his skin in contentment. “You’ll live,” he murmurs drolly, petting your belly once more. Mercifully, the babes are still.

“I have half a mind to get out and leave you here in this half-empty bath,” you tell him, softening the blow of your snobbish tone with a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He smiles, angling his head to capture your lips more fully, tongue stroking against yours and blending the flavours of his seed and your milk in a strange, sweet-tart amalgamation. “Stay,” he whispers into you, breath mingling with your own. His eyes shine, soft and affectionate in a manner he allows so few to see. “For a little longer, at least.”

When he looks upon you like this—like you are a god incarnate, like you are a miracle brought to life, like you are everything he has ever wanted in all the world—you are hard-pressed to refuse him.

“Very well,” you say, your hand joining his over the place where your family grows. “I will stay.”

Read it on AO3: 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/116372530

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