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barbieaemond · 6 months

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A curse for a curse

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, sub!Aemond, smut, oral sex (f and m receiving), overstimulation, orgasm denial, p in v, chains kink (idk if that’s even a thing but it’s there)

Word count: 8.5K

Author’s note: PLEASE READ THIS ->There's a little canon divergenge as in Rook's Rest is not happened yet, so Aegon is King and Aemond went to Harrenhal. Based on a request I got for sub!Aemond.

Taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @ashovertheriver (y’all i can’t remember the others, I had my taglist in my old blog so…sorry 🫠)

Harrenhal tastes like curse and smoke when she enters the blackened and ruined walls.

She is sure, as she is sure that dragons are real, that this place has been cursed over and over since Balerion and Aegon the Conqueror proved that not even stone was safe against dragonfire.

The air is heavy in her lungs, as breathing through a thick layer of wool and her steps echo down the corridors in a strange way; it seems like a never ending sound, echoing through the walls and many lost ages.

But her stride is steady, her eyes fixed on the doors of the Hall of One Hundred Hearths where she is sure to find him, where she will end this thing for which she has no name, and yet it is draining her, wearing her out like a starved leech.

“When is Aemond coming back?” the Queen Mother asks, and then little Jaehaera asks the same question, even Helaena, in those rare moments of clarity, wonders about her brother. And each time, she doesn’t know what to say. Her lip grows stiff, her jaw clenches and she wonders obsessively from dawn till dusk. What is he doing there?

Why has he not returned now that Harrenhal has been taken?

What is he doing with that bastard woman?

“They say she’s a witch.” King Aegon says with his glassy eyes, putting down his cup as he looks around to choose a target on which to pour his anger. Wine seems to not work anymore, it is not enough to quench his thirst for revenge, and unfortunately, she happens to be the easiest mark.

“He killed everyone in that gods-forsaken place. Everyone except the witch.” He leans forward, watching her with amused anticipation just like a child who waits for his favorite toy to break. “Why did he not do it, sweet good-sister?”

He wants her to snap, and surely something does snap inside her, but she refuses to be humiliated like this.

“I do not know, your Grace. Perhaps my husband learned the Gods’ mercy and decided to spare a woman.”

His chest shakes violently as he laughs, and there’s nothing more humiliating than his laugh, not even the whispers traveling all the way from the Riverlands.

He’s taken her as his prisoner, keeps her in his chambers.

She has utterly bewitched him.

Every word is a stab to her heart and every time his word reaches her through a raven, the wound splits more open and festers.

He does not mention the bastard witch. He says nothing on the matter. He informs her of the war progressing, tells her he will come back soon.

Soon.

Soon was two moons ago and he’s still there.

It doesn’t matter anymore, she thinks as she reaches the doors of Harrenhal. Soon is now.

The look on Ser Criston Cole is almost comical as two soldiers open the doors of the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. “Princess?”

She immediately looks around, but there’s no silver in that huge black hall.

“What are you doing here?” the Hand asks, walking to her “It is not safe for you—”

“Where is the Prince?” she cuts him off, her tongue hitting her teeth like a blade cleaving the air.

Ser Criston looks puzzled for a moment, and even if she doesn’t show it, anguish twists her gut. But then he says “The Prince is not here, your Grace. He’s out, on the battle camp.”

She looks at the soldiers in the room, watching her like some kind of weird creature—a lamb in a den of wolves. That is no place for a princess, no place for a woman. And yet, it is precisely her place.

She belongs to his side. As he belongs to hers. It’s what she’s been telling herself for two moons of sleepless nights.

She should have come here with him in the first place, war be damned.

“Leave, please.” She orders the men “All of you. I need a word with the Hand.”

They may not be used to taking orders from a woman, but they immediately leave the Hall like a pack of unruly children.

The thud of the doors is like some kind of curtain falling and she is finally free of this act, free to snap.

“What is going on here, Ser Criston?”

He shifts on his feet, looking down, looking utterly incapable to answer her question. “The situation in the Riverlands is quite delicate at the moment—”

“I don’t give a shit about the war, Ser Criston.” She almost hisses “You are perfectly aware of what I’m asking.”

His mouth shuts and she resists the urge to use her hands as talons to part his lips and grab the truth from his throat.

“What is going on between Aemond and the witch.” she states, she is not asking.

The Hand sighs deeply and takes a step closer. His whole demeanor changes, becomes confidential, almost fatherly. “My Princess, you must not believe the foul whispers that have been spread.”

She feels a glimmer of relief blooming in her heart, but not strong enough to relinquish the leeches sucking at her bones. “What should I believe then?”

“It’s true. The Prince spared her life.”

“Does he keep her in his chambers?”

“What? Seven Hells, no. She has her own chamber. A little room in the wing intended for servants.”

“Did she ever visit his rooms? Alone?”

Ser Criston looks down for a moment, his lips contracting. “You must understand, my Princess. There are no servants here.”

The wound between her ribs cracks open.

There are no servants here. Did she help him dress? Did she help him bathe? Did she do all the things she used to do? All the things only she was entitled to do?

“I want to see her.”

“Princess, it is not wise.”

“I believe it is very much wise, Ser Criston, since my marriage is at stake here.”

Ser Cole sighs again. “She’s…dangerous, my Princess. She’s eerily persuasive.”

“So, you think it’s true? That she’s a witch?”

“I’m not sure about her powers, my Princess. All I know is that…one of our soldiers spat in her face when she was still a captive by order of the Rogue Prince and she just…murmured something to this man.” He swallows lowering his gaze and takes a deep breath. “The next day he ripped out his own tongue with his bare hands, bleeding to death.”

Disturbing as these words can be, she keeps a steady and cold face.

“She claims she can read the flames. That they speak to her, that she saw all of this happening—the Prince coming here. She claims she saw the fate of the war.”

A long silence stretches between them, but however right the Hand’s reasoning may be, she is not keen to let magic and superstitions take what she has come here to retrieve. “Take me to her.”

Ser Cole stalls for a moment, trying to make her give up by merely looking at her. But at last, he caves. “As you wish, my Princess.”

Her room is completely bare, save for a hearth and a bundle of dirty covers and a pillow thrown on the ground.

She enters and the air feels even heavier, more cursed. She feels it like something weighing on her shoulders, drying her throat.

There’s a woman sitting before the fire, clad in rags with long black hair falling down her back. She seems to register the door opening and closing only minutes later, as if she was too focused on her fire staring. But then she turns her head and looks at the woman before her with a strange smile.

“Alas, you have come.”

The Princess blinks quickly, watching the woman stand up and walk closely to her, chains on her feet and hands. She feels something unsettling under her skin, behind her eyes, as if she can’t stop looking straight into the green eyes of the witch, not even if she wanted to.

“You must be Alys.” She says, quickly scanning the witch before returning, inevitably, like a magnet, into her bright green eyes.

The woman, whose age is impossible to determine, keeps her smile as she looks at the Princess from head to toe. “You are exactly as I saw you in the flames.”

“That will save us some time, then. No need for introductions.”

“No. I know who you are.” The witch says, curling her cracked lips some more “I can see his mark on you.”

“His mark?”

“Yes.” She says, unnaturally widening her eyes. “He leaves a mark on everything. Things, places, people. Much like me, I’d say.” From her throat gushes a high-pitched laugh, jarring and spiteful. “We have much in common, the Kinslayer and I.”

The way she utters the last words makes the Princess grind her teeth, as if they were…what? Friends? Allies?

Lovers?

“Have you been in his chambers all this time?” she finally asks and the witch has the boldness to roll her eyes. “Is that the only reason you’re here? To know if he cheated on you?”

“Answer my question.” The Princess orders.

“Darling, If I wanted to fuck him, I would’ve done it ages ago.” She starts laughing again, grinning mischievously and then she sighs. “You left your mark on him as well. I can feel you in his head. And you are so heavy.”

She doesn't know what to make of that. There is not a single reason why she should trust her word. And it's not just the alleged powers this woman may possess. It's her whole demeanor. Haughty, even though she is a bastard. Mocking, as if she looks at the young woman before her, and sees much, much more.

“Just as you, I’d say, since he’s forsaken his family and his wife to do whatever you’re making him do it with your witchcraft.”

She bursts out laughing, so loud that the Princess flinches and takes a step back.

“I’m not making him doing anything. I can’t play with his head. He’s too stubborn. I did not curse him, sweetheart. Your beloved prince is already accursed.”

“Then what do you want? Gold? Lands?”

“I do what the flames command. I serve no God, no King, no Lord. And neither does your husband. It was his choice to see.”

“To see what?”

“What the flames choose to show. I know how this war will end. I know which color will stain the other for good. I know who will sit on the Iron Throne.”

The Princess furrows her brow, confused and puzzled, apparently pleasing the witch who smiles again and nods. “Oh yes, he will make a sight to behold wearing the Conqueror’s Crown.”

Who? Aemond? On the Iron Throne?

“So that’s how you’re keeping him here. With visions and fantasies.”

“He asked me to. At the moment I’m more valuable to him than all his generals and soldiers put together. Besides, I know how to deal with him.”

The Princess almost laughs at this. “I see. You think you can handle him, don’t you? A wild dragon for you to tame, is that what he is for you?”

“Well, I’m not denying he’s handsome enough to please my eyes.”

“And once you have tamed him, what will you do? How will you handle him when you scratch the surface, and you see the neglected son? Lonely, misunderstood, maimed. The boy no one cared for.”

It is the first time the witch does not have a quick biting answer. It makes the Princess rejoice.

“All your witchcraft won’t be enough to handle him.”

The witch falls silent. There is a distant look in her eyes as she observes the Princess and the more she stares, the more the younger woman feels dreadfully uncomfortable. She starts to feel something in the back of her mind, like a gentle abstract push.

“Ser Criston." she says suddenly, swallowing but keeping a collected mask. "The keys, please."

“Your Grace, Prince Aemond will not be ha—”

“I’ll deal with Prince Aemond.” She says, looking straight at the witch and the ghost of a superb smile hovers on her lips “I know how to handle him.”

The Knight slides the keys from his armor and hands them to the Princess. She is ready to free the witch’s wrists, but she stops, locking her eyes on Alys. “There is a carriage outside. And some guards who will do whatever Ser Criston will order them. Take it and go wherever you want, there’s even gold in the—"

“I told you, I don’t want—”

“I don’t care of what you want!” The Princess snaps, raising her voice, and the pushing dissolves. “You live to serve the flames? Fine. Do it elsewhere, far away from us.”

Alys shuts her parched mouth, and simply nods. “As you wish, Princess.”

She removes the shackles from her feet, and then from her hands, holding the chains between her fingers. Alys touches her hurting wrists, before tilting her head down in some kind of bow, or maybe a mocking gesture. The Princess cannot bring herself to care.

The witch makes her way past the younger woman but at last, she stops for a moment, leaning back her head of dark curls to say “I did touch him, just once. He put a knife to my throat.”

Vhagar likes to nestle on the burned blackened towers of Harrenhal, like some kind of dreadful reminder of the legacy of ruins and ashes Balerion the Dread has unleashed on this cursed land.

Aemond enters the castle walls with his circle of counselors and generals. They crowd on him like bees with honey and he knows why. He knows that most of the time they don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. They hang on his lips and jump like little good soldiers, jostling with one another in the hope of gaining something more when the war ends. A land, a title, one of them had even had the guts to offer a daughter to marry.

“I am not sure of what you are implying, my Lord.” He had said to the Lord with a dangerous black glint in his eye, as the fool thought it was wise to remind the Kinslayer that he and his wife had had no children yet. “Whether you are insulting me or my wife. I am sure of one thing, though. You will shut your hole before I take your tongue and feed it to my dragon.”

There were no more talks of unwed daughters between those walls.

“My Prince, if you allow me—” one of them says as they enter the Hall of the Hundred Hearths “We should give the lords who pledged for the Blacks more time to consider—”

“I gave them enough.” He says turning with a glare, looking even taller than he is, with his silver armor streaked with gold and the long green cloak. “They will pledge to my brother before dawn or I will bring dragonfire to their lands. Then we shall see where their loyalty lies while they burn to the crisp.”

They all shush and Aemond almost thanks the Gods for this brief blessed moment of peace. He ponders for a moment and then looks at a young soldier behind him.

“Summon the witch.” He orders “Bring her to me.”

He looks down to remove his riding gloves but out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the boy is still there.

“Uhm, my Prince, the witch is not here anymore.”

“What do you mean she’s not here?”

“S-she left, your Grace.”

The last word does not even leave his mouth the poor soldier feels a hand around his neck and the Prince is easily lifting him from the ground as if made of feathers. “You let her flee?!” he rages with his eye blown wide.

“I-I did—not your Grace!” the boy manages to croak while he’s choking, legs kicking like a chicken in the butcher’s hands.

“He’s right. I did.” Her voice cuts through the air and Aemond turns his head in a blink, looking positively stunned to hear his wife, to see her there.

He lets the soldier boy go and stares at her on the threshold of the huge Hall. He blinks with disbelief, as if he’s finally able to see after days and nights spent in a cloud of fog. Something shifts inside him him—something that has been wandering ceaselessly day and night, lifting the weight from his shoulders, from his black heart. Not Harrenhal’s weight, not Alys’. A weight far darker, a curse far more dangerous.

“Out.” he orders the Lords “All of you.”

They obey at once, scattering down the Hall only to stop for a moment before the Princess, to pay their respect.

The doors close but she stays on the threshold. His eye roams on her figure, once and then twice. He has never seen her wearing such a simple dress, easy to disguise her noble roots, her royal ones. And even though the mere sight stokes almost three moons of ugly and burning desire, it only makes him angry. It only makes him ashamed.

“What in the name of the Seven are you doing here?”

She walks to him and without uttering a single word or even sparing a glance to him, she begins removing the heavy armor plates from his body.

“What are you doing?” he asks with deep wrinkles on his forehead.

“My duty as wife.” She replies sternly, holding his arm “Or did you forget you had one?” she looks at him and sees rage blazing behind his eye—rage and maybe a tinge of hurt.

“Am I doing it right?” she asks removing the armor plate from his forearm “Was your witch friend better than me?”

The metal clatters on the ground as he grabs her arm, hard, pulling her close. “I asked you a question. We’re at war and you go strolling around the continent? Have you lost your mind?”

She tries to wriggle herself out of his iron grip, unsuccessfully as always. “How strange, that is a question I should ask you.”

“Enough.” He says grinding his teeth, digging his fingertips into her skin until her mouth twists with pain.

“Enough was two moons ago, Aemond. When you were supposed to come home, to your family, to me.”

“In case you didn’t notice, we’re at war, my dear wife. Things in war don’t go exactly as you planned them—”

“Oh spare me!” she cuts him off, freeing herself “Spare me the war talk, that’s all I’ve been hearing from you.”

“What did you expect exactly? Love letters?”

“I expected what I deserved. To know the truth. You have not mentioned her. Ever, not even once. Do you have the faintest idea of what I’ve been through all this time? Of all the dirt they have been spreading behind my back?”

“I don’t want to hear about it.” He says turning his back on her, as if he had not done that enough.

“No, you will.” She promises, circling him to look straight at him again. “They said you were so besotted with her to deny her leaving your chambers.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.” He says again, closing his eye for a moment.

“They said, and this was from the wretched mouth of your beloved brother, that you put a child in her womb since I was not able to give you an heir.”

“I don’t want to hear about it!” he shouts, and she knows she hit a nerve there, because he never shouts.

“Why? Does it make you ashamed? It should. I had to hear all of it. I had to endure it while you stayed here playing fortune teller with your witch whore.”

His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath and raises his gaze to look at her, dead serious. “You know nothing about her powers. She saw many things, happened precisely as she predicted. I needed her. I needed her powers and you had no right to send her away.”

“You needed her?” she repeats, pale with utter disbelief. “You needed her for what? For her to tell you how good you’ll look wearing the Conqueror’s Crown? To feed you with fairy tales while we risk our lives staying in the capital, unprotected because Dreamfyre can’t fight and Tessarion is still in Oldtown. What if the Blacks decide to attack us now? They have a dozen of dragons, we have only Sunfyre.”

“The Blacks will not attack.”

“Did she tell you this? Did she see this in the flames?” she can’t fight back the contempt curling her lips “Are you listening to yourself? Flames and visions to win a war? You poor fool.”

“Watch your mouth, woman.” he seethes “You don’t talk to me like this.”

“Or what? Are you going to chain me up? I kept her chains, you know? I thought you’d like a token of your time with the witch.”

“Did you come here for this? To make a scene like some common girl who feels threatened by another woman?” his lips turn upwards, curling and twisting with ugly deprecation “What do you think you know about the war? What is your contribution while you lie around in a lavish castle waiting for me to come back and fuck you? I’ll tell you. None. You can’t even perform your duty to give me an heir. And you come here to lecture me?”

The wound is rotting from the inside and he’s pouring salt on it.

“I came here for my dignity. As a woman, I have nothing else. I came here for your mother, who I fear will go mad with worry just as your sister. And lastly, to tell you that I’m with child.”

Aemond stills completely, so much that she thinks the witch’s curse is hitting him right now, no matter how far she is, turning him into stone.

“But it seems utterly irrelevant to me right now. So, go. Hurry! You might still find her.”

She moves to leave the room and he does it at the same time, trying to reach her, to stop her, but she flinches as he tries to touch her, battling his hands away.

Aemond utters her name, softly, and it makes her stomach turn.

“I will leave at dawn.” She informs him with a blank face “I won’t disturb you and your precious war any further. Fret not, husband. I will stay in my lavish castle like the good soldier I am, waiting for you to come back and fuck me.”

This is place is not only cursed, but it is also so freezing cold that she wishes for one of those direwolf furs the Northerners use to wear as she sits before the hearth in what she assumed to be Aemond’s chambers. The room is large, even larger than the ones they share in the Red Keep, but it’s completely bare and almost ominous with its black walls that stink of ash and smoke.

A cursed place, fitting for a cursed woman.

She has been for quite some time. Because she chose to stay by his side, because she chose to love him.

“We could turn to a Septon. Annulments are rare but possible. You cannot remain married to a Kinslayer, it is the highest of sins.” Her father had said in the aftermath of Lucerys’ death. She had looked at him like he was some kind of lunatic.

As if she could leave him, as if she could turn her back on him and marry another man.

As if he hadn’t left his mark on her.

She thought the Gods had cursed her for good, that was why, however much they tried, she couldn’t bear his child.

“A child is the highest of the blessings from the Gods.” Her mother had said during one of her last visits to the capital “How can they bless your union with a man so accursed?”

And yet.

She is impatiently waiting for the sun to set. Even if her limbs have never been so heavy, as much as her heart, she finds no reason to stay here, not when she can’t stand even the sight of him. But of course, how can there be peace in such a cursed place?

She hears the door opening. She knows his gait. She wished to hear it for two moons as she lied alone in their bed.

She hears him approach until he is beside her, but she does not look at him. She only sees his arm holding out a small tray.

“Eat.” An order, not an invitation.

She doesn’t even bother to look at the food, keeping her cold gaze on the fire. “I’m afraid I lost my appetite, dear husband. You can thank yourself for that.”

She can feel his eye piercing, burning her skin, the air coming from his nose short and harsh.

“Eat or I’ll feed you myself.”

She doesn’t bother to even answer this time.

Aemond stares at her, waits for her to look at him, he needs for her to look at him. “Is it true?”

“What?”

“That you’re with child.”

“In my husband’s lovely words, I lie around all day so I guess I’m capable enough to notice if I miss my moonblood.”

He leaves the tray on the stone mantelpiece, noticing a pair of chains lying there, and then looks down at her. “You will stay here with me.” Another order.

Another rejection. “I will not.”

“Yes, you will. You are not going anywhere, not in your condition.”

“I see. Now I’m worth something to you, am I not?” and finally she looks up “My duty is fulfilled, my womb is finally swollen. It’s a shame your witch left, we could have asked her to look in the flames and tell us if it’s a boy or a girl.”

Aemond lowers his shoulders and grabs her chin with the same cruelty he is used to brandish his sword, tightening her cheeks to prevent her from uttering another word. “I said enough.”

He watches as she tries to escape his grip, pushing his shoulders as her eyes grow more and more scornful, and he knows he deserves it. But that ugly thing breaks, snaps like a thin rope pulled too tight.

His mouth is on hers, fingers squeezing her cheeks to force her to take his kiss, which is not really a kiss, but more of an act of war, a relentless and rather quick siege, because she was already starving. She opens his mouth and this alone makes him whine with relief as his tongue slides between her teeth. Her hands grab his doublet collar, knuckles turning white and she angles her head, only to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood.

He winces as he pulls his head back and sees her licking her lips, a dead distant look in her eyes. But her hands move, gently, through his silver strands. "My words are but blunt knives on you. I must hurt you in the only way I can."

“I did not touch her.” He says like an oath “Ever.”

“I know you didn’t.” she reassures him, but her eyes stay distant, as if even being this close now, they are also miles and miles apart. “Maybe it would’ve been better if you had.”

“Did you want me to fuck her now?”

“I wanted you to need me, not her.”

His eye is on flame, rage and shame dancing together, but it’s not aimed at her. He finds that the only person on the receiving end is none other than himself.

Something dies in his eye, his shoulders slump and his head falls forward, hiding what no one would dare even think of seeing on the stern, cruel face of Aemond One Eye.

He kneels before her and lays his head on her belly, catching her off guard. She can't see his face, and yet she has it before her eyes, clear and indisputable as something carved into stone.

The surface has never been so frail. She doesn’t even need to scratch it, she only has to lift it.

No man is so accursed as the Kinslayer.

She had thought it true enough, but what about Aemond’s curse?

“I know you feel guilty.” She says, or rather whispers, as if she’s being blasphemous by accosting such a word to such a man. “I know you feel guilty for Jaehaerys. For Helaena.”

His answer is mute, but it’s the loudest confession she could get.

He fists the fabric of her gown between his hands, knuckles turning white on the verge of breaking. She feels him nestling further inside her, like a child, and she closes her eyes for a moment, placing a hand on her wound to stop the bleeding, and leans over him, sliding her hands on his back, softly but firmly, as if helping him to stay whole, as if preventing him from breaking into pieces.

Aemond didn’t believe in curses.

He did not regret, not even for a moment, the murder of Lucerys. He did not care that the Gods had turned their backs on him. They had done it a long time before. He did not care of how people called him, of how they would baptize him in the annals of his lineage.

He had started to care, to feel guilt, after he actually killed his kin.

For he had killed Jaehaerys, he had killed Helaena.

Kinslayer. Kinslayer. Kinslayer.

In his head, he heard that word with his mother’s voice, with Aegon’s, Helaena’s.

He found some kind of peace, of solace, only in his wife. But then the war was calling and he fled to Harrenhal. It was his duty, it was his way to try to make things better, to get revenge.

He had taken Harrehanl back and he knew he should have come home. But then the witch, the very same who had forced a man to rip out his own tongue, had spoken to him, talking about visions and flames, of predictions that happened to be alarmingly accurate, of him sitting on the Iron Throne with the Conqueror’s Crown on his silver head.

And he saw an opportunity, however blurry, to set things right, as they should have been in the beginning. He saw a way to get the upper hand in this war. And furthermore, as much as he did not realize it, he had found a way to stay away from the Keep. He would rather dare with witchcraft than return home and hear Helaena's wails cutting through doors and walls, and through his heart.

But next to the guilt had come the shame, for he had turned his back on his wife, for he could imagine the filth their enemies and non would spread, like shit flowing in the sewers.

He had tried to confine her to the back of his mind, but she became heavier and heavier as the days passed, along with the scarce letters in which he never mentioned the Rivers bastard.

She, of course, had sensed it immediately.

“You can’t win this war if your mind is elsewhere.” She had said one night, on one of his visits to her room.

He always stayed on the threshold, arms laced behind and poorly disguised distrust stretching his features.

“I told you to stay out of my fucking head.”

“You need not worry, my Prince.” She retorted with a chilling smile “I can’t play with your head. It’s too heavy…and ugly. And this woman…oh, she’s eating you alive.”

The witch is gone now, and yet she is still there.

She lingers on the walls of his chambers like a ghost, she imposes a wall between him and his wife and perhaps neither of them is strong enough to climb it. So, for days they just circle one another like wounded animals.

The Princess is staying with him of course. He has forbidden her to leave his side and she has caved, on one condition though. She has given him three days to deal with the Riverlands and then they will go home, together, where they are needed, where the mighty dreadful Vhagar is needed.

The day before their departure, Aemond returns victorious from the Riverlands. He has gained the allegiance of the lords in a way Visenya Targaryen would be proud of.

He will never forget the Lords' faces draining of color, probably pissing themselves, as Vhagar roared a war chant in the sky, and tongues of fire brushed the lands as warning.

He enters the chambers quietly and sees her crouched on the floor as her hands dig into a drawer, pulling out papers that she carelessly drops to the ground. Aemond closes the door firmly, announcing his presence, and she looks at him for a single moment before sighing in defeat, closing the drawer.

“Looking for my love letters?” he teases, for the first time after days of loud silence.

“I was looking for ink, actually.” she says looking below a paper left on the table. “Besides…love letters from you? Ghastly.”

He can’t fight back the smirk curling his mouth as she walks close to him and begins removing the armor. He looks at her face and she’s stern, almost rigid in her gestures, in the way she touches him, as if she despises doing it and yet she can’t help herself.

He doesn’t have a clue.

He doesn’t know that her stiffness has nothing to do with contempt. He doesn’t have a clue of how much she aches for him. Of how much she wants for him to take her, fast and rough, as he often used to do, because she can’t stand to be treated like some porcelain doll to be cocooned thanks to his child growing inside her belly. She wants to be more than that, she demands to be his wife again.

“Have you eaten?” he asks her, gently, and she wants to break something.

She can’t stand it anymore. She can’t stand all the questions.

Did you eat? Did you rest? Did you sleep?

“Is this how is going to be from now on?” she asks looking up “You acting as if you are my maid?”

He clenches his jaw and his face turns stern just like hers.

“First you accuse me to have forsaken you and now you don’t want my attention. Make peace with your mind, wife.”

“I want you to be my husband.” She says getting close to him until she smells dragon and ashes.

She wants to bathe in it. “I want to be your wife.”

Aemond’s eye lingers down on her throat, on her constricted chest, and his lips part. “You are.” He vows, locking his eye on her.

“Prove it.” She whispers tilting her head with a challenge dancing on her parted lips, hovering against his.

He is one breath away from swallowing her whole but he stops, melding their breaths in one, and he grins. “Are you going to bite me again?”

“As if you didn’t like that.”

A moment later his teeth sink into the soft flesh of her lip, her neck. His hands are everywhere, frantic and needy. She can feel he’s restraining from holding her too tight, but she wants, no, she needs more. She wants him in her bones.

They move without logic, clinging to each other, trying to assert dominance on one another. He grabs her wrists and forces her down on the chaise beside the hearth. He is looking at her in the same old way, as if he’s blind to anything else. She aches so much for him that she’s breathing hard, the word please climbs her throat, slides on her tongue, but she will not beg for him.

In all truth, she doesn’t have to.

He kneels on the ground like a pious man at the altar, and she hikes up her skirts, spreading her legs to place them on his shoulders, heels pressing on his back to bring him close.

“You know what you want, don’t you?” He teases with a feral grin.

“Curse you and your hideous smirk.” She says sliding on the chair to bring her apex close to his overly talkative mouth.

“You love my smirk.” He says grabbing her thighs to secure them around his face. “Besides, I’m already cursed.” He leaves a red mark biting on the soft skin of her thigh, looking straight at her and how she startles, whining in half pain half pleasure.

She catches a glimpse of the sapphire glinting between her thighs before her eyes fall shut and she moans unnaturally loud as he licks a stripe along her wet folds and up to her apex.

She is trembling with anticipation, with arousal that pools from her, glistening his mouth and nose. Her hips begin bucking against him and he moans contentedly as he buries his tongue inside her, lapping and tasting like a starved beast.

Her breath grows shorter and shorter for how close she is already, so much that he stops to look at her with a spiteful grin. “Already? Gods, you must have missed me terribly.”

“Shut up.” She whispers hoarsely and pulls herself up just enough to grab his head, pulling his hair to force him to take where he left off. Her hips are rocking on their own against his face, nails scratching his scalp harder and harder as she comes undone in his mouth, while he hums with pleasure, drinking of all her. Eye fixed on her as he watches her throw her head back, spasming and trembling with a loud moan.

Her back hits the back of the chaise as she catches her breath and looks at the black ceiling in a moment of pure bliss. Two moons of anguish are but a distant memory, her mind is foggy, she doesn’t even remember the face of the witch.

He dismantles her legs from his neck and she looks down at him, cheeks red, watching as he climbs on her, unbuckling his belt.

“No.” she says, and she stops his hands. “Do you think I would make it so easy for you?”

Aemond looks at her, half puzzled half curious, and then she pushes him down, overturning their positions so now she’s sitting on his lap, feeling all of his hard length against her.

“It’s my turn to prove it.” She says raising an arm that goes on the mantelpiece behind them.

“Prove what?”

“That you’re my mine.” She promises, and Aemond hears the distinct sound of metal clinking.

She lowers her arm and he sees a pair of chains between her fingers. He is bold enough to smirk at her. “I thought you were the one who wished to be chained.”

“I’m not the one in need of a lesson.”

She grabs his wrist but he easily pulls away. “What if I don’t want to?” but there’s an intriguing glint in his eye, on the edges of his arched mouth.

“Then who will take care of you?” she asks with fake innocence, grinding on his cock, and she smiles as the air comes out of his mouth in a hiss. “Are you sure your hand will suffice?”

He looks at her with challenge, breathing slowly through his mouth, and he caves.

“Chain me.”

She smiles darkly and grabs his wrists, fastening the chains and then locking them to the sides of the chair. She stands and grabs his legs, sliding his back further down.

She notices his eyebrow rising and she looks at him. "I want you to be comfortable. I'm afraid this will not end so soon."

He swallows with anticipation and watches her as she slowly climbs back on top of him and begins to unbutton his doublet., pushing the fabric aside to reveal his diaphanous pale chest and her hand slides over it, over his ribs, stomach, and navel, halting his breath.

Her lips hover against his, swallowing his shallow breath, but suddenly her head dips down, leaving a trail of little heated kisses on his neck, on the planes of his chest.

He watches as she does that, feeling her lips like burning embers marking his skin. Her eyes lock on him and she opens her mouth engulfing one of his nipples, circling her tongue around it. He tilts his head back, lips parting to let a puff of scorching air out, and then she's grazing her teeth over the soft pink skin.

The chains metal clink as he winces.

She grins pulling herself up and slides a bit down his legs with her bottom, so she has open room to his belt. She begins unbuckling it, looking at him, watching the glare he’s giving her.

“I can’t tell whether you want to kill me or fuck me.”

“I need you to fucking do something.”

“Like what?” she asks, palming his cock through the fabric “Tell me, husband. I may grant your wish.”

He rocks his hips in one slow movement, trying to feel every inch of her hand, but it’s a faint touch that only makes him ache for more. “Move, grind on me.” His voice is imperative as always, but his tone is different—all heated and husky.

She frees him of the constricting belt and breeches and lays on him, releasing a blissful sigh when she feels the hot hard flesh colliding perfectly against her core. The chains clink again as he tries to move and she smiles, caging his snatched waist between her legs.

Aemond is panting quietly, trying to get a grip on his own body but he finds it’s a useless fight when he’s so hard it’s starting to hurt.

But then his wife seems in favour of granting him some mercy. She starts grinding on him and his lips part some more, panting loudly this time, as he feels, and hears, the beautiful obscene sounds her wet flesh is making rubbing on him.

“Lift up your skirts. Let me see.”

She stops grinding and he almost whines with annoyance, moving his chained wrists in a useless attempt to grab her waist and force her to move again.

“I don’t like that tone, husband.” She says, and her voice is husky as well, her breath labored “Ask nicely.”

Aemond is silently starting to regret this whole thing. Patience was never one of his virtues, if he even has virtues. He’s completely at her mercy and cannot do anything but comply.

“Please. Lift your fucking skirts and let me see.”

“Hmm.” She hums smiling. “Better.”

Her skirts turn into a bundle of fabric around her waist and he dips his chin, looking straight at their flesh as she resumes her torture.

“Fuck” he utters, his eye growing heavy but he keeps looking, and he doesn’t have a clue whether it’s the rubbing or the mere sight of her coating his cock that draws a moan out of his throat.

“Do you see how I much I’ve missed you?” she asks hoarsely, grinding more and more firmly.

His head hits the back of the chair as he keeps panting and rocking his hips against her, lifting his waist as if desperately trying to slide inside her.

“I touched myself every morning. I woke up all wet and aching for you. And where were you? Here, plotting with your witch.”

“Enough of that fucking witch.” he croaks, a sheen of sweat is ghosting on his forehead. “Faster.”

She does the opposite. She stops altogether. And this time, he can’t do nothing to muffle the whimper gushing out of his trembling mouth.

The Princess tilts her head, savoring each moment, and soon his piercing glare comes back even sharper. “Once I’m free of these fucking chains, I’m going to fuck you senseless till morning.”

“Unless you are still chained to this chair in the morning.”

He watches as her hands hover on his thighs, a feather touch that drives him mad, that makes his hips buck uselessly. His lips twist, swallowing a plead his pride won’t allow him to let go.

But she hears it nonetheless, in the way his fingers flex and twist, in his chest raising fastly. It may suffice, but it doesn’t.

“Stubborn, are we?” she teases, just like her hands, barely touching down his navel. “Your witch got it right. She said you are too stubborn, that’s why she couldn’t play with your head. She couldn’t handle you.” her fingertips finally dip down and she can see the silent plead in his eye.

“I can, though.” her palm brushes the tip and he whimpers, again.

“Please…” he whispers impossibly low, too low for her liking.

“Louder, my love.”

His mouth twists again but the need, the ache is so heavy that it burns out all the pride numbing his tongue.

“Please…” he begs freely “Please, touch me.”

A groan rolls out of him as she finally grabs it, squeezing softly before starting a slow rhythm up and down. He pants loudly, hips moving on their own as he tries to fuck her hand with a steadier pace. “Don’t rush it.” she scolds him, placing a firm hand on his waist to stop his frantic movements.

“I can’t take it…let me come…”

“Already? Gods, you must have missed me terribly.”

“You’re cursed, woman.”

“Takes one to know one. A curse for a curse.”

She looks at him, hair all ruffled and sweaty on his forehead, a painful pleading expression twisting his sharp features and she smiles victorious. “I have half a mind to leave you like this.” She says and for a moment, he dreads she’s being serious.

“Luckily for you, I’m just as greedy as you are.”

In a swift moment she nestles between his legs and he’s moaning loudly before he even has time to register anything, except her lips locking around his tip, sucking so harshly he thinks she’s going to utterly drain him.

She starts a steady pace, just as he likes it, taking all of him, down to the base untili it hits the back of her throat. The chains clink and clink against the chair as he twists his wrists, bucking his hips harshly to fuck her mouth as deeper as he can, enthralled by the lewd sounds she’s making.

“Gods, yes…” he moans watching carefully as he slips in and out of her “Yes…just like that, just a little more…”

She feels him tense inside her mouth, she feels him tense all over and she knows he’s dangerously close. She stops for a moment, licking her lips and looks at him. “Don’t tell me you’re going to break the rule.”

Aemond groans with frustration, not having the faintest idea of what she’s talking about. He isn’t even sure he remembers his own name. He is just blood boiling and bones so tense they’re close to snap.

“What was it again?” she asks “Ah, yes. My seed belongs in your cunt.” She leaves a trail of soft kisses on his hard flesh and he whimpers once more. “My ever-romantic husband.”

“Fuck the rule, you’re driving me mad. Let me come.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Please.” He begs “Please let me come in your mouth.”

The Princess is merciful enough to grant his wish. She engulfs him once more and he moans loudly for how sensitive he is. She picks up the pace and pride washes over her, pooling between her legs, as she sees him writhing beneath her, moaning with his mouth open, eye closed shut and the chains clink like a frantic bell while he twists his scratched red wrists.

He curses and mumbles nonsense under his breath until he stills completely letting out a long and loud grunt, spilling abundantly inside her mouth. She swallows to the last drop, gently sucking the pulsing tip.

The chains are finally still and silent. He’s breathing hard and short with his head thrown back, staring at the ceiling without seeing anything.

That is until he winces, feeling her hand on his sensitive skin. He raises his head to look at her, almost puzzled. She smiles slyly, moving her hand up and down. “Did you think it was over?”

If he did not feel so spent, he would be utterly thrilled and definitely flattered.

“Seven Hells, woman, give me a bre—” words die on his tongue wiped out by a hoarse gasp as she takes him in her mouth again. But this time, she sucks so slowly that Aemond actually whines in pain. And she looks straight at him, while her head bobs, relishing every moment, watching as he comes undone beneath her, babbling pleads, begging her to stop and a moment later to keep going. His voice is breaking, cracking as he whines and whimpers, poised between pain and pleasure.

Soon though, she hears more whines of pleasure than pain, as gets harder and harder in the hot haven of her mouth.

Suddenly she stops, and just stares, savoring the sight before her. The cruel Aemond One Eye, chained to a chair in a mess of sweat and sobs.

“Untie me…” he says, trying to make it sound like an order, but it’s a pale imitation of his usual tone. His words are slow, sluggish.

“You are not in charge here, my love.”

“Then quit the act and fuck me.”

Perhaps, if she wasn’t so equally desperate for him, if she wasn’t leaking between her thighs, she would have prolonged this torture, this excruciatingly sweet punishment. But she can’t take it anymore.

She climbs on him, and it takes her the least effort to let him slide inside her. He slips his back further down that chaise so that his hips are angled just enough to thrust into her, fast and steady.

“Oh Gods—yes!” she moans throwing her head back, frantically bouncing on him.

“D’you miss this?” he rasps, with a tinge of his usual infuriating confidence “Did you think of this when you touched yourself? Missed my cock inside you, hmm?”

She clamps a hand on his mouth to shush him and he bites her palm, thrusting even harder, making her whine loudly until her throat goes dry and her sight go white. They fall in a wild frenzy, utterly intoxicated with each other, leaving bites and marks all over, sealing one inside the other with a curse much more dangerous than any kind of witchcraft.

They come together, as she clutches his head to her chest so tight that he can barely breathe. He rests his head on the chair, slowly catching his breath, and she nestles against him, still sank on him.

He moves his hands to touch her, wincing for his aching wrists.

“Untie me now, would you?” he asks softly on the crown of her head.

“I’m not sure.” She muses against his chest. “I’ve quite enjoyed having you at my mercy.”

“Who said I didn’t?”

She moves her head to look at him, a little smile starting to light up her face and he looks down at her lips, mirroring her.

“Besides, it’s your turn.”

She raises her eyebrows fighting back a smile. “Now?”

“Haven’t you heard? No man is so accursed as me.”

#a curse for a curse #liv (in la vida loca)#aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond x wife reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x wife reader #aemond smut #hotd fic #house of the dragon #aemond one eye

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avtrbee · 2 years

Text

in the beginning

✢summary: in a final attempt to salvage the rift between your families, you suggest a marriage pact between you and and alicent’s second son

✢tags: aemond x targaryen!reader, reader is rhaenyra and laenor second born child

✢tw: kinda possessive (?) aemond, i specifically mention that reader has one purple eye and the other brown and white hair- other than that its all ambiguous, targcest 😭

✢a/n: gods this man has a chokehold on me fr, and the gif isnt mine

You have never seen your mother so angry. After the disastrous family dinner, Rhaenyra Targaryen all but shoved her children inside her solar. The Princess of Dragonstone walks around in circles with fire in her footsteps and a finger in her mouth to soothe her anxiety, no doubt recalling the events a few moments prior.

Daemon sat comfortably on the seat behind your mother, seemingly amused by the situation. His violet eyes seem to glow in delight as he watches his wife scold her children. You had looked at him for help, but he only looked back as if saying, you’ve woken the dragon.

“I had thought you better than this!” She stops her strides and snaps her neck to the children huddled together on an ottoman. You, Luke, and Jace sit as close as you can together- a pathetic attempt to comfort each other from your mother's wrath. It is what you’ve always done, it’s what Rhaenyra had always taught you to do; protect each other.

Luke was the first to speak. “But he called us St-“

“Those whispers had been used against you since the moment you were born. I was wrong to hope you’d get used to it,” came your mother’s cold reply. An echo of the dinner fills the room. You all seemingly recall Aemond’s words, and all the whispers said before his- Strong bastards.

You feel Luke shrink back to his seat.

From the floor, you dared to gaze up at your mother. It was a mistake. As soon as you looked up, her violet eyes caught yours and the fire in her burned greatly.

“You were always the best of them,” Rhaenyra regards you with a furious gaze and a disappointed tone. “I had expected better from you. But for you to strike Alicent’s eldest son-"

“He called them bastards!” You argue, anger seeping through your pores and out to the air of your mothers chamber. “Aegon deserved it.”

“Them,” Rhaenyra repeats. “Them, not you. I had thought you knew better than to meddle in business you are not part of, Y/N.”

In truth, Rhaenyra is relieved that out of all her children with Laenor you are the one no one would dare question your legitimacy. Rhaenrya’s only daughter did not inherit the dark Baratheon hair of their grandmother (or the hair of a Strong, as the traitorous whispers insist), but the Valyrian features House Targaryen and House Velaryon are so famous for- silver as hair and an amethyst for an eye. It was a pity you are her second born and not her first.

Like Luke, you feel yourself curl back in your seat. “I’m sorry, mother.”

“Do you know what you have done?” Rhaenyra’s voice calls out as you cowardly stare at the floor, refusing to meet her gaze. You feel Luke’s hand sneak to hold yours in an attempt to comfort you. “In any other fight, I would have defended you tooth and nail, but this is a fight that you had started.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, unable to say anything else. In truth, it all began with Aemond, the roasted pig, and Luke’s unstifled giggles. Aemond got angry, but words were only words. You had punched Aegon first, and it became the catalyst of the fragile truce. You were not blind nor stupid, you have felt the tension between your mother and the Queen Regent. It had been made worse with Aemond’s bullying and the loss of his eye. And now you.

You knew how important the dinner was until you ruined it. Foolish, foolish, girl.

If there were to be a war in House Targaryen, history would blame Princess Y/N Velaryon and her temper. The fall of Valyria’s last surviving houses was caused by your hands, and a glance at Rhaenyra’s pregnant belly makes the guilt inside you grow. You have done nothing but cause her stress, especially when she is pregnant with your youngest sibling.

“Y/N is your grandmother reborn,” Viserys whispered as he first held you, back when you were still a babe. Rhaenyra watched as her father caressed her daughter’s cheek in wonder at her mismatched eyes.

Perhaps Alyssa Targaryen is why Viserys had favored Y/N out of all his grandchildren, and perhaps she is the reason why Daemon defends her.

“She was protecting her brothers,” came his voice behind Rhaenyra. Or perhaps he is hungry for another war.

“But it’s true,” argued Jace. “It is no use denying it when it is so obvious.” Rhaenyra regards her son with pity in her eyes, the fire of her anger fading regret. “It doesn’t matter anyway, for the fathers that supposedly sired us are both dead.”

“No,” argued Rhaenyra, finally striding over to all three of her oldest children. Her hands extend to touch you and Jace’s cheeks as Luke sandwiches between you. The Princess of Dragonstone kneels in front of her children and regards them slowly. “Your claim to the throne is not given by any man. You have a claim to the throne because I am its heir. ”

You and your siblings nod in unison.

Jace, your oldest brother, attempts to set an example. “We shall apologize to the Queen and her children for the trouble we’ve caused,” he proposes. You wonder what the realm will be like when he becomes King. “Luke will apologize to Aemond first-” Jace emphasizes his last words, fully expecting Luke’s reaction. “And Y/N shall apologize to Aegon.”

Rhaenyra regards Jace with a proud look. “What a great King you will be, sweet boy. But Alicent won’t accept this. Not after Aemond’s eye.” Beside you, Luke cringes no doubt recalling the past. “Not after one of her sons is harmed again,” Rhaenyra continues and it is your turn to try not to cower at your mothers words.

Rhaenyra stares at her eldest children, waiting for the ferocious anger within to lull and fade to a steady fire. Finally, she takes pity on the three young princes and princess whose gaze remains firmly on their laps.

“Look at me,” she commanded and all of you obey instantly. This action seems to let a small smile loose on her face as your three heads jut up to her command reminds her of a small litter of puppies eager for their mother. But you are not pups.

“My three-headed dragon,” she calls to you all affectionately, before kissing your foreheads one at a time. Is there anything she won’t do for you? “I will handle this. Go to your rooms. We depart for Dragonstone in a day’s turn.”

Luce and Jace stand from your shared seats immediately, eager to leave while Rhaenyra grants them her good spirits. But not you. You remain in your thoughts, the impending dread of the destruction of your House brought by your own foolishness is heavy in your head. You feel even worse as you have left your mother to clean up your messes once again.

“Sweetling?” Rhaenyra calls and you look up to her. She smiles as you gently, with all the love splattered in her face as she jerks her head to the doors of her chamber. It was as if she was never angry in the first place. “You may go.”

“Wed me to Aemond.” Your demand comes fast but quiet, tumbling out of your mouth before you had even thought of what you have said. You were grasping straws, desperate to mend your House in the only way you knew how.

From his seat, Daemon had his arms resting on his knees as his fists joined to cover his mouth in contemplation. He has an eyebrow raised in surprise, but his eyes were elsewhere possibly considering the match. You appeal to him first.

“It is a peaceful option, to end the rift between the two families in our House,” you argue. “And I am of age, and so is he.”

“It is a good match,” Daemon concedes, looking up at Rhaenyra. You follow his eyes and you meet your mother gazing at you with pity or sadness in her eyes- you could not tell.

“Do you know what that means, sweetling?” She asks, her hand coming to hold your nape. “You’d have to stay here, in Kings Landing. You’d have to leave Dragonstone. You’d have to leave me.”

“Aemond and I were friends once,” you reply, recalling fond memories you had in this Keep with your cousins. Aemond had always been a kind, soft-spoken boy and though he definitely changed as the years passed by, you were certain he was still the child you befriended deep inside.

Still, you cannot ignore the looks he had given you at the dinner. You had been seated between Aegon and Luke, far from the end of the table where Aemond was but you felt his stare all night as you ate your meal. The few times you dared to look at him, he had already been looking back with a predatory stare.

There is a hunger in his gaze, like a hunter seizing his prey for capture. You hated how he made you feel so small, for you are every bit of a dragon as he is, if not more.

“He will be kind,” you insist, not believing it yourself. “And I…” You struggle to find the right words. “I am of excellent Valyrian heritage. The Queen and Aemond won’t see this offer as an insult.”

“This mess was created by the Queen and I. And now our children are paying for it,” Rhaenyra kisses your forehead again- longer this time, like she wanted to pour out all of the love she had for her only daughter out through the kiss. “I don’t deserve you. I shall talk to Alicent once the sun rises.” Her hands cradle your face, her thumb stroking your face. “Avy jorrāelan.”

I love you.

“Avy jorrāelan,” you reply.

As if tradition, ladies and lords, palace maids, stable boys and aspiring knights have all gathered within the main courtyard every morning in hopes to catch Ser Criston Cole and Aemond Targaryen spar on dirt and rubble. Today, even more people are gathered as the two men have been sparing with live steel. You watch with them today, not being able to catch any proper sleep last night.

The clink-clang sounds of steel swords are heard across the yard, creating a rhythm for the hymn of violence Ser Criston and Aemond are so fond of. You sense the fight coming to its end as Aemond’s shield is smashed by Ser Criston’s morning star. At the loss of his defense, Aemond charges with his sword, clashing and slashing while Ser Criston narrowly dodges. Aemond is slower today, you notice and you are soon proven right when Ser Criston manages to put his palm on Aemond’s chest. With a thud, Ser Criston pushed Aemond to the ground, dangling his morning star in front of the prince’s face. Aemond watches the spiked ball swing once, twice, before declaring his defeat.

“I yield.”

Despite the prince’s defeat, his audience shower him with scattered applause. With the fight coming to an end, so did its audience with servants scurrying back to their duties and ladies heading back to the keep. Some fawning ladies and knights chose to stay to discuss their admiration among themselves.

“Do not be discouraged, my prince,” called Ser Criston as he held out a hand to the fallen prince.

Aemond took it begrudgingly. “I am not discouraged.”

“But you are distracted.” Ser Criston says, matter-of-factly with a raised eyebrow.

From where you stand, you see Aemond clench his jaw in annoyance. He averts his face from Ser Criston’s judging glance to your direction. You see the exact moment his eye light up in fascination and curiosity to your presence.

“Niece,” Aemond greets, dusting off the dirt from his breeches. He looks at you similar to how he stared at you all night at dinner. “Have you come to watch how true swordsmen fight?”

You force yourself to smile, ignoring the obvious slight to your brothers’ inferior skills. “My prince,” you greet, looking at his form. Aemond had become tall- unimaginably taller than he ever was as a child. He carries himself confidently, but your eyes are quick. You stare at his upper arm, and the growing dark stain on his shirt. “Come, my prince, you are wounded. Let me treat you.”

Aemond humors you a dry smile. “You have quick eyes, my princess.”

You watch as his tall figure walks towards you, his long legs making the distance between you seem shorter. You turn and walk with Aemond on your heels following your every step. You have no doubt that his mouth is curled in that sly smirk, wondering what business did the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen have to do with him.

You could feel his curiosity grow as you led him to your solar. He sits comfortably on a chair while you stand, receiving the kit that your servant handed you. You quietly thank her and ask her to shut the door.

“I must say,” Aemond starts, looking around your solar in fascination. He relaxes on your chair like it is his solar he is in, not yours. “I am in confusion as to what I may have done to earn Princess Y/N Velaryon’s special attention.”

You ignore him, heading straight for the bowl of warm water placed beside him before dipping a rag in it. “You must remove your shirt for me to clean the wound,” you say.

Aemond holds your gaze for a moment before following your orders immediately. He shrugs off his tunic without looking away. With his shirt gone, you are greeted by the sight of his pale chest. You immediately take note of his broad shoulders, his arms, and the thin layer of sweat from his previous fight. Aemond is lean, but his physique was hardened by muscles gained from his mastery of the sword. You avert your eyes and try to not let it bother you.

It does, and he notices and responds with a smug smirk.

His arm, finally clear of any clothes, you dab your rag around the wound gently. “I have noticed that there has been a division between your family and mine,” you begin slowly, eyes darting to his face to gauge his reaction. “A division that you have suffered the consequences of the most.”

Aemond gives nothing away from his face but a calm and cool look. If he is in pain from the hot water and his wound, you cannot even tell. You wonder if he is stone cold silent from all the painful memories his brother and your brothers- and by extension you had caused.

No, you remind yourself. Aemond is not with his sister then one would have better chances finding him in your company than his brothers. However, you have always been torn apart by the family, always stuck in the middle as they fight in which you respond by turning a blind eye. You are complicit in his terrible childhood and the loss of his eye.

Still, you have always been polite and kind to Aemond. A bare minimum that he had cherished greatly after the lack of affection found in his family, to the point where your mother suspected Aemond harboring a childhood crush on you after he shyly gave you a red rose from the gardens before promptly running away.

Of course, every semblance of his affection died with the loss of his eye.

“You are angry, I understand that,” you continue, dabbing his wound gently still. “But I was wondering if you would find it within yourself to look past-”

“Look past?” His voice is sharp, but his face remains still. His eye, however, gives his anger away- a blazing violet that echoes the same dragon-like anger your mother had last night. “You ask me to forget that your brother stole my eye out of the goodness of my heart?”

“No,” you reply immediately. “You were both innocent children, but Lucerys should not have come out of that without consequences.”

Aemond tilts his head and leans closer to you. His violet eye searches your face challengingly. “And what do you offer?”

“Me.” Your voice rings out in your chamber as Aemond fails to reply with a sly retort. For the first time, a soft look of disbelief crosses his face. You reach to grasp his hand with your free palm, your mouth ready to list your reasons but before you could even touch him, Aemond had already grabbed your palm and pulled you to him.

“You?” He asked, a darkness filling his eyes. You do not know if he’s giddy or if he is mocking you. His grip on your hands are tight and you feel a tremble wash over you. “If you are to be my wife, you would be mine,” he reminds you.

Aemond’s tone is gentle but his intentions are anything but. You cannot help but swallow in nervousness, and Aemond’s eye follows your throat as the lump travels down. There is a danger lurking underneath your uncle, and he looks at you like he has won a game you did not even know you were playing.

“Yes, I would.” You agree. You try to shift your head to escape his gaze, but his hands capture your cheeks before you could even move. His fingers squish your face gently but with an unheard threat of harm if you dare to move again.

“Mine,” he whispers in awe at you, like he could not believe the possibility. “And what do your brothers think of that?”

“They-” you struggle to speak as his fingers squeeze your face. “They do not know.”

This news brings Aemond a small smile. This is the first time you have ever seen Aemond close to joy after the loss of his eye. “I could do anything to you if you were my wife. You would share my chambers, and my bed. You will bear my children. They surely would not like that, would they?” Aemond looks across the room as if fantasizing the displeasure on your brothers’ face or you growing his seed inside you- you do not know.

You feel his hands crawl to your face, cradling it almost lovingly. “And if I use you for my revenge?” Aemond whispers. “Would you offer me an eye for your brother’s debt, my lady?”

He does not wait for an answer when he continues. “Have you ever seen me without my eyepatch, my lady?”

It takes you a second to recover. You blink at him, wondering if you heard him right. You wring your hands nervously, unsure to where Aemond was getting at. “I can’t say I have, my prince.”

In an instant, his hand leaves your face and snatches his eyepatch off like it was poison before throwing the piece of leather on the ground in disgust. “And now?”

Aemond abruptly stands from his chair, and you are left to scramble away. It was like he was challenging you with the sight of his eyes. You take a step back as Aemond steps forward, leaning down on you to make sure you have a good look at the long jagged line that runs across his left side, and the sapphire that replaced his eye.

You struggle to keep your eyes on Aemond’s bare face as his sudden closeness makes you realize that he still is shirtless. If you tilt your head down, you would be met by his pale chest and if he moves any closer your nose would soon touch it.

“Would you still offer yourself to me, little lady?” Aemond asks. “Even with my sapphire eye?”

A sudden boldness overcomes you. “Are you trying to scare me, my prince?” You tiptoed to his height, leaning in as close as you dared, until your nose had brushed his. You look at him unfalteringly meeting the gaze of his eye and jewel.

“If I am to be your wife, my Valyrian eye is yours by right,” you jerk your head to the right, gesturing to your purple eye. Aemond looks unfazed at your bold declaration, choosing to remain still and stare at you but you see him steal a glance at the right side of your face.

Finally, you take a step back, removing yourself from his personal space and head to the kit your made gave you to get a slave. You turn to face Aemond again, only to find him seated back in the chair.

“My mother is with yours now,” you tell him, scooping a generous amount of salve on your fingers before spreading it across his wound. “No doubt trying to convince her of the possibility of our union. I just wanted to let you hear it from my lips first.”

As if on cue a knock echoes throughout your solar before a maid from Queen Alicent’s staff pops her head in your rooms. She curtsies before she says, “My lady, my prince, the Queen and the Princess have summoned you to the Queen’s solar.”

Before you could respond, Aemond was already walking out the door, eyepatch already back on his head. His arms move to wear his tunic back on. “Let’s go.”

This time, it is Aemond who leads the way as you follow.

“Prince Aemond and Princess Y/N, your Grace,” announced the maid as you and Aemond entered.

This is not the first time you have entered Alicent’s solar. The space is often filled with her attendants, as Helaena and her children and Aemond are often inside. Today it is only the Queen Alicent and your mother occupying the solar.

They sit in front of the fireplace to warm them in this cool morning, and a jug of wine on the side.

The Queen and the princess sport wide smiles and a faint blush on their cheeks from drinking.

The ambiance of the room is joyous. Rhaenyra’s head is thrown back from laughter as Alicent’s head is bowed down trying to stifle her giggles. You have never seen your mother look so carefree before, not with your father, nor with Daemon. Thus it baffles you further to see the Queen and the Princess of Dragonstone so comfortable with each other.

Almost hidden behind their thick gowns, you spot their hands interlocked. You turn to the side to meet Aemond’s equally curious stare.

“Oh!” Alicent spots you first. “There you are.”

Rhaenyra turns in your direction at Alicent’s voice. Your mother stands and walks to you, wrapping her hand on the side of your head as she kisses your temple. “Sweet girl,” she coos at you quietly.

“Viserys drones on and on about how she mirrors Alyssa, but she is Laenor through and through,” comments Alicent as her eyes roam your figure up and down. Beside her, Aemond has taken your mother’s seat beside the Queen.

Rhaenyra chuckles warmly. “If you ask me, I find that she is an echo of you, your Grace. Kind, dutiful, beautiful…” She trails off and shakes her head before gesturing to Aemond. “Your son echoes you the most though.”

Alicent looks at Aemond with a fond smile. It is obvious whose child the Queen favors. Out of all the Queen’s children, none have grown to look like her, except perhaps Aemond. He seems like an eerie mirror of his mother’s father with Valyrian coloring, but his eyes and smile are all Alicent’s. “Ah, yes,” she muses. “But his temperament mirrors you, Rhaenyra.”

A foreign look of regret slips on your mother's face like a mask. “Gods help this realm if I were born a man,” your mother whispers. “The things I would have done.”

Alicent and Rhaenyra share a sad knowing look. There is a longing in your mother’s words a deep, old, painful tone. The Queen looks at your mother almost regrettably but filled with affection all the same. The moment feels intimate to both of them, perhaps recalling their childhood when they held each other close to their hearts.

Never have you seen your mother look so vulnerable to anyone, much more in front of the Queen she resents. A quick glance at Aemond shows that this side of Alicent is new to him too.

The moment is quickly broken by Alicent. She clasps her hands together on her lap. “I assume that both of you know the matter of why I have summoned you here?”

You nod at your Queen while Aemond confirms dutifully, “Yes, mother.”

Alicent turns in her seat to regard her son. “I admit I have already consented to the match, but it is your opinion that I value the most. What say you, Aemond?”

Aemond takes a deep breath, his single eye sliding over to look at your mother behind you and finally at you. You know his act of pondering is false. You knew his answer as soon as you felt his gaze at the dinner table, and confirmed it at the glint of his eye when you had offered yourself. You wonder if he is repeating your offer in his head, the promise of your whole being, and your eye if he wishes it.

“I shall do my duty,” came Aemond’s response with a passive face.

Alicent smiles at her son proudly. “Congratulations, Aemond. You will be a fine husband, I know it.” She turns her head to you, “And to you, Y/N. This union is welcome and the realm shall rejoice when it is announced.”

Aemond is before you in an instant, holding out his hand for yours in which you had no choice but to give it. To your surprise, your betrothed merely raises it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “My lady.”

The touch of his lips on your hand jolts you awake and makes your heart skip a beat- from fear or from romance you do not know. A nervous smile spreads itself on your face nonetheless. “My prince.”

“Come,” your mother says, heading for the door. “We must tell Daemon and your brothers of this news.”

The mention of your brothers makes Aemond look more sly as he stares at you to leave. You curtsy to the Queen and now to your betrothed before following Rhaenyra.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent’s voice rings out.

You see your mother hitch a breath before turning swiftly. “Yes, my Queen?”

“Stay,” Alicent asks, and suddenly it was like the two of them were alone in the room once more. Both Alicent and Rhaenyra were dead to the world when they looked at each other so fondly. There is heavy tension in the air, but different from the fraying truce of last night’s dinner. No one is on guard or cautious. It strangely feels like home. It is healing. “Even for a couple of weeks. The matter is resolved, there is no reason for you to return to Dragonstone so promptly.”

A genuine smile spread on Rhaenyra’s face and she had never looked so happy. “I’d like that.”

A smile tries to spread on Alicent’s face, but she turns around before it grows fully. “You are dismissed.”

alicent and rhaenyra: hahaha our children remind us of each other what if they get married

i firmly believe that is rhaenyra was born a boy or if westeros is lgbt friendly, she would have chosen alicent as her wife in a heartbeat.

did you enjoy this fic? check out my masterlist

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond x reader #hotd imagine #hotd #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen angst #house of the dragon x reader

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cosmoeticss · 1 year

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Haven’t I Been Good to You? | Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!Reader (18+)

my masterlist

Words: 2K

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Neice!Pregnant!Reader

Warnings: 18+ (minors dni), good old fashioned targcest, p n v, overall bad writing because I haven’t properly written in so long

Note: Reader is Rhaenyra’s heir/eldest daughter and the argument takes place after the dinner scene. I tried not to use any physical descriptors but those gorgeous targaryen platinum locks so I hope thats okay and you enjoy. Literally crawling in my skin right now because I’m about to post this, existing is an embarrassment, if you see this ily thank you for reading.

part two

Aemond was anything but cooled off when he returned to his marital chambers that night. He bound into the room, his displeasure from the night clear in his body language and his labored breathing. His wife sat stoically in front of her vanity, clad in only her night dress as she combed through the length of her silky, silver curls.

Aemond stared her down in disbelief as she barely acknowledged him. How could she honestly be angry with him? It was her bastard brothers who started the disagreement, who started the rivalry to begin with, who teased him their whole childhood and took his eye that fateful night on Driftmark. And here she sat, his wife, shoulders back and proud and angry with him.

Gods, she was beautiful when she was angry. If he didn't know her so well he wouldn't be able to tell. She was so serene and regal and surprisingly calm when she was upset. He often thought of how opposite they were in that sense. He thought of how hot tempered and quick to snap he was, and how she thought everything through before it slipped from her pretty lips. He envied this about her, and yet it was what he had loved most about her as well.

Aemond couldn't help it. He broke first. "Where are the children?" He inquired, steadying himself to the best of his ability.

She hardly gave him the time of day as she answered, her eyes not leaving her own reflection. "I've settled them into bed,” she said.

The Prince furrowed his brow. "Did you not think that I would wish to bid goodnight to my sons?"

"The hour is late. They've had their fill of excitement for the day, Husband."

Husband. Not her usual 'my dearest love,' not 'my darling.' He was in trouble far more than what he had bargained for. He eyed her in disbelief. "You're truly taking their side?"

She finally turned then, vast (e/c) eyes meeting his violet one. "There is no side to be taken, Aemond,” he hated her formality when they argued, "We are a family. We're supposed to be on the same side. Did you see how pleased the poor King was to see everyone finally getting along? Our mothers finally found some common ground after all of these years and yet you ruined an otherwise pleasant night with your wounded pride."

"My wounded pride?" he spat harshly, raising his voice at her. "Did you not see the way your beloved brother laughed as they sat a roasted pig in front of me? Or have you forgotten the torment I was subject to as a child? What do you expect to me to do, (Y/N)?"

She stood then, the silk of her long night dress accentuating her rounded stomach. "You are to be the Royal Consort one day, you will be King!" she scolded him sternly, silencing him. "I expect you to be the bigger person. I expect you to act with dignity and not meet the teasing of a child with the ferocity that you did tonight!"

Aemond softened at this, turning away from her to face the burning embers of the hearth. He did not retaliate, only moving to sit in a chair placed in front of it. He gripped the arms of the seat trying to calm himself, breathing deeply.

His wife watched him carefully. "It is not fair. I know it isn't," she swallowed, her eyes glazed over as she did. "I know that it angers you that I love my family after all my brothers have done to you, after what Lucerys has taken from you and I am sorry, Aemond. I truly am."

He was silent still, eye glued to the flames before him as if they were the most important thing in the room. "I cannot keep atoning for crimes I did not commit," her voice was almost pleading as she stepped closer to him then, slowly, testing the water carefully. When he did not retaliate, she kneeled on the floor in front of him. "I know that you would not have chosen me to wed on our own, dear husband."

Her hands reached out to take his, and he allowed it, watching down the bridge of his nose as his wife gently held his hands in her small ones and brought them both to her lips, kissing them tenderly and repeatedly. "We have been honest and good to each other in these near seven years as man and wife, though," she stated, eyes wide and pleading as she rested her chin on his knee. "Have I not been a good to you?"

"You have," Aemond's voice cracked, his eyes fluttering shut at her soft inquisition. He breathed deeply, removing one of his hands from hers and carding it through her beautiful hair. “My love.”

"I have given you my body, mind, and soul. I have given you my virtue, and my fidelity. My heart has only ever belonged to you," she whispered as her husbands tensity began to dissolve between her nimble fingers and lips. Her soft kisses continuing slowly up his arm. "I have bore you two beautiful, healthy boys. Boys that will be Kings and Warriors one day, and I carry another inside me."

The air was stolen from her as Aemond halted her pecking and surged forward, lifting her swiftly from the stone floor to straddle his lap as if she weighed nothing. She gazed down at him, moving to gently remove her husbands eye patch. He hadn't minded the action for years now, as it was a bother to wear and his pretty wife had never judged his appearance or what he had lost all those years ago. She set the patch on the end table next to them, not taking her eyes off of him as her hands slid up his shoulders and found their home at his jawline. Her thumbs moved in slow circles on his face.

"I have given you power," he whimpered at this, gripping the soft meat of her thighs. "Outside the walls of this chamber you are my equal, and one day we will rule the Seven Kingdoms side by side, however we see fit to."

"Yes," he groaned hoarsely, continuing his kneading at her thighs, sitting up to press his lips to her throat, leaving hot opened mouth kisses down her neck to the swell of her breasts as he detangled the strings of her shift, baring her supple chest to him.

"You would like that wouldn't you, My King?" Aemond growled in agreement, continuing his ravishing as she slipped her fingers to the base of his neck and weaved them into his hair, gripping it tightly. "And in this room, you will rule me as you see fit."

"If that we're true then I would bound you to our bed, little wife," he sank his teeth delicately into the flesh of her breast, tongue swirling against the skin, causing her head to snap back in pleasure and a breathy moan to fall from her lips. "You would never leave these chambers. Who would be left to rule if I'm buried inside this sweet cunt for all of our lives, hmm?"

"You have many years before we are crowned for me to ride you, my dragon. And I plan to mount you morning and night,” she grinding into him, their lips meeting finally in a messy kiss. "Surely you'll tire of bedding me by then."

"Never," he pressed his forehead to hers, their breathing hot as he moved a large slender hand to cover her swollen stomach. "I enjoy no sight more than your belly swollen with our children."

She rutted her hips against his once more, her weeping cunt begging for friction. "Please, my dearest love"

"I wonder how the realm would feel if they knew the truth of their precious Princess?" he smirked as she fucked herself on his covered length. "If they knew how she begged for me each night? How wet she gets without me even having to touch her."

"Aemond, please," she wined.

"You wish to ride your dragon, my Queen?" he began hiking up her night dress to rest on her hips.

She panted at his movements, so tender, so achingly slow and teasing. "Yes," she whimpered.

He cocked his brow at her. "What's stopping you? Claim me then."

She didn't have to be told twice. Her trembling hands moved frantically to the strings of his pants, unfastening them and pulling them down to his thighs. He hissed as she took his length into her hand, stroking it sweetly before he lifted her hips and guided her to sink down on him. Her eyes screwed shut, crying out in pleasure as she adjusted to the size of him. Neither of them moved for a moment, their breathing tense and labored.

Aemond brushed a lock of hair out of his wife's face, her forehead falling to meet his as he cradled her head with his hand. "Alright?"

"Mhm," she hummed needily, bracing herself as her hands dropped to his shoulders. Aemond's free hand moved to cover the swell of her stomach, a lazy grin forming on his lips, before finding it's way to her hips once more, helping to roll them against his. Aemond cursed, his jaw going slack as his wife unraveled above him. Once she found her footing, she picked up her pace, bobbing up and down steadily, her finger nails curling into his shoulders. His hips snapped up to meet hers, and she cried out, his name tumbling from her lips like a prayer. Something came undone in him at the sound, his hands were everywhere then, cupping her full breasts, wrapped around her throat, sinking into her thighs. He was pawing at her like she would disappear if he let go for one second, grunting like a wild animal as he rutted against her.

"So good," he captured her lips in a searing kiss, all tongue and teeth clashing. "So pretty and all mine."

She babbled something nonsensical in appraisal, her heat clenching around his cock as he worshipped her, their movements becoming sloppy as they approached their peak. "I'm so close."

"Say you love me," he demanded, fingers making their way to her pearl as he toyed with it, causing her to squeak at the touch. "Tell me again that you're mine and mine alone."

"Please," she panted, whimpering as he fucked into her relentlessly, hitting her sweet spot with each thrust. "IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou."

Aemond's fingers were torture, slow and taunting. "Say it." "I'm yours," she cried out. "Only yours. Please--"

"Let go," he permitted, following close behind as she toppled over the edge, back arching and eyes rolling back as she was overcome with pleasure. They were still, chests heaving and hot breath mingling as they came down from their shared orgasm. Her nimble fingers tangled into his hair, brushing it away from his sweat soaked neck. He fell back into the chair, pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her. "I would've chosen you," he broke the silence after a long moment. She lifted her head slightly to look him in the eye, confusion evident as if she had not registered what he said. "When you said that you weren't the wife I would have chosen for myself. If I had been presented with a choice, I would've chosen you."

Her gaze softened at the sincerity and raw emotion flickering in his eye. "Then choose me now. Choose our family," she gripped his shirt tightly, pleading with him. "Love me more than you hate them."

Aemond sighed deeply, covering her hands with his. "I do love you. More than anything."

"Then promise you will try." Neither wanted to admit what they both knew, that even if he did, it was too late. The King's health dwindled more and more by the day, and the wounds cut between the Greens and the Blacks were too old and too deep for even their love to heal. The time was coming where they would have to choose. War was looming and their last chance at peace had slipped through their fingers like flowing water. So they didn't, and chose in silence to carry on pretending while they still could.

Aemond cupped her face gently, and pulled her into a soft, sweet kiss. "I promise," he whispered, the sweetest of lies, and he met her lips again in a more fervent kiss.

And she let herself hope, she let her self believe, just a little while longer.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond imagine #Aemond Targaryen fanfic #aemond x velaryon!reader #hotd aemond #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon imagine #hotd #hotd imagine #ewan mitchell

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darlingofvalyria · 8 months

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❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞

[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.

—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!

"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"

Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.

"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.

Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.

Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.

But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.

And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.

A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.

The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."

Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.

The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.

"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"

You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.

"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."

A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.

"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.

Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.

"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"

You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"

Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.

"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.

"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."

A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.

Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.

And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.

If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.

Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.

But you... you had not made a sound.

The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"

"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."

You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.

"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."

Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"

You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"

"... Yes. Nothing."

You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."

"D-Dragonstone?"

Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"

While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.

For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.

Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.

Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.

"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.

"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.

Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.

"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."

You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.

Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.

This was your brother. No one else.

"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."

You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."

He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"

"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."

He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."

You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.

You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.

"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.

"I will ask you how high."

Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.

"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."

"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.

A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.

"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"

You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."

Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.

It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.

The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.

Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.

Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."

Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.

"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."

"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.

At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.

As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.

'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'

"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.

This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.

Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.

And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?

She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.

Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.

"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."

That night, you took your first flight.

That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.

❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.

Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.

Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.

She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.

She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.

The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.

It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.

It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞

—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.

You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.

You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.

To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.

No more.

It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.

"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."

"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."

You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."

The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.

"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."

As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.

Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.

"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.

"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.

With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.

You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.

It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.

You weren't stupid.

If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.

You just took better care of the people under your wing.

And for Jace, you had banished him.

The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.

But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.

You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—

When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.

Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.

"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."

He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."

You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.

Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.

Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.

But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.

"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."

He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."

"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."

An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."

He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.

"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."

The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.

"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."

You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."

A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.

Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.

The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.

But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.

He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.

You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.

Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.

Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.

Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.

Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.

You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.

It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.

"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.

Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.

The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.

"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.

"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.

You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.

"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"

"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."

"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"

As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.

"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."

As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"

"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"

Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.

"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."

"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"

"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."

The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

You count for each fall your blow will land on him.

Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.

Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.

"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.

You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.

You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.

A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.

Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.

Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.

His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.

Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.

"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.

"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"

A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.

"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?

Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.

"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."

Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."

"Huh?"

"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."

You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"

"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."

For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.

When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.

You don't let up.

Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.

Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.

Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.

To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.

You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.

You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.

His throat bobs.

It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.

A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."

"And?"

"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."

You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"

"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."

"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."

You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.

"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.

Game, set.

Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.

"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.

As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."

"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."

"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."

And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.

Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.

It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.

Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.

"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"

You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."

He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."

You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."

You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."

"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."

Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.

He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.

"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"

"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."

You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.

When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.

You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.

But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.

When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.

Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.

Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.

But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.

Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.

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humanpurposes · 3 months

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We're Born At Night

Chapter 3

Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone travels to King's Landing to plead for her sister's life, though the King she must bow to is a kinslayer three times over, and the very man who slaughtered her father

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Rhaelle Targaryen (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, mentions of death and war, Targaryens trying to flirt

Words: 6.8k

Days pass and every day Rhaelle brings herself to her knees before the throne, pleading for her sister’s restoration as Lady of Runestone, as their mother’s heir, for her freedom and for her life.

Aemond denies her. Again and again he denies her, and each day she appears before him, she thinks she sees his expression darkening. It is obvious that he is a proud man, a second son who was never meant to be King, repeatedly defied by the second daughter of a traitor. Lord Corlys tells her to give him time to persuade the King and the council. He also warns how quickly Aemond’s patience can turn into anger with deadly consequences. What else can she do but try, even if it means tempting his rage?

They have been here a fortnight and not much has improved. She and Daena often take tea with the other ladies and attend dinners in the throne room but Aemond’s court is an echo of what she remembers from the reign of his father. The dinners are polite, the music is sombre, the dances are slow. There is no joy in the castle, just talk of the fast approaching winter.

Back home, the running of the castle— her castle thanks to Aemond’s generosity— would keep her busy. Between her duties she would be able to steal a few hours for herself, read her favourite texts in the library or mount her horse and roam the surrounding lands as she pleased, bringing back pheasants because Alyssa was the sister to inherit their mother’s talent for hunting larger quarry.

One night she dreams she is riding her horse, a beautiful grey stallion she has back at Runestone named Semyon for the legendary knight with sapphires for eyes. It feels so real with the wind whispering in her ears, the scent of the fields and the forest, the slightly earthy taste on her tongue. She rides along the paths she has followed since she was a girl, the same her mother would have followed, and passes the valley where her body was found, tightening her grip on the reins and the saddle, as she always does. The sky seems to darken. A figure blocks out the sun and lets out a whistling, rippling screech, the cry of a beast she has only heard a handful of times, and never will again.

She is woken by a sound that still rings in her ears as her eyes open, sweat clinging uncomfortably to her skin. It sounds again, a faint clash of metal. It is a wonder it was even enough to rouse her.

The stone floor stings against the bare skin of her soles, the cold creeping into her flesh and sinking itself into her very bones. Yet she walks, first to the chaise by the wardrobe to wrap a thick robe around herself, and then to the window. The days are darker now. The sun takes longer to rise and beyond her window the sky is a glum shade of grey.

Down in the courtyard, before the steps of the holdfast, a flash of silver catches her eye.

Aemond is a fearsome fighter, tall, lean and lithe, moving quickly and fluidly. He bests his opponent, Ser Willis, with a few brutal blows, holding the edge of his blade to the man’s throat. Before long he is eager to go again.

She can imagine him on a battlefield, his face silently furious, carving through the men and boys who dared to place themselves in his way. She can imagine him in the courtyard of a ruined castle, blood on his face and hands. They say he slaughtered each member of House Strong himself, and then he bedded one of their bastards and made her a Lady. Daena thinks he would not have given a servant such an honour unless she had borne him a bastard, but Princes have sired bastards before and had mistresses from far more noble backgrounds. What was so remarkable about Alys Rivers?

With a particularly harsh swing of his sword, Aemond brings his blade down upon Ser Willis’, but the Lord Commander recovers quickly and begins an attack. Aemond is clearly taken by surprise and quickly forced to his knees with a frustrated grunt, one which she hears easily through the quiet of the early morning. He is facing the window though she doubts he will notice her. He glares up at Ser Willis, lips parted as he pants for breath. He looks enraged, vengeful even, and she almost expects him to leap up and attack with renewed force. Instead he bows his head and accepts Ser Wills’ hand to help him to his feet.

As a slight draft brushes over the exposed parts of her skin, she imagines the sound of his breathing and finds herself struck by a strange feeling of emptiness.

Later that morning she dons a blood red gown and makes a journey through the castle which is all too familiar to her now, to the waiting chamber by the throne room. Lord Corlys is there, speaking to a man who she has only seen across a room, more often than not, glaring at her along with the Hightower brothers. He has wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but his face appears surprisingly younger than the flecks of grey in his hair and his beard would suggest. He has sharp eyes that stay fixed on her as she approaches.

Concern briefly flashes over Lord Corlys’ face as he steps forward to greet her, but the other man already has his hand extended to her. “Unwin Peake,” he says. “We have not been formally introduced, Lady Rhaelle.”

She doesn’t like the sound of his voice or how he says her name, but smiles and takes his hand.

Unwin Peake fancies himself a war hero. Rhaelle is not so easily misled. She knows he led a thousand men under the banner of King Aegon, only for half of them to desert him when he proved a less than capable leader. She knows he tried and failed to seize control of the Hightower host after Tumbleton, that he quarrelled with his rivals to the point of bloodshed, and yet somehow earned himself a place on the Small Council before Aegon’s death.

Lord Corlys catches her eye and seems to be uneasy. She gives him a small nod as Lord Unwin takes her by the arm and leads them into the throne room. It is a show of courtesy, one she must accept with grace.

Aemond is already upon the throne, legs crossed, leaning into one side, without fear of cutting himself on the blades. Noblemen and smallfolk alike come before him and he responds to every concern with such eloquence and certainty, as though the entire ordeal has been rehearsed.

And he always looks ahead. Rhaelle stands on his seeing side, below the throne, but he shows no indication that he has seen her or that he intends to acknowledge her.

She knows what she will say and she knows what his reply will be, and in that certainty there is fear. She can hardly keep her hands still, pressing her fingernails into her skin to stop herself from trembling. The pain isn’t much of a distraction. All she feels is cold, even through the thick material of her gown. She pictures her sister in a cell, in the darkness, perhaps even in chains.

Another chill slips down her spine as she hears a footstep sound softly behind her.

“Do you know what Lord Tyland has taken to calling you?” Unwin Peake’s voice hisses close to her ear.

Rhaelle clenches her jaw. She expects he will tell her whether she wants him to or not.

“He calls you the reluctant Lady of Runestone.”

She presses her nails deeper into her skin.

She finally spurns herself forwards. Aemond’s eye finds her as she enters his line of vision, fixed on her as she moves across the room and kneels before the throne.

She bows her head and stares down at the flagstones, at the crevices between the stones, the flecks of dirt and dust settled within. Any nervous or curious chatter has ceased. The hall is quiet enough that she is sure the onlookers will be able to hear her heart pounding in her chest. If she holds her breath she can see it pulsing through the neckline of her dress.

Meeting his eye is a strange sort of thrill. He watches her sternly, his lips pressed together in a thin line, his fingers tapping against the arm of the throne.

She opens her mouth to speak but his voice pierces the air, clear and demanding. “Dearest cousin,” he says, then exhales sharply through his nose. “You come before me yet again.”

“Your Grace–”

“No, I already know what you’re going to ask of me, and my answer will be the same. Alyssa Targaryen may be my blood but she defied her true King.”

“I know my sister. She is wise and just, but dragged into a war she should never have been a part of.”

“She is a traitor.”

“And yet she has not been put on trial. You seem content to hold her. Why? Allow her a chance to prove her innocence before she is condemned, or else let her return to her home.”

“You have come before me every day since your arrival, to plead on behalf of a traitor. I do wonder what that might make you, Lady Rhaelle?”

“It makes me loyal to my family. I love my sister, and her suffering is my suffering.”

“As admirable as that declaration may be, I have made my decision. I will not hear any more from you on this matter.”

“If you had a chance to save your own sibling from a terrible fate would you not take it? Could you ever forgive yourself if you stopped trying?”

Something about his face changes. There is an absence of amusement, something quiet but cold in the way his eyes and his lips soften.

When his eye falls away from her she thinks she might have made a grave mistake.

He holds the arms of the throne as he stands, grips the iron with his fingertips when it is barely in his reach. Without another word he leaves the hall through the side chamber, keeping his head and his crown held high, while his fists are clenched at his sides.

She shares a look with Lord Corlys, himself stunned at the irregularity. Aemond never leaves the throne room until he has heard each grievance, and never shies from his duties.

The King is an elusive figure at the best of times. He does not seem to enjoy the more frivolous aspects of rulership. If he is seen at dinners in the throne room, he confines himself to the high table along with Lord Corlys. Other than his early morning spars with Ser Willis in the courtyard or his occasional rides out into the Kingswood, he appears to spend most of his time in his chambers. She imagines him pouring over ledgers and papers by candlelight, his face hardened in concentration.

That night, when his seat at the high table remains empty, Rhaelle cannot help but fear she has been the cause of this absence. Did her words truly anger him so deeply? Is her persistence so vexing to him?

She finds herself unable to settle when she retires to her chambers that night. She is starving and yet she has no appetite. Her body feels heavy and her head aches behind her eyes, yet her mind is spinning and will not allow her to find sleep.

He said he would not hear from her on the matter. She pushed too far, allowed her desperation to cloud her judgement and attempted to argue on sympathy rather than reason. Now she feels it all slipping away, any sense of control she had when she arrived in King’s Landing, any hope she had of reuniting their family after so many years. Why would she ever think that Aemond should show mercy to a prisoner on a plea of sisterly love?

He must have loved his sister, gentle Helaena, who wore a gown of pale blue and gold to the wedding of Alyssa and Jacaerys. She smiled rarely, never in the presence of her husband, she could barely even stand to take his arm as they entered the Sept and the throne room. Her eyes often found Aemond though, glassy with tears when he winced at the pain of his wound, as if she shared in it. Did he ever imagine, when he left for Harrenhal, that he would never see her again?

The next morning she wakes with the sunrise, somehow the shortened sleep has left her more awake than she usually is. She is already halfway dressed in her riding leathers, fashioned from a set of her mother’s, when Morra enters her bedchamber, and Rhaelle immediately sends her to the stables to ensure a horse is readied for her.

Finally, once she has pulled on her boots and tied her hair into a single braid, she heads down herself, but not before stopping by the window. The sun has yet to appear over the walls of the castle and the courtyard is empty.

She huffs to herself, at the restless feeling that’s been gnawing at her insides for weeks.

The entrance yard at the front of the Red Keep is bustling with servants carrying baskets and barrels, men unloading carts and carrying their contents towards the kitchens. Morra is waiting for her by the steps, fiddling with the edges of her sleeves.

Rhaelle pulls out her gloves and slips them onto her hands. “Did you find me a horse?” she says.

“Yes, my Lady, but there is another matter–”

She can already see what the other matter is. Aemond is standing by the gates, dressed in black riding attire, arguing with one of the stable hands. He has a beautiful grey horse on a lead, with a coat that shimmers like silk in the early sunlight. The stable hand stands with a slightly smaller horse, brown with a white spot on its nose. These are both muscular creatures meant for speed.

Rhaelle approaches them with Morra close behind. “Your Grace,” she says firmly but calmly. The two men immediately cease and face her, the stable hand with his head bowed, Aemond with a slight frown on his face and the beginnings of a sneer on his lips. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Likewise, my Lady,” Aemond says, entirely unconvincingly.

There is noise all around them, voices, footsteps, men and women at work, and yet the silence between Aemond and Rhaelle is palpable.

“I was intending to ride through the Kingswood this morning,” Rhaelle says, holding her hands firmly in front of her, unmoving, unafraid. “Perhaps you were intending to do the same?”

“I was.”

“What a happy coincidence,” she says, willfully ignoring the shortness of his tone. “We could ride together, then? I do not know the woods you see, I think I would benefit from having a companion.”

Aemond purses his lips, and glances between her and the horse being held by the stable hand. “It would be my pleasure, dear cousin.”

She smiles graciously.

Aemond hums to himself, then takes hold of the grey horse’s saddle and hoists himself into it with ease. As it happens, the brown horse is a similar size to Symeon. She finds her footing in the stirrup and hauls herself up, settling comfortably in the saddle.

“You ride well, I assume?” Aemond asks her.

She tries not to display any contempt at this subtle insult. “I believe myself to be a more than competent rider, Your Grace.”

He offers her a tight smile, though it fades quickly. His seeing eye remains alert.

Two men of the Kingsguard ride with them through the city. Aemond does not wear his crown but the people know their King, atop his horse, Blackfyre hanging from his hip, his silver hair tied away from his face but flowing proudly down his back, his eyepatch an unmissable feature. They stand aside as they move through the streets, met with awe, either glad or fearful, and distant calls of “long live the King!”

Aemond does not wave, smile or bow his head to anyone, though he occasionally looks over his shoulder to meet her gaze. Does he expect her to disappear? Does he expect her to ram a knife into his back?

How quickly he seems to phase through different states of being. One moment he is amused, the next proud, the next infuriated, concerned, remorseful. And how terrible he is at hiding this in his face, no matter how subtle he is, but a mystery remains because she still cannot read his thoughts, no matter how she pleads to the old gods and the new that she could.

Before long, they reach the southern gates of the city. She can see the forest ahead of them as soon as they are out of the walls of King’s Landing. The trees are dark, lush evergreens, reaching far from the west and east towards the seafront, to the cliffs that overlook the bay, raised on hills and going further south than she can see.

The guards stay with them a little longer, until they pass over a bridge across the Blackwater Rush and the road becomes quieter. Most of the people here are travelling along the Rose Road towards Highgarden, but Aemond leads her towards the treeline, along a path often used for hunting, so he says. It seems to head towards the coast.

Mostly staying at the edge of the forest, the trees are sparse. It’s not like the wide open fields and hills that she is used to. To one side she sees tree trunks, spots of darkness where the forest is thicker and closer. To the other she sees glimpses of the sky and the sea below it.

Aemond slows his horse slightly so they can ride side by side at a comfortable trot. Now she cannot look out over the bay without looking at him, or appearing to at least.

She realises they have not spoken a single word to each other since they left the castle.

“Do you ride often?” she asks.

“When I wish to, and when I can find time to,” he says without looking at her.

She nods to herself, letting her eyes linger on the way he rocks with the motions of the saddle, the way he grips the reins with gloved hands.

“I like to hunt back at Runestone,” she says, facing forward once more, “do you hunt?”

This captures his attention. He turns his head to her, glances up and down. “You did not bring a bow.”

“Or a blade, no. I was not intending to kill anything this morning.”

Aemond hesitates, then smirks. “I never made a habit out of hunting. It is a tedious sport, more suited to times of peace.”

It is a harrowing reminder of the kind of man who rides beside her, a man who kills and holds his own family prisoner.

“You like to spar too. I see you in the courtyard most mornings,” she says.

“I do not like to make a spectacle of myself.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you did, but it is rather difficult to avoid when it happens below my window.”

He turns his head towards Rhaelle, and she finds herself entirely distracted. Away from the gloom of the Keep, without his crown and the way he commands the fear of his courtiers, his beauty is unobstructed. His lips and his seeing eye settle in a way that seems gentle. “If it disturbs you then I shall remedy it.”

“No need,” she says, “for what it is worth, you perform extremely well.”

He smiles again, dipping his head slightly as he adjusts his hold of the reins. “Come then, you say you are a competent rider, I’d like to see a performance from you,” he says, catching her eye.

Her breath stops in her throat.

He kicks his horse’s side and in an instant he’s bolting down the path.

It takes her a moment to realise what he wants, kicking her horse into a canter, then quickly into a full gallop. It follows her commands easily enough but she remains cautious, keeping a tight grip on the reins and with her thighs, chasing the gleam of silver ahead of her. She does not know if Aemond is leading her or racing her, and for now she doesn’t care. Excitement surges through her. She feels the impact of the horses hooves as they meet the dirt. Her stomach drops as they head deeper into the forest, darting between branches, leaping over streams and fallen trees.

She seems to be gaining on Aemond and spots a ridge she thinks might allow her to overtake him. It’s a risk she takes without thinking it through, urging her mount up and along the narrow trail. They seem to stumble at one point but she doesn’t stop. She passes Aemond, just as she thought she would. He looks up at her with a wide eye, the traces of a laugh echoing behind her as she leaps down, back onto the main path.

There’s a clearing not far ahead where the path splits into two, she would wager Aemond had this in mind as an end point. She slows her horse gradually, checking behind her to see him doing the same. She turns the horse to face him, trying not to beam or appear too pleased with herself, but she cannot help it. Her cheeks burn at the exertion and the effort it’s taking to withhold her smile.

The sun is rising higher above them. The light catches on his hair, the thin sheen of sweat on his brow, the curve of his lip as he tries to catch his breath. “I’d say you are more than competent,” he calls, tugging on the reins to bring his own horse to a stop.

“I spent most of my childhood on horseback,” she says. “Ser Gerold always said I took after my mother.”

His amusement fades into something passive, observant.

“She used to take Alyssa and I out with her one at a time in the saddle with her. As soon as I was old enough to ride by myself I could hardly be kept from the stables. Alyssa and I used to race each other around the hills for hours, or until we were called back to the castle for our lessons.”

Aemond watches her as she speaks, breathing deeply, his brow hardened like he’s trying to concentrate.

“Still,” she says, patting her horse’s neck as it starts to get restless, “I cannot imagine it could ever compare to riding a dragon.”

“It is a poor substitute, to be sure,” Aemond says quietly, like he did on the balcony, but she can see the change in him again. With a quick huff, the gentle look in his face disappears and he dismounts his horse. “There’s a stream close by, we should water the horses.”

He approaches her, reaching his hands up to help her dismount. Her more prideful side wishes to tell him she does not need the help, but she accepts it, swinging her leg round so he can hold his waist as he lowers her down. She keeps her hands on his shoulders, even once her boots have met the ground. The pressure of his fingertips through the thick layers of fabric are almost intangible, but it makes her breathless all the same.

They take the horses to the stream at the edge of the clearing, tying the leads to a tree and patting them down reassuringly as they drink. Rhaelle sits herself in the grass, out in the sunlight. Aemond joins her, but he reminds her of a cautious animal, following her a little unsurely, sitting beside her, always watching the space around them.

The air is cold but she feels the sun’s warmth beaming down on her face.

She hears Aemond take a breath before he speaks. “You never claimed a dragon?”

“No,” she says.

“You never had an egg in your cradle?”

“No. My mother insisted her children would be born and raised in her home.”

“And in the traditions of House Royce?”

“For the most part.”

“But your father never…” he stops himself with a deep breath. With his chin tilted down he lifts his gaze to look at her. The sunlight shines in his right eye, cold and clear like a stream, like a cloudless violet sky at dusk. Like this, sat amongst overgrown grass and the last of the autumn wildflowers, he doesn’t look like a tyrant. He doesn’t look like a man who burned half of the Riverlands to ash and fought in a battle that left the waters of the God’s Eye red with blood.

Ser Gerold would have been glad to see Daemon’s end. He called it “justice” when news came to Runestone of his death, justice for the wife he murdered and the daughters he neglected.

Looking at Aemond now she wonders if he regrets it. Does he look at her and see the eyes of the man he killed staring back at him? Does it haunt him to be near her, is that why he watches her so intently?

“I asked him once if I could fly with him,” she says. “I was so desperate to know what it was like. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t laugh or scoff, he just looked down at me. My suggestion was so unremarkable that he didn’t waste so much as a breath on me. Of course I went crying to my mother about it. She took me into her arms and told me that the only difference between riding a dragon and riding a horse was the distance between you and the ground. So much further to fall, she said.”

He tilts his head. “I cannot disagree with her.”

And oh how her father must have fallen, through fire and empty space, into blood and water.

“What was it like to have a dragon?” she asks.

Something in him comes alive. He looks at her with a quiet excitement, shuffling ever so slightly closer to her. “I used to believe a dragon was a birthright. My siblings all claimed their mounts when they were young, and my nephews shared their cradles with eggs and watched them hatch. For many years I was an outlier, a dragonless Targaryen, I was nothing. But it is an earned right, one that must be claimed.” As he speaks he draws his knee up to rest his arm upon it, his hand restless as he speaks. “Dragons are creatures with their own wills. We cannot control them fully, but we guide them.”

“And you claimed the fiercest of them,” she says.

She remembers Driftmark like it was a dream. She remembers standing by the sea as the coffin of Laena Velaryon was delivered to the waves, looking at the faces of a family she scarcely knew in the aftermath, clinging to the only people she had left in the world, Daena and Alyssa.

She remembers someone storming into her chambers as she slept, the shadowy face of her father appearing in the moonlight that beamed through the window. “We are needed in the Hall of Nine,” he said.

“We?”

He found Alyssa in the next room and left Daena to sleep, marching down the dark corridors of Hightide. They walked in on a scene that terrified her. While their father leaned against the doorway, almost amused, Alyssa and Rhaelle walked further inside, hand in hand. They could not see clearly past the crowd that had gathered to watch this battle between the Princess and the Queen, but there was shouting, pleading, blood on the faces of Rhaenyra’s sons and blood on the face of the King’s son, Aemond.

She peered through the bodies, the fabric of nightgowns and the haze of the braziers to see him sitting there, stitches in his face, smaller cuts on his brow and his lip. He didn’t look at the eye discarded in a tray by his side, he didn’t look to his siblings for reassurance or comfort. First he glared at his father with a hatred that somehow seemed contained, stunned but unsurprised. Then he looked at his mother, with far more understanding than a child should ever have to need.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” the boy said, “I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

“A dragon is terror and freedom,” Aemond says as her eyes drift over the edges of his scar and the details of the leather patch that conceals the rest. “When I claimed Vhagar, centuries of power and strength became mine. I felt her in solitude, I learned from her.”

It shows, she thinks, that he grew bonded to a beast of conquest, a witness to her fire and majesty, and took that into himself.

Her eyes trail lower, over his jaw, the pale skin of his neck just visible beneath his collar, which ends with a silver buckle. She can pinpoint the rise and fall of his breath, the detailings of golden dragons against the black leather, his hair draped over his shoulders and down his body.

She feels her legs getting numb and shifts her weight onto her palm, placed on the grass beside her so that she leans in closer to him.

“But to take flight on Vhagar,” Aemond says softly, a hint of a smile on his lips, his eye gleaming and trained on her, “to feel the force of her wings, the wind and the weightlessness…”

She feels herself clinging to every word he says, each subtle breath he takes, the minuscule movements in his face as he inches closer to her. Only for her heart to sink when he pauses.

He reaches up, taking the end of her braid between his gloved fingers. “I wish you could have known what it was like.”

“It is like you said,” she says, “it is not a birthright, it is something earned.”

“By those of our blood,” Aemond says, his eye darting back up to meet hers. “You should have had the chance to earn it.”

Our blood, the blood of dragons and conquerors, of Queens and Princes, of weak Kings and cruel fathers.

He releases his hold of her hair, positioning it over her shoulder and tracing his fingertips over the coat of her leathers. His eye follows, then slowly returns to her face. “Might I show you something?”

“Yes, of course,” she says, carefully withholding eagerness in her voice. “Shall we fetch the horses?”

“No,” Aemond says, rising and offering his hand for her to take. “We’ll go on foot.”

He keeps her hand in his, leather against leather, as he leads her down the path, freshly disturbed by hoof prints, away from the clearing and back into the forest. He stops where the path diverged into two and with a small inclination of his head, they walk along the trail that leads uphill. This way is not as the other, overgrown with grass and even the thick, twisted roots of trees. Aemond is keen to guide her, walking just ahead, tightening his grip on her at the slightest of obstacles.

The hill becomes steep, and in fact she is grateful for his caution when she loses her footing on a loose rock and he is there to steady her, determined that she shall stay upright. The higher they climb the sparser the trees, the louder the wind howls, the closer the sound of the water becomes. The path leads on, but Aemond stops and steps out into the open.

She stands behind his shoulder to shield herself from the wind, clutching his hand and squinting through the blinding sunlight on the eastern horizon, over the waves of the Blackwater, roaring and crashing against one another, against the base off the cliff they stand on. The city is nothing but distant shapes, further along the curve of the shore. The Red Keep, where standing at its gates seems to reach high into the heavens, seems so unremarkable from here. The cold seeps through her leathers. Sea salt stings in her eyes and on her tongue.

“My mother’s sworn shield taught me to ride on horseback, Ser Criston Cole. He’d lead me through these woods, until I knew all the trails by heart,” Aemond says, leaning into her so she can hear him. His breath is warm against her ear, his grip on her hand still unrelenting. “I came across this place when I was a boy. I used to sit here for hours, especially when the others would ride their dragons.”

Gulls sail effortlessly through the sea air. She imagines dragons in their place.

“A childish indulgence,” Aemond mutters.

“Show me,” she says, tilting her head up to meet his eye.

He smiles to himself. “Stand there,” he says, pointing to the very edge of the cliff face, at a slab of grey stone reaching out below the rocks and spray of the sea.

“On the ledge?” she says, her legs unsure beneath her.

He releases her hand to gently guide her by her waist. “Right here,”

Her stomach lurches when her boots leave the earth. If it is the truth or a trick of the mind the stone seems to move beneath her. “Aemond, I’m going to fall!”

But he holds her waist tight, pulling her into him until she feels the heat of his body through their riding leathers, the hilt of Blackfyre pressing against her back. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs in her ear, “I’ve got you.”

She cannot seem to breathe, gasping for air as she wills her heart to calm. She grasps at his hands, clinging to him as if he would not merely fall with her. His proximity to her is not quite comforting, it only seems to make her more afraid, but it is a pleasant sort of fear.

“Can you imagine it,” he says, leaning his cheek against her temple, “out of reach of the rest of the world, the heat of a dragon beneath you, the wind against your skin, the weightlessness?”

The force of the wind seems to push her closer into his grasp. She can feel the terror. One misstep and she will fall, her body dashed out over the rocks below, her blood feeding into the water.

“I could feel her fire brewing beneath her hide. I could feel it burning in my blood and my throat before she unleashed it,” Aemond whispers, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.

She shudders, letting herself turn into him, letting her hands close around his wrists.

He leans into her, resting his forehead against hers. She feels his heat. She feels something like fire burning in her blood and wonders if it burns in his too. A gloved hand delicately takes her chin.

It would be easy to give into him, she thinks. She would have been glad to do it the first time she laid eyes upon him.

But she knows she must not allow herself to be ruled by impulse and desire. She cannot escape him completely but she turns her head back towards the open water. Aemond is still holding her, still breathing against her neck.

She waits for him to guide her back, to the safety of solid ground, away from the ledge. Now he cannot meet her eye.

They walk back to the clearing and Aemond holds her hand again, though this time she does not stumble. Aemond unties her horse, helps her into her saddle and she waits for him before they set off back down the path.

The ride back to King’s Landing is a silent one. Each step their horses take through the woods feels heavy in her ears, the closing of a door, the beat of a funeral drum. She looks ahead to Aemond, hoping he will turn back and catch her eye but he does not.

She wants to tear her hair out from the roots and strike herself across the face. She couldn’t afford to make another mistake and yet she has done exactly that. What if the King feels slighted? What if he holds this against her?

The guards are waiting for them by the bridge and escort them back through the city. The streets are busier and grey now that the sun has risen and hidden itself behind a sky of clouds.

But the entrance yard at the Red Keep is no longer filled with servants. Instead the clashes of steel ring out against the walls of the castle, as men of the Kingsguard, nobles and knights spar, to the awe of a few spectators.

Aemond pays little mind to the people in the yard. Even when they greet him he simply nods his head. As his horse is taken by a stable hand, swings a leg over the head and slips effortlessly from the saddle.

Then he approaches her horse, wordlessly holding out his hands, offering his assistance. She allows this, and purposefully turns to face him once her boots have met the ground, keeping her hands on his shoulders, not too firmly, for she cannot appear to be too forceful.

“Your Grace,” she says, determined that their eyes should meet again. “I am sorry if I have offended you, truly,” she says quietly, though she will hardly avoid attention when she stands with the King, his hands lingering on her waist, more timidly than he had been in the woods.

Aemond looks at her, and once again his expression is a gentle one. “I am anything but,” he says, one of his thumbs tracing circles over her leathers. He lowers his voice. “The truth is I am deeply moved by your loyalty to your sister. You were right, I have regrets of my own.”

There have been all kinds of rumours regarding Queen Helaena’s death. Some say she was pushed from the window, perhaps even by Rhaenyra herself, and others say she threw herself from it. She was driven mad by grief, supposedly, since the murder of her eldest son, and perhaps she could bear the pain no longer. Perhaps the cause was the false news of Aemond’s death at the God’s Eye. At first the only news had come from smallfolk in the nearby lands, that both Princes had fallen. A fortnight later Aemond arrived at King’s Landing, dragonless, but decidedly alive.

“I often ask myself why I did not do more for them. Why did I put them in danger? Why did I leave them? Why did I not return to them…”

Something else catches his attention. His gaze has moved from her face, to the leather breastplate she wears under her coat, embroidered with ancient runes, naturally.

“What does that say?” he asks in a voice like ice, tracing his fingertips over the golden thread, over the same markings written into the sleeves of the first gown she wore in King’s Landing.

“Have you seen it before? It is an old saying in the Vale,” she says, startled by another shift in him, “the words read: learn to die.”

His throat hums, lowly and softly. His eye returns to hers, his lips curling into a self assured smile, the kind that infuriates her because it means he knows something she does not.

He releases her waist, then reaches for her hand. He pinches the end of her right glove and pulls it from her slowly, the lack of warmth stinging her bare skin.

He whispers, “I cannot give you what you ask of me, not now at least. But I will try.” He raises her hand and presses his lips against it. “I promise you, I will try.”

Blood blooms beneath her cheeks. For once Aemond’s words fill her with hope. He seems sincere, she wants that to be the truth.

She smiles politely. “Thank you, Your Grace—”

“Your Grace!” Calls a voice from the steps to the Keep. Aemond’s hand falls away from hers and he faces away from her as Martyn Hightower approaches them. “All the preparations have been made for you to receive Lady Floris and Lady Cassandra. They are expected to arrive before the day’s end.”

She watches Aemond bring one hand to the hilt of his sword. The other he brings behind his back, clenched in a fist. “Good,” he says, and turns towards Rhaelle again, his body following his head. “Thank you for accompanying me this morning, my Lady.”

She takes a breath, meaning to thank him but then he’s stalking across the yard and disappearing into the castle.

Rhaelle decides she can hardly bear the sight of him walking away.

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arabellasleopardcoat · 10 months

Text

Canvas of imagination (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: On the eve of Rhaenyra's wedding, Daemon decides the best gift he can give to the father of the bride is a dreamer. A shame said dreamer does not seem to share the joy of the occasion.

Warnings: Kidnapping. Period typical misogyny. Violence. Unflattering depiction of characters (You might hate me for this)

A/N: Remember please, Daemon is an unreliable narrator. Here is where things start to get dark. I researched genetics for this and ended up really insecure. Read the previous part here.

There are many ways of silencing women. Murder is, of course, one. It’s not an elegant solution, but it is an effective one. It ensures the victim takes her secrets to the grave. Daemon likes to think himself more elegant than that.

There is, too, the possibility of a ruined reputation. But that strategy is one that is only effective towards women of a certain standing. You can hardly ruin what are already damaged goods, and a bastard certainly counts as damaged goods.

Daemon still could chuck you off Caraxes mid-flight. Yet, it does not seem like a good idea, either. Each one of your servants saw you get chained to his saddle. Not even Viserys’s intervention could save him from the angry mob of commoners that would await his return to the Vale.

Besides, he likes you there, mounted on his dragon. For once, quiet, too scared of screaming and disturbing Caraxes. Daemon likes the lack of noise, but he likes your presence much more. It would be foolish to silence a dreamer forever.

You need other kinds of chains. To tie you to him. Silencing you, when he does not want to hear. One often used for Targaryen women.

Marriage. A Bronze Bitch for another. But not exactly, is it? Not if you can truly see the future.

Perhaps this was meant to happen, then. As a way of honoring his ancestors. Grabbing a pretty maid, one with Valyrian gifts and…

Well. Children are another kind of chain, right? He is still not sold on the perks of bedding you. You are wrong. Too dark, too different. Nothing like Rhaenyra, and slightly older than her. But Daemon knows the children you will birth him will be strong. The gift on you is, after all.

To be able to look so far into the future speaks of a power unseen before. Targaryens have not been blessed by many dreamers in the last generations, and the few times they were, their gifts were fickle and weak. Not far enough to allow them to see further than days. The last time someone was able to look further was in the age of Aegon the Conqueror.

It must mean Valyrian descent. Nothing else is an acceptable answer. Even if you don’t look it.

Daemon mounts behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You feel soft in his arms. Perhaps bedding you will not be as bad. He had been afraid that you would be like Rhea. Those inquisitive eyes of her, the body as hard as the body of any man. They were not features he enjoyed on a female partner. It always turned him off.

It was not that he had refused to consummate the marriage. He wasn’t able to bed her, the awful bitch. Not only were her features off-putting, but her attitude. She was constantly trying to sit on his hips, push him down, and he couldn’t stand it. Daemon felt trapped. Emasculated.

He had to chase the shame, the powerlessness away, somehow. That was how he got started fucking whores, collecting maidenheads. It was much better when women were maidens. Easier. He likes the contrasts, Daemon has realized. Half women, half children are always more entertaining to play with.

You are not Rhea. You feel different in his arms. Your body is soft, all sweet limbs. There are no harsh muscles on your arms, and you smell like fresh baked pastries. Rhea always smelled of horse.

You are a girl, not a warrior like your sister was. Yet, you share her wild spirit. All the delicious curves of womanhood are already formed, a delicious pair of tits and hips that could drive any man to insanity.

Your parentage is a bit more undesirable, though. As the daughter of a whore, your innocence could be sullied. Daemon would have to ask if you were passed around when younger. He doubted it, but just in case. If you had not, bedding you would be the most fun he had in years. Open-minded, hot-blooded, but pure. It was not often you found that in a woman.

You try to squirm, but are too well bound. Getting too comfortable for his liking.

“Soves. ” He orders. Caraxes obeys. You shriek in terror, and Daemon hugs you harder against him. That, too, he likes. The helplessness, the honest reaction of someone who was denied her birthright. The amazement, once you settle down and notice that Caraxes will not drop you.

Riding Caraxes is always a thrill. It’s even more thrilling when he has a captive audience. There is something about it that does it for him. Showing others the might of true Targaryens always makes him proud.

He wants to show you all the things you have missed, being born of a whore and a Royce. It’s clear you don’t belong here, among the bronze piles of the Vale. You belong with him, on dragonback. And no one is taking you away from him.

The servants, your servants, according to the Bronze Bitch’s will, can only watch as the dragon rises in the air. No one dares deny Targaryens anything, not when faced with the truth of their strength.

Daemon perches his chin right on top of your head, so close his chest is flush with your back. Your screams do not bother him. You might be terrified, after a life spent living on the ground. But Targaryens are born to be in the skies. You will get used to it.

“Oh, Lady Cuffs, you have much to learn.” He kisses your temple, once you have screamed your throat raw and finally quieted down.

The first time he had ridden Caraxes, Daemon had, too, screamed until his voice gave. He had thought back then, like many Targaryens did, that if his egg didn’t hatch, he would get no dragon. The moment is clear in his memory. Heart beating loud in his chest, screaming commands in High Valyrian, and the absolute certainty that Caraxes was going to burn him to a crisp. Then, as he came down from sheer terror to amazement, he understood why his egg didn’t hatch.

It was a lesson. To take what he wanted, what was his by right. Targaryens were conquerors, not whiny children. It was what had got him thinking about Lady Laena, in the first place. The amount of confidence one needed to claim a dragon that big, it spoke of a power within.

Not as yours was, of course. You may lack the confidence, but you had power in spades. Dreamers were often like that. Or they were supposed to be, according to his studies. Daenys had been. A fragile little thing, scared of shadows and set on leaving Valyria behind. It had been what saved them, in the end.

Daemon wonders what it must be like to be haunted by terrors in your sleep. Some real, some imagined. How could one possible tell the difference between the two? It would lead a fragile mind to insanity.

What had it done to you? Seeing your sister’s death, thinking it a nightmare, and then watch it come to life in front of your eyes?

Fear. Horror. A cornered animal reaction, wanting to fight an opponent that could crush you like a bug if he so wished. Your loyalty to Rhea was commendable, though.

The thought of you having to go through that makes him uncomfortable. Something about the death of a sibling upsets him. Viserys. Oh, Viserys. Can’t live with him, but can’t live without him, either.

No. He needs a distraction. He is not willing to go down that road now.

“Dracarys!” Daemon screams, fighting to project his voice over the wind. As expected, you flinch and let out a tiny scream. He hides his smirk in your hair. He wonders if you would squeal like that when he took you.

A bit of fear makes for a better fuck. Lovers tend to turn pliant in the face of pain. Women's cunts flutter delightfully when choked. And you are already so responsive.

“This cannot be happening.” You mutter, under your breath. Your voice sounds small and confused. Lost. “This defies all the laws.”

“Targaryens have married sisters before,” Daemon speaks over your ear. Despite knowing that's not how dreamers work, he can't help but taunt you. It's amusing to him, how you struggle and huff. “You must have seen this already. You will make a good wife, in time.”

“I am not a dreamer!” You scream, and if he could see your face now, he would bet you are scowling. It matters not, really. Whatever you say. You would do anything to get him to let you go.

Daemon knows the truth. He has done his investigation about you. It would be no good, if he were mistaken and presented Viserys with something less. His good gesture would be ruined.

You would earn him his forgiveness. Daemon is willing to share you with Viserys, if that's what Viserys wants. He wants to keep you, so Daemon wouldn't gift you to him. But share you? It's a good gesture to show the honesty of his words.

Let it not be said that Daemon Targaryen is not humble in victory.

“Deny it all you want.” Daemon turns a finger over the middle of your back, making you shiver and try to move away from the touch. Oh, such a fierce spirit. A shame it's wasted, with how well you are tied to the saddle. “You have some Valyrian blood in you.”

“I do not!” You scream, and tilt your head to the side to glare at him. You have pretty eyes and the most enchanting nose. Closer to a goddess than a woman. How can you not be a Targaryen?

Your hair is the wrong shade. So are your eyes. But most of the time, First Men features overpower Targaryen ones. Dammed your father. Useless rat, that Yohn Royce. But at least he had given him you.

“You will birth me silver haired babes.” Daemon can do the math. With you being half Valyrian, the odds of you giving him what he wants are higher. He places his hand on your stomach, sneaking it behind the apron and touching the soft linen dress you wear.

Daemon imagines what it will be like, to see you swell with his child. The skin over your womb is warm and soft. You are young, closer to Rhaenyra's age than his. You look healthy and strong. A good environment for a child to grow in. And by the look of your bosom, you would produce good milk, too.

The thought makes him suddenly hungry. His cock twitches in interest. Ah. Good to know that your coloring won’t bring forth the same performance issues Rhea’s had.

This time, you squirm harder. Your ass rolls against his hips. Daemon rolls his hips against you, delighting in the friction. "Oh, you temptress.” He laughs.

He can't wait to have you, pinned under him and forcing you to take and take until his seed breeds true. How you would struggle, hips trying to escape him before surrendering to the sheer pleasure of it all.

“You are disgusting!” You buck against him, all wild mare. You have yet to be mounted and it shows. He bets once he does, you will be all sweet. Daemon is not cruel enough to deny you the pleasure. But you seem upset, and so he tries to reassure you.

“Just think, how strong, how true our children will be. With the blood of Old Valyria, flowing through their veins.”

It seems like the thought is not as reassuring for you as it is for him, since you start tearing up. He will have to tread more carefully. It’s clear your time with the Bronze Bitch has affected you. Perhaps, too, growing up in a whore’s house. You must have some strange ideas of women not needing marriage, or men, to lead their lives.

It was good, that Rhea got you when she had. You could have been sold or auctioned like any other woman. Taken up the profession of your mother. But you hadn’t. He knows it by the way you flinch, when he trails his hands over your ribs, when he presses his lips to your temple. Whores are used to touches like those. They melt into them. Not you.

“I’m not Valyrian!” You scream, trashing. Daemon smooths your hair down, tenderly. Perhaps this will soften you, he thinks. Many bastards share the longing for learning about their origins, after all. You should be no different.

“Your mother was, though.”

“What? No, she wasn't!” Your shrill tone makes him flinch. Gods, what a pair of lungs you have. And you are so set on disguising your origins, too. As if Daemon can’t tell. As if he can’t recognize one of his own when he sees them.

“I asked the servants about you.” He squeezes your shoulder, trying to sound encouraging. He wonders what it must be like, to carry so deep a shame you are set on denying the obvious. If Daemon had been born of a whore, without his Targaryen blood, he would be ashamed too. “They said you bathed every day. Only whores do that. And you don’t keep male company.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Your voice comes out high and questioning, confused. Oh, his poor, sheltered girl. Thinking your behavior was normal.

“You must have learned it somewhere.” He brushes his thumb against the shell of your ear. It’s a tiny thing, and soft. You give a sweet shiver, and it confirms his suspicions. You have not been touched in such a way before. Not a whore. Only the daughter of one. "Your father was said to frequent a brothel in King’s Landing, one that I’m well acquainted with. They only have Valyrian stock.”

You splutter, and whip your head to the side. You are not allowed much movement, with your binds. But gods, you try. The sliver of your face he can see is twisted in righteous anger. Similar to when he confessed to finishing the Bronze Bitch.

“Stock? How can you refer to women like that!” And it comes out so righteous, so fierce. His little warrior. Yes, it’s clear he is right about your origins. No one else would launch themselves in such a passionate defense of whores. A shame, he can’t seem to resist to riling you up.

“Oh, I have much lovelier names for women. I called your sister the Bronze Bitch.”

You let out a fierce little scream, now bucking and twisting and shifting, trying to get any kind of retribution for the slight. What a joy you must be in the sheets, all that unbridled force and passion, turning into a single objective. You just have to learn to aim it right.

“Don’t you dare speak of her like that! She is the most…” And you choke up a sob, realizing that Rhea was, not is. You do not speak the words, curling into yourself like a scared child. Hurt and sad for the first time since he took you.

“Was.” Daemon says, very quietly, and this time he is unable to distract himself from the thought. Daemon thinks of Viserys, of how angry he would be were someone to hurt him. No matter if they had parted in anger, no matter if they had not spoken a word.

He hugs you to him. You fight him, at first, but then you are sobbing too hard, too panicked to do anything about it. He presses a kiss to your nape. Even in tears and sweaty with your efforts, you smell perfect. All sweet pure maiden.

Eventually, your body sags. Daemon wonders if you accepted your fate or merely fell asleep. He doesn’t ask. The rest of the ride is uneventful. You wake up, later on, squirming in your bounds before sagging in defeat. No more words are exchanged between the two of you.

Landing is quite the interesting experience. Lyonel Strong, wearing the Hand's brooch. Next to him, stands the Kingsguard and a couple of Citywatchs.

“Is that a serving girl?” Crispin, Chris, whatever his name is, asks. He must think himself so sly, muttering under his breath.

“You were vanished.” Lyonel deadpans, eyeing you with vague interest. You scowl at him and tug on your bonds, again. Admirable persistence.

“Ah, Lyonel.” He gets off the saddle and carefully unchains you from it, making sure that your hands remain bound. Daemon keeps a tight grip on the chain from your cuffs, as he pulls you down into his arms. You kick and scream. The Kingsguard look vaguely concerned, but the gold cloaks don't even blink. They had been his men a few years back. They are used to such things.

He is not getting any younger, Daemon realizes. With you, he might need to get a better training regime because he is winded from the struggle. It's almost thrilling. You will keep him on his toes.

Daemon addresses Lyonel once again, dragging you forward.

“Summon Viserys, would you? I have something to show him.”

Good thing it’s not Otto Hightower anymore, or else he would have been detained on the spot. Lyonel is slightly softer to him, too honor-bound to let his personal feelings get in the way.

“Another of your whores?” The man asks, face unchanged. He would look at ease were it not for the way he is pressing his lips together in a grim line. No doubt remembering the Mysaria episode.

You keep struggling, rubbing your poor wrists raw. Daemon will have to tend to that later.

“Help! Help! Please!” You plead to Lyonel, once he is close enough. His lips twitch. Ah, the Strongs. Always ready to jump in rescue of a fair maiden. Your cries seem to be weakening the resolve of the Hand, and Daemon can’t have that.

Daemon places a possessive arm over your hips, showing you off. The possessive gesture will distract Lyonel from his rescue attempt, he is sure. No one gets between a Prince and his lovers, willing or not.

“No, actually. This time, the Lady is still a maiden. Although she won’t be much longer.” He smirks.

You flinch, your whole body tensing under his grip. Lyonel looks torn. He can’t order Daemon to let go of you, as for all he knows, you are but a serving girl. If you were a Lady, what he is doing might mean war. No one here cares about commoners.

Surprisingly, your rescuer is another. The dornish knight, jumping in, without the bow of his commander or the Lord Hand.

“I’ll go get the King, Lord Hand.” Good gods, what were they teaching the dornish these days? Not an ounce of respect on that one. He was getting too cocky for Daemon’s liking. He might have unseated him, but he lacked manners.

Daemon glares at Lyonel. Lyonel glares right back. The Kingsguard square behind Lyonel, menacingly, but the City Watch remains undecided on the side. Daemon grips your cuffs harder.

Crispin, Chris, whatever, comes out again after a few minutes, with an aggravated looking Viserys. You start shrieking, again, and trying harder to escape. No one pays you any mind.

“I told you I didn’t want to see you again.” Viserys says, but his eyes crinkle. He has cooled down. Daemon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He still has everything to play for. Forgiveness is on the way.

“I think she might earn my forgiveness.” He tugs at your cuffs, bringing you slightly forward. You scowl, fiercely. “A gift, brother.”

“You come to offer me a whore? You are insane. Or drunk. Or both.” Viserys arches an eyebrow, but takes a good look at you. Daemon can’t blame him for it. You are a pretty thing, young and healthy.

Despite someone who claims offense at being offered a whore, Viserys surely looks interested. He steps closer to him, trapping you between them both. It’s Viserys, in quite the bold move, who tilts your chin up with a finger. You snarl at him, bucking backwards and right into Daemon’s chest.

“Careful. She bites. Special breed, from the Vale. All bitches.” And it’s not even funny, but it makes Viserys laugh, and that’s all that matters to him. Viserys’s laughter prompts the rest of the sycophants knights to do so as well. Only Lyonel and the dornish man remain disapproving.

“I’m quite busy at the moment, brother.” Viserys steps back, giving Daemon a long look. Unable not to twist the knife because otherwise they wouldn’t be related, he adds. “I’m in the middle of planning a wedding.”

“Ah. Congratulations are in order, then. Think of this as a wedding gift to the father of the bride.” Daemon pushes you forward, and then, insistently, to kneel. You resist, impudent little thing that you are. He pushes harder, until you kneel in front of Viserys with a sullen expression. “What better omen for a marriage than a little dreamer?”

Viserys goes suddenly serious, the hint of a smile at his antics long gone. This time, when he looks at you, his eyes are much more searching. First, to your hair. Then, your eyes. Then, to his face, incredulous.

“If this is your idea of a joke, Daemon…”

Daemon gives him a look. He would not joke about it, knowing how much Viserys has longed to be connected to that side of their heritage. He never understood it. Dreams were a powerful tool, but could be hard to differentiate from just nightmares. And what had made them conquerors had not been dreams, but dragons. That had been the part that interested him.

They had talked, once, of sharing a woman. Back when they were much younger, much less troubled. He tried to let that shine in his eyes, too. This was not something he was keeping to himself, it was a gift to his brother. If Viserys asked, Daemon would say yes in a heartbeat. Anything to make him happier. To protect him. Your dreams might not get him another kingdom, but would help keep Viserys safe and secure Rhaenyra's claim.

The silence stretched. Then, Viserys, looking absolutely fascinated and dumbfounded, stepped aside.

“Inside the throne room. Anyone else, leave us!”

As the guards scrambled to obey, Daemon tugged you inside. Viserys entered the room first, and grabbed the chain, as Daemon made sure to close the door after them. Working together with a fluidity not seen since the days of their youth.

Daemon smiled. Not even a day in your company, and you were already fixing things in the way he had wanted you to.

Viserys let go of your chain, eyeing you with quite a bit of precaution. All for naught. Instead of attacking, you tried to flee. Daemon grabbed you, and spun you to face him.

“You say she is a dreamer.” Viserys sits down on the throne, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“She is. The bastard sister of my newly deceased wife.” Daemon can’t help but boast. He is proud of finding you. Of the smile that has formed on Viserys face. “You know how it was. Yohn Royce and his precious Silver Dragon.”

“Lady Rhea is dead?” Viserys frowns. Still, he doesn’t look too upset. Perhaps a bit angry, but Daemon knows he will forgive him for it. What is the murder of a woman no one loved to the acquisition of a dreamer?

“He killed her!” You scream, unable to help yourself. Ah. Curse him, he was mistaken. Someone loved the Bronze Bitch. But it didn’t count. You were her sister and she had rescued you from a brothel. You were morally obligated to. It didn’t count.

“Shut up, little girl. I didn’t.” Which, yes, he had, but it would be better to give Viserys plausible deniability. Safer that way.

“Yes, you did. I saw.” You grin at him, menacingly. Daemon arches an eyebrow. It seemed your nap had given you the energy to be defiant. Again. Good gods, you were like a child. Having to be put to bed, pacified, taken care of. On and on the list went. Daemon was not sure that he was ready for the responsibility of parenting a recently legitimized Targaryen. Your manners were atrocious, and you were so young and so soft.

Rhea had taught you nothing of use. Perhaps to read books and ride horses, but it was clear she hadn't hardened you as she was. You had no idea of politics or respect for your King. Soft. Sheltered. A blessing in disguise? Or a curse?

“That will be a problem, dreamer or not.” Viserys interrupts. It’s clear what he means. Daemon has to fix it. Because the Seven forbid Viserys is the one to get his hands dirty. He likes to believe he is above Daemon, in that sense. That he has some sort of morals that go beyond caring for Rhaenyra.

He has not. His tastes are the same as Daemon's. Fire and blood and all that came with it, but with the delusion of having some great sense of morality.

“Give her to me. The Bronze Bitch left her everything she had. I can keep the Vale and the little girl in line.” Daemon quickly says, ignoring your indignant yelp and trashing. “I’ll marry her.”

“Allow you to own a dreamer?” Viserys raises his brows, looking doubtful. “Don’t you think it’s too much? If she truly is one, of course…”

“Show him, Lady Cuffs.”

You remain in obstinate silence. Daemon feels the urge to scream. Clearly, the Royce genes ran strong because Seven Hells you were infuriating.

“Didn’t you say you could keep her in line?” Viserys taunts, amused. Oh, if Daemon could, he would spank your pretty arse red from that defiance. Little brat that you are, it would be a fitting punishment.

He can’t do much more, not without endangering you. Neither Viserys nor him are experts on dreamers. They have been oddities during the history of their house. Their lessons on them were far less detailed than on dragons.

The upkeeping and care of one would require research. But some things are clear from the start. Dreamers shouldn't be hurt. Or too traumatized. They might get nightmares, and that would make their powers wane.

Daemon needs to scare you into thinking he will hurt you, but not actually do it. How to scare you into compliance and punish you, but not hurt you? He looks at the Iron Throne, and suddenly, an idea sparks into his mind. You are, in many ways, a child. And a man is allowed to discipline his wife.

Daemon unsheathes his sword, making as much noise as possible. You flinch, clearly recognizing the sound. He bangs it against your vulnerable behind, making you jolt forward and yelp. Not only it must have hurt, but the sound echoed in the throne room. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, surprised and a little teary-eyed. Viserys smiles.

"Answer his question. Properly." Daemon orders. You look between him and Viserys, clearly unsure. He gives you a few moments, but when you are taking too long for his liking, Daemon raises his sword again. The words nearly tumble out in your haste to speak.

"I… Your wife. Aemma, she held on to you and begged you to not let them cut her. You held her down. Monster.” You say to Viserys, now openly crying. Daemon blinks. Now that was something he didn’t know.

Viserys’s anger at the “heir for a day” comment is suddenly framed in a new light. Guilt. The fool. Daemon would never do something like that to you. A dreamer is too valuable of an asset.

“Something more pleasant.” He orders, swinging the sword. You try to dance away from the hit, but you are unable to. You give another cry.

“You have a dagger. With Aegon’s dream. And the Lady Alicent visited you in your chambers, wearing one of her mother’s dresses, after Aemma passed.” This time, Daemon keeps a close eye on Viserys’s face, instead of you. His face is slack, jaw hanging open. Apparently, you are telling the truth. He wonders what other seedy secrets about him you know.

Daemon raises his sword, ready to hit your bottom again.

“That’s enough, Daemon. You proved your point. You can marry her.” Viserys says, voice shaky. He is clearly overcome by what you know and by the methods needed to extract the information from you. Viserys is about to give you to him. He has realized he will not be able to handle you.

Daemon doesn't mind. To be kept safe, every King needs someone willing to get their hands dirty. He has done much worse, and that was not even in the hopes of protecting Viserys and Rhaenyra.

“No, no, no…” You protest, pitifully. Your whole face is streaked with tears.

“Thank you, brother.” Daemon answers, smirking. Never has he felt more victorious. He gives another slap to your behind, this time with his hand. Viserys nearly smiles at your indignant shriek. “Oh, Lady Wife, no one asked for your opinion.”

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen smut #daemon x y/n #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon smut #daemon x oc #daemon x reader #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon #divine intuition series #cristi angers her followers #part... who knows

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vampire-exgirlfriend · 23 days

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The Many Names of Lady Sabitha Blackwood - Meet Me in the After

Lady Sabitha Blackwood has been known by many names through the years, not all of them kind. As a girl, Sabitha was said to have greendreams, often seeing events that would unfold well into the future. For this gift, her father, Lord Owen Blackwood, bestowed on her the endearment Raventouched. Upon her wedding to Ser Theodred Smallwood, the second son of the widowed Lord Theomer of Acorn Hall, she was known as Lady Smallwood. Two years into her marriage, and her service to Queen Aemma, who was known to have called the Blackwood girl friend, her clandestine affair with Prince Daemon Targaryen was discovered, earning her the moniker of The Dragon's Plaything, oft believed to draw attention to the many years between the lovers in age. Though there were fifteen summers between them, it was said that the prince sought her council, and referred to his mistress as nuhos ozzālanos, or my pyre in High Valyrian, a term that filled his elder brother with a simmering anger.

It was recorded that at one time, the new Queen of Westeros, Alicent Hightower, called her former friend and confidant secret keeper, though many wondered exactly what secret the queen was referring to. Maester Mellos recorded that it was to do with King Viserys' choice of second wife, though Maester Gyldayne is confident that the secret in question had nothing to do with Queen Alicent at all, and everything to do with the sudden death of Queen Aemma. One evening, while in his cups, King Viserys cornered Lady Sabitha at a feast in celebration of his second daughter's birth, loudly proclaiming for all the hear that she would henceforth be known as The Barren Bride for her inability to provide Ser Theodred or his own brother with a child. He cursed her, saying she would bear neither heir nor bastard. It is noted that Ser Theodred did nothing to dissuade the king and made no effort to comfort his wife. After the brutal murder of his grandson, Prince Jaehaerys, and the attack on his daughter and granddaughter, Lord Otto Hightower declared that Lady Sabitha was a shapechanger and a witch, accusing the woman of shedding her human body to take the form of a rat, leading the murderers Blood and Cheese through the tunnels of the holdfast and assisting in their heinous crimes. "The whore knows no shame, no bounds," the Hand raged to his grandson, Prince Aemond. "She is guilty of blood magic and more and I will have her head and her husband's for the death of the heir." When Lady Sabitha heard of the Hand's outburst, she rolled her eyes, waving off the accusation. "A rat, he says? Fitting, considering his own loyalties and betrayals. Perhaps Lord Otto should learn more about his enemies, and his own family, for what use does a dragon have for a rat?" Lady Sabitha lived out her days as The Lady of Whispers, maintaining the once-ruined keep on the northeastern coast of the crownlands that Prince Daemon was granted upon their wedding, largely believed to be the eye of a storm in the Black Queen's attempt to reclaim the Iron Throne. Many believe the granting of this keep to be King Viserys' final jab at his younger brother, sending him away from King's Landing one last time to live out his days with his barren bride.

#daemon targaryen x original character #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen edit #house of the dragon fic #hotd fic #house of the dragon edit #daemon targaryen x oc #house of the dragon #hotd #fyeahhotdocs #fyeahasoiafocs #ocappreciation #oc: sabitha blackwood #daemon x sabitha #fic: meet me in the after #my edit

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kataraavatara · 3 months

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“uhm actually the amethyst empress parallel isn’t a thing because rhaenyra was a bad person and bad politician and the dance was actually about how bad she was and about all Targaryens are evil and-”

come ON. The narrative parallel isn’t about the nitty gritty details and never has been, and there’s no reason the Dance can’t impart more than one message.

The Amethyst Empress gets like, two sentences. There is no personality, no actions attributed to her other than succeeding her father and being overthrown. Maybe she had bastards too, maybe she was mean, maybe she was cruel, likely she didn’t exist. We just don’t know. It’s a very sparse story. But just…look:

Elder sister (Rhaenyra/Amethyst Empress) usurped by younger brother (Aegon II/Bloodstone Emperor), bringing on catastrophic magical consequences (Death of the dragons & Targaryen decline/ First Long Night).

If this wasn’t an intentional decision on George’s part meant to draw comparisons, why not an Amethyst Emperor? All the previous rulers had been male, making the Amethyst Empress an outlier that draws the reader’s attention.

So…what’s the point if not to be a Rhaenyra parallel? As in like, please tell me. I haven’t a clue.

and a fun one: I’ve also seen (don’t remember the originator) the theory that Amethyst = Rhaenyra, because Amethysts are purple, which is red + blue…Targaryen Red + Arryn Blue…Rhaenyra. Bloodstone = Aegon II because Bloodstones are typically red and…you guessed it…green…

(also brown but pls don’t ruin my fun rock theories :((( )

#rhaenyra targaryen #amethyst empress #asoiaf lore #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #the world of asoiaf #the world of a song of ice and fire #bloodstone emperor

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valleyof-goldenlilies · 10 months

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Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia - Chapter 5: The Withering of Hearts (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 5: The Withering of Hearts

The Seven Kingdoms is plagued with a succession crisis, and drunken impulse never leads to a good end.

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

Warnings: Extreme slow burn, angst, Daemon being an ass, excessive costume detailing

Word Count: 3.4k words

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

A/N: thank you guys for the comments you left on the last chapter! it was really nice to see you guys theorising about what would happen next haha 👀 most unfortunately, the slowburn must keep slow-burning, and Daemon isn’t done stirring up shit yet lol. happy reading! PS, please see the end of the chapter for an extended A/N to get a rough grasp of how the next two chapters will be like!

wonderful dividers courtesy of @firefly-graphics !

Scarce had a week passed since the funeral of Queen Aemma, and the Red Keep was once again abuzz with a new scandal.

Prince Daemon had been caught at a brothel, raising a drunken toast to the late Queen and her ill-fated babe.

He had toasted Baelon as the Heir for a Day.

That fucking bastard.

Fuming, you lurked in the shadows of the secret passages by the throne room, listening as Viserys denounced his brother in an angry tirade. ‘How dare he?’ your eyes were shining with ferocity as you paced the halls, eyes fixed on the proceedings in the throne room. You had guessed the truth after all: Daemon only wanted to use the power vacuum left by the death of Aemma and Baelon to instil himself as the heir to the Iron Throne. You couldn’t believe you actually thought the advice he offered on the cliffs was an act of goodwill. That maybe, Daemon was not the vicious, annoying little bastard you once knew.

Alas, you were wrong. And what a fool you felt.

Your lips were pressed in a thin line as you watched Viserys disinherit Daemon permanently from the line of succession, and watched with your very eyes as the relationship between the two brothers deteriorated into ruin.

What you didn’t know however, that you had also just witnessed a part of Daemon’s heart wither away into nothing but coldness, as he heard his brother’s proclamation. ‘Was this what grief felt like?’ Daemon bitterly pondered. ‘At long last, I understand how she felt that day.’

You moved to navigate out of the secret passageways as soon as Daemon turned his heel to leave the throne room, intent on cornering him for an explanation, or to scream at him. Perhaps both.

Daemon was lost in a flurry of furious thoughts as he saw a familiar figure step into his way, obstructing his path. Her chin was jutted out defiantly, and the expression of anger on her face was visible. For a moment, Daemon thought she looked like a true Targaryen, with fire and blood running through her veins. He held up a hand to stop whatever reprimand she had for him, eyes dark, “You saw everything that happened in the throne room. I have no need for you to parrot whatever words my dear brother has already bestowed upon me.”

You have never wanted to slap a man so badly. “Have you no shame?” you demanded, temper flaring. “How could you have been so cruel?” “it was a drunken jape, made of impulse. Why does no one understand that?” Daemon seethed. Your jaw dropped at his audacity, and you stepped forward to jab a finger into his chest, “You, Daemon Targaryen, are truly the scum of the earth. Your nephew has just died. Your sister-in-law has just died! And here you are, making drunken japes with poor taste. Are you so utterly boorish that you would stoop so low to mock the dead?”

Daemon listened to her, an impatient look upon his face. “Are you quite finished, my lady?” Your eyes widened in outrage, and suddenly, it was like you lost control. You lifted your hand to slap him, but he caught it with a vice grip, eyes narrowed. “Let me go!” you struggled to twist out of his grip, but it was futile. Daemon took the chance to drag you to a more secluded corner of the castle, eyes blazing as he braced himself to confess the truth.

“If you would just shut up, and listen to me, you daft woman, then I would’ve told you that I didn’t do it!” Daemon snapped. Your jaw sagged, “And now you’re lying to evade your responsibility? Seven Hells, Daemon, you never cease to surprise me.”

“I didn’t!” Daemon nearly yelled out. His brother would not listen to the truth, but he had a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, Y/N would be the exception. That she would be the only person who didn’t constantly see the worst in him.

“Aemma was my sister-in-law, and while I did not cross paths oft enough with her that we would consider each other close, she was still dear to me. She was kind to me. Why would I dishonour her memory so? And my nephew. I harbour no grudge against his memory. He was a babe who perished tragically. Do you think I would’ve stooped so low to the point where I would mock my family? Think rationally, byka zaldrizes.” Daemon stared deep into your eyes, an almost pleading look in his eyes. Please, Daemon thought, please believe me. Don’t see as the monster everyone sees me as. Please.

You bit your lip, looking into Daemon’s violet eyes, glinting orange in the firelight, and pondered on his words. It was true, Daemon had never shown any ill will towards Aemma, and they had always treated each other respectfully. How could you have never considered this possibility? You felt a little ashamed that you had assumed the worst of Daemon, although it had felt like habit by now, but you had grown up with him. You’d like to believe, that under all his brashness and arrogance, that he was still that same boy who snuck out with you nearly every night when you were both children to the kitchens, giggling as you munched on lemon cakes and strawberry tarts. That underneath all his brutality and his lusts, he was still a good person. Your eyes softened as you saw the look in Daemon’s eyes, beseeching you, to believe him.

Daemon felt his hope dwindle away as he watched you hesitate for a long time, and his eyes began to darken again. So she is the same as everyone else, he thought with much gloom. But your next words took him by surprise. “I...believe you,” you said quietly.

Daemon stared at Y/N after the words left her lips, lilac eyes filled with disbelief. Then he threw back his head as a hoarse laugh burst from his lips, and he let go of your wrist. You watched uneasily as he continued laughing like a crazed madman, but you said you believed he didn’t do it, and it was always difficult to sway you from your convictions.

Daemon finally stopped laughing, though a twisted smirk still painted his lips, but it looked more pained than amused. “How is it that you always seem to have faith in me, while even my own brother cannot seem to conjure up the slightest hint of trust for me?” “I know the calibre of your character, Daemon,” you said quietly. “You may be many things, but even you would not be predisposed to such innate cruelness.”

There was a pause as the both of them eyed each other, Daemon with some disbelief, and you with faith glittering in your eyes. Daemon sometimes had a hard time reconciling how you could both be so naive and wise. “If only,” Daemon muttered bitterly, breaking the silence, “Someone like you was the Hand of the King, instead of that power-hungry leech of a Cunttower.” “The Hand was the one who slandered you?” you blinked in surprise. Daemon let out a snort at your reaction. “You do know that that cunt would never stop until he turns my brother against me, do you not?”

“But-” you inhaled sharply, “The Hand serves the realm. Otto Hightower might hold a strong dislike for you, but he is not one to let his pettiness blind his judgement-”

“And what do you know of that cunt’s nature? Do not act as though you know him well,” Daemon spat out, hand running through his hair in frustration. “Would you be so dumb as to believe it is not in his nature to concoct such a scandal to sow discord between me and my brother? He has done so many times, and he will not cease until he has what he wants: which is uncontrolled access to my brother so that he may sway him with the venom he spouts from his lips.” His purple eyes were dark with rage, and his fists were clenched as he gritted his teeth.

Suddenly, without warning, he swung and struck his fist on the wall. You covered your mouth to stifle your gasp, wide eyes watching as he breathed heavily and withdrew his fist from the wall. A sheen of scarlet covered his knuckles. For a long moment, the air was filled with nothing but the sound of your breathing.

“House Targaryen cannot stand like this,” his voice was more tempered now, yet more steely. “We were raised with the belief to stay together. That no matter the circumstances, the house of the dragon cannot divide.” His voice grew more agitated as he began pacing around in circles, while you observed him warily and listened, knowing that no good would come out of interrupting him. “What happened to preservation? What happened to ensuring our dynasty lasts for eternity?” he snapped, banging his fists on the walls once again in frustration. “My dearest brother always stressed the importance of family. Yet he continuously allows those scum on the Small Council to rule his kingdom, and worse still, he allows that Hightower cunt to guide him.”

In a heartbeat, he was in front of you once more, seizing your shoulders in a vice grip. You stiffened at the sudden gesture, but there was no stopping him now. “He should’ve made me Hand. I am his kin, I am of his blood,” he nearly shouted out those last two words. “I would never steer my brother in the wrong direction. If he would have more faith in me instead of those lickspittle lords, House Targaryen could surpass even the noble dragonlords of Old Valyria at the height of their power. Yet he is blind to all that, preferring to stew idly.” You were unsure of what to say, however Daemon paid no heed to your speechlessness, turning away from you and muttering, “He will see that without me, he would not be able to run this city, much less the realm.”

It was then you finally found your voice once more. “What are you planning to do?” He turned to you, with a baleful gleam in his eyes. In that moment, he looked like Balerion’s fury reborn once more. Your heart filled with dread at his next words.

“Wait.”

You watched pensively as he stalked down the halls, his demeanour much like a predator stalking its prey. Just as he was about to turn the corner, he stilled, and said coldly, “You should wisen up, you know.”

You furrowed your brows. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

He didn’t turn around, yet you could picture the menace on his face as he spoke his next words. “Just think, if court gossip was enough to get me, a Targaryen prince, to be disinherited and banished, what exactly do you think it can do to you, a mere lady of no status and influence at court?”

“I’m not like you-” Daemon didn’t let you finish. He knew his words were cruel, but with the fire pumping through his veins and the roaring in his ears, seven hells be damned if he was still going to be polite. You needed to know, you needed to understand, that survival was a treacherous thing here in the Red Keep, how relying on the power of people above you for protection was foolish. People with power are oft mercurial, and once the tide of their favour turned against you, like it had with Daemon…

He needed you to see just how much danger you were in staying in this court of vipers.

“Who knows, maybe you would end up ordered home by your lord father and forced to marry by the morrow. Seven Hells,” he chuckled darkly, recalling your conversation at the cliffs, “Maybe you might even be ordered out of court by the King. He can barely stomach the sight of my niece after Aemma’s death. What will he do to you, who was so close to my dear late sister-in-law?” He heard a shocked gasp behind him, but he didn’t pause in his tirade, though a twinge of something like guilt filled his chest. But he wanted you to know, to see, how this court was filled with nothing but vicious schemers who would not care a fig about her. And so, with malice in his voice, he forced out the final crushing blow. “Mayhaps you will end up like my dear sister-in-law even, her belly cut open as if she were nothing but an animal. Even if she had been Queen, that did not save her regardless.”

You stared at Daemon’s back with wide eyes, a mix of rage and horror seeping through your bones. Somehow his words brought about such a chill in you that even the coldest winter nights were incapable of. “Have a good night, Lady Y/N. Think about what I said. I trust that you are clever enough to come to your senses.” ‘You have to tread carefully now, Y/N,’ was Daemon’s final thought as he stalked away from your still frame.

You waited until his heavy footsteps faded away, before slowly sinking down onto the floor, mind in a daze.

You stayed there for a long time, unable to move a muscle. Daemon’s cruel last words had conjured up a sleight of images in your head, each more horrific than the last, and all of Aemma, of being forced to wed, your freedom snatched from your very eyes. Eventually, the sound of footsteps approaching made you aware of your whereabouts once more, and you quickly stood up before a servant wandered across your despairing frame and asked you some awkward questions. Numbly, you made your way through the halls, back to Aemma’s apartments. You paused in front of a familiar door. Aemma’s bedchambers had been left untouched since her death, save for the removal of her blood soaked sheets. You thought you could not bear to even be in the place where your dear friend had breathed her last, painful moments in this world, but you needed the company tonight, even if it was the company of a woman long dead. You inhaled shakily before opening the doors.

The room was quiet, the stench of blood having not quite dissipated yet, which sent a wave of nausea rolling through your gut. You ventured towards the lounge where Aemma used to sit, where you had fed her grapes and laughed with her no less than a week ago. You took a seat gingerly. Your gaze wandered across the room, before it fixed grimly on Aemma’s deathbed.

Moonlight streamed through the windows, and you wrapped your shawl tighter around you as a cold gust of wind enveloped the room. You had been winded and horrified, and even angry at Daemon’s words when they were first spoken. You wanted to ignore his words as that of someone who was bitter and raging, but your thoughts kept spiralling into terrifying scenarios of your freedom being snatched right in front of your eyes, and being utterly powerless to do anything to stop it. You had spent so long, relishing in the freedom of being home at the Red Keep, and now, you realised darkly, that you had taken it for granted.

Tracing your fingers along the soft material of the lounge, you bit your lip as you imagined the wide smile Aemma always reserved for you and her soft voice, like she was still here, sitting right next to you. “Aemma…” you thought mournfully, tears clouding your vision, “You always knew the right thing to say, and the right thing to do. What course of action would you have advised me to do?’ You tilted your head back, resting your head on the lounge backing, letting your tears fall freely. ‘I wish you were here,’ you sniffled, ‘I wish I had saved you.’ Mayhaps the thought was utterly ludicrous, but you felt guilty and pained that you had allowed yourself to get distracted by the tourney. ‘I should have insisted on staying by your side,’ your thoughts tumbled out bitterly, like a violently raging storm. As wishful as it was, but you thought, maybe you could’ve prevented it all. Maybe you could have pleaded with Viserys that the effort was useless or fiercely declared that you would snatch the Maester’s own blade and slaughter whomever dared harm Aemma. However, even you could not change the gods’ plan: the babe had been in breech, and Aemma’s time in this world was fated to be cut short no matter what. But you didn’t even care to think of that fact, too lost in your self-loathing and blame.

Just then, you felt a soft hand on your shoulder, jolting you out of your reverie. Startled, you looked around the room. There was no one there. But you could’ve sworn that for one moment…there had been a presence here. Could…could it have been Aemma’s ghost?

Heart thumping, you stood up with shaky legs and began to tidy up the various misplaced items in Aemma’s room, like you had done so many times before. The familiar ritual calmed you down, and allowed for you to gather your thoughts and circumstances coherently again. Perhaps it was coupled with the strange phantom presence you swore you sensed in the room somehow, but you pulled yourself out of your grief long enough to settle on a resolute thought.

‘Daemon was right. I do need to wake up. It’s time I stop relying on the grace of those more powerful than me and start fighting to protect myself.’

In that moment, even the Seven would be taken aback by the fierce fire that shone in Lady Y/N Tyrell’s eyes. The naive girl of 23 was gone, and someone more hardened had replaced her.

‘No matter the cost, I must stay at the Red Keep. I will not end up shoved into a fate I do not desire. I refuse.’

‘I have a plan.’

The bells tolled in celebration as all the lords and ladies of the realm were gathered before the Iron Throne, save for one. The Rogue Prince soothed his mount, the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, as the figure of Lady Mysaria approached.

Meanwhile, a lady with a mind of steel and heart of determination stood with her hands clasped, next to the Lady Alicent and Lord Hand, where the King had insisted for her to be. The lords who were acquainted with her whispered to themselves, having known of her hot-tempered past and rivalry with none other than the Rogue Prince himself. “The Rose with Thorns of Fire,” some whispered. “The third head of the dragon,” some chuckled, referring to the affectionate nickname the late Prince Baelon had given to your rather unusual trio: you, Daemon and Viserys.

The lady heard them all, but she was silent as she watched each of the great lords of the realm swear their fealty to the new heir, the first Princess of Dragonstone. Clad in a dark blue gown of silk and brocade with a square neckline, the dress drew whispers for its visible opulence, even compared to the other ladies who were decked out in their finest. The bodice consisted of intricate diamond patterning with beading, and the gown had puffed sleeves that were banded with a few stripes of rocaille brocade, and the ruffles of her chemise were visible at her neckline and at the end of her puffed sleeves. Underneath the ruffles, however, were long fitted sleeves that were strangely reminiscent of…dragon scales? It was a look that undoubtedly signified the allegiances of Lady Y/N to House Targaryen, as well as her close bond to their reigning monarch. It was a look that exuded power.

Far away in the Dragonpit, Daemon took one last look at the Red Keep, lips pursed as his mind lingered on that one person. But then he shook his head, and bade Caraxes to soar through the skies.

As the lords and ladies in the throne room burst into applause and bowed for their new heir: The Realm’s Delight, no one but you could hear the distinct screech of the Blood Wyrm as it lifted into the skies.

You lifted your head, and smiled encouragingly at Rhaenyra, who, while visibly looked startled, returned a genuine, warm smile.

The game of thrones had gained a new player, forged by Daemon Targaryen’s hand, and time would only strengthen her mettle.

Taglist: @drwho-ess @graniairish @urmomsgirlfriend1 @thelittleswanao3 @animelover18 @llovinjoonie @gracielikegrapes @salembridger @itszzmoon @kmmg98 @travelingmypassion @zae5

Daemon General Taglist: @aiyaiy

those who are bolded are those who couldn’t be tagged! let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist for this fic or for my other hotd characters in the comments or through this form! thank you for your support 💗

translation: byka zaldrizes - little dragon

also, a sketch i did of y/n’s gown at rhaenyra’s investiture :)) uncolourised because I’m lazy 😭 hopefully it’ll give you a better visualization though (also a/n below! pls scroll to read :))

y/n about to become the fashion icon of westeros 💪🏻

A/N (pls read!) : and that makes chapter 5! chapter 6 will unfortunately, we will not be focusing a lot on daemon for the next 2 chapters as we will be delving more into how Y/N attempts to navigate court politics and keep herself at the red keep. in other words, character development for y/n and more moments with alicent and rhaenyra, as well as viserys (ugh). this fic is titled se zaldrizoti’ prumia for a reason, after all, it’s the dragons’ heart, not the dragon’s heart, so Y/N needs her other relationships with the other characters. i hope you guys will be as excited for the other chapters as i am though, because i love writing about politics and character dynamics outside of romantic relations. thank you for your support! 💗

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shesjustanothergeek · 4 months

Text

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Twenty-Nine

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Thank y'all so much for your patience! I apologize that the chapter is up late. Life has been bonkers lately, but I'm relieved and happy with this chapter. I honestly can't believe I've been writing this story for a year. Thank you so much for sticking with me through those who have joined along the way and those who are reading in real time! This will be the last mildly angsty chapter, so be prepared. ;)

Chapter Warnings: Larys Strong, subby Aegon, a wiki of ice and fire is my only source of info here, sexual harassment.

"I have given everything and received scraps in return and you expect no fury?" - T.J. Pen, A Woman Scorned.

"This simply cannot be," Queen Alicent said to the slumped man before her, picking at her emerald dress sleeves and gnawing her plump lip.

The Queen was in a chaotic state. Her loose chestnut hair cascaded in a waterfall of waves, the tips dusting her delicate waist. She hadn't changed from the high-necked gown she wore to the petition. There wasn't a moment to herself since the promises of her old friend, immediately heading to care for the King as any dutiful wife under the Seven would.

The collar constricted Alicent's throat as she swallowed, pulling at the fabric to steady her breathing. "My son," she stuttered, mind reeling, "my son has fathered bastards in the slums of Flea Bottom, and now he beds one. This cannot be."

Lord Larys stared into the disarranged Queen, the whites of her nails non-existent as he leaned onto his able side, thumb absentmindedly stroking the ornate firefly head of his cane. The Strong Lord was unperturbed by his ally's abrupt appearance at the hour of the owl. He would never turn away his Queen when she was in need.

"You surely cannot be so shocked, Your Grace," he expressed, dark brow lowered. "She is born of sin, her Mother a whore. 'Tis in her blood."

Alicent was unsure of how to respond. She couldn't deny your heritage. Larys' words were correct. You were born out of a harlot's womb, of a sinner's seed. Your existence stained the Targaryen legacy, a shadow in the Seven's divine light. She advised the King that the first legitimization of a bastard would tear the kingdom's order apart and ruin years of established precedent, but he would not listen. The Queen should've known. It was not her place. The man named a woman the heir to the Iron Throne.

"He is my son. I only wish to see the best in him. I have turned a blind eye to his," Alicent paused, tucking her plush lips into her teeth, "disgraceful actions, but Prince Daemon's child... his favorite daughter."

"The young Princess has made herself a hearth in the Keep, Your Grace. She sees herself as above her station. My spiders have told me whispers of what occupies her time as of late."

Lord Larys leaned across the foot table that separated him from the Queen before pulling back, swiping his pink tongue to wet his mouth. Alicent mirrored his movements, an invisible string tethering her to the Master of Whispers. "Please, Lord Strong, speak freely."

The mousy-faced man smiled, his countenance flickering in the dim candlelight. "I do not wish to spread ill of the Princess, Your Grace. I am a man of honor, but what my spiders have said..."

The Queen's doe eyes widened in concern as her brows furrowed. She did not care about the events of the past. Larys was not the honorable man he claimed, but her mind's dark fantasies blinded her from any reason.

"The Princess sends ravens to her Father divulging private Council matters, she sharpens her blade with bodies, 'tis only a matter of time until the King passes and Princess Rhaenyra is crowned." The taste of copper flooded Alicent's tongue, the tang nearly choking her. "The girl is a pawn for her Father and Rhaenyra plans to make her the Hand. What do you imagine will happen when Aegon's mere existence seeks to undermine her claim?"

The Queen's spine straightened, her fingers pulling at the loose skin of her nail. "You believe she will kill Aegon if Daemon asks it of her?" Her Father's words from decades ago echoed in her ears, her expression becoming horror. "Rhaenyra would never allow that to happen."

"Do you believe it will be a queen manning the helm or that of a Rogue Prince?" Larys inquired with the quirk of an unruly brow.

He knew what he was doing—the Master of Whispers at work.

"She-she promised to return on dragonback. We were companions once..." Alicent trailed off, tears beginning to collect at her lash line as her head fell to her lap.

They were friends. They sat underneath the Heart Tree as girls, read stories together, and dreamed together. Was that only a memory now? Was the past so truly lost between them?

"That is only my thoughts on the matter, Your Grace, since you wished to hear them," the Strong Lord replied, his thumb returning the fidgeting on the metal firefly. "I believe it was a fair exchange on advice, my Queen."

The Queen's gaze shot up, making contact with the Lord's. She knew what he meant, what he wanted. Larys desired the same outcome as all men do. It wasn't reasonable for her to think this time would be different. He would not offer help out of the goodness of his heart. Alicent realized no man ever would.

"Of course," the young Queen stared, not accepting or denying, simply speaking.

She gathered the hem of her emerald dress, the golden pointed star of the Seven glinting in the candlelight. A necklace that once comforted her now only brought her shame as Alicent untied her white stockings.

***

The wall opened as you listened to the scratch of your quill drags across the parchment to your Father. You didn't need to look to see who it was; only one person entered through the secret passageways of Maegor's Holdfast.

"My darling," you sang, keeping your gaze locked on the final loops of the letters, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Aegon didn't answer, his footfalls light as he sauntered to your desk. You only raised an eyebrow in response, focused on the task.

"Oh, simply nothing, little Princess. I just overheard my Mother and Grandfather speaking of how I should be king." That piqued your interest, your hand halting its movements. "You hear a lot of things through these walls," he teased, bending at the knee to speak closer into your ear, "many things."

You placed the dry feather back into its inkpot as you turned to face the beaming Prince with a neutral expression. "Your elder sister is to be Queen," you declared factually.

"Well, yes," he grinned, taking a few strides away from you. "That's what my Father has decreed, but that was before he had a son."

Rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms, observing Aegon as he glanced back to ensure you were still paying attention. "Tis merely a thought, my sweet. Nothing more."

He flopped onto your made bed with a huff; his arms spread wide into a cross. Deciding to take the bait, you stood, crossing over to where he lay as you sat beside him, palm resting on his thigh.

"A fool is still a fool even when dressed in the King's robes."

Aegon scoffed, lifting his head as you saw his cock stir beneath his breeches. He liked this, the game of back and forth. It caused a thrum in his veins. "That was not kind of you, little one. I ought to punish you for it."

You raised your brows as you tilted your head to the side. "Punish me?" you repeated with a light-hearted sneer. "It should be you. What you say is treason."

"Perhaps," the Prince needled with a mischievous lilt to his tone. "Or I am simply stating what the realm is thinking. You truly believe a woman can ascend the Iron Throne?"

Your nails dug into his thigh at the insult, nearly piercing through the fabric and making crescent indents on the skin. Aegon hollered in protest as he sat upright in an attempt to remove you, your hand snaking from his leg to his crotch, gripping his hardening shaft meanly.

"Now, who put those ideas into that thick little head of yours, Aegon?" you jeered and moved to straddle his thigh. "Was it indeed from eavesdropping?"

His breath audibly hitched, the notch nestled within his throat bobbing as he watched you meticulously unlace his trousers. The Prince's lip tucked itself between his teeth as you revealed his half-hard cock, lazily stroking the thick shaft to its full height. The pearlescent liquid slowly began to leak from the tip; unable to stop your tongue from poking out and licking it, Aegon released a groan.

"I asked you a question, dull boy. 'Tis rude not to answer," you taunted from below, your chin resting on his pelvis as you peered up at him.

Aegon's legs bowed under your strokes as his hips lifted slightly from the mattress. The poor thing couldn't handle your feather-light touches to his sensitive cock, fingers dragging up his blue-green veins. His head tilted back as the wet flesh of your tongue licked across the tip once more.

Something wicked came to mind as you saw the Prince bite his lip, brows pinched together, and cheeks tinged pink from the attention. He was inside his body, his mind entirely caught in his feelings. He did not see your cruel grin as you sat upright, shifting your weight off him.

"Since you are so keen on the idea of ruling the Seven Kingdoms, there is no need for me anymore," you declared flippantly.

Aegon righted himself faster than you had ever seen, the throbbing between both your legs forgotten as his face fell in confused desperation. He looked so helpless in that moment, slouched, arms between his thighs as his manhood twitched angrily. It was almost enough to make you fold, but not quite. You needed to do this for the kingdom to stop a civil war before it happened and for yourself.

You were now uncertain if the time came for battle; you could carry the executioner's blade to the eldest son. And if you could not enact justice, you feared what Aegon would become. There would be no guiding light and only unlimited power at his grasp. You understood that now he had a taste of your love, the sweet nectar that ran through your veins. He would stop at nothing to have it always.

"Well, since you are to become king I believe you will not need me anymore," you repeated with an airy finality in your voice. Aegon observed with horror across his features as you went to the door of your chambers. "You'll have your pick of the finest whores in the Seven Kingdoms, and an army of willing maidservants at your disposal. What use am I to you now?"

Your fingers danced over the brass handle as you listened for the rustling of sheets and hurried footfalls. It was wrong of you to toy with Aegon this way, yet it didn't weigh on your conscience. He was easy to guide with the proper directions, like a mule with a carrot on a string.

"My sweet, it was only a thought. A simple jest of an idea," the Prince beseeched, holding his trousers in an attempt at modesty. "You know that I love you far more than any vice."

As you spoke, you slowly retreated from the door, your hand lowering to your side. "But I know the truth of men. They are animals. They see a shiny thing, and then an even shiner, more beautiful thing comes along, and suddenly that first thing is nothing but a tarnished object."

Hearing the noiseless scoff of Aegon, you turned, your fists clasped behind your back as you tilted your countenance to his level. His eyes were a puddle of ametrine. Blonde brows furrowed together in an anxious expression.

The assured confidence you once held began to erode the longer you stared at his watery gaze and pouted lips. How could you continue with the charade of apathy when he looked so... so helpless? The spoiled Prince who drank and fucked as he pleased was gone, and in his stead was a fragile, pathetic boy, begging with a quivering chin for an ounce of your affection. It was like a blade to the heart. Who were you to deny the pleadings of a wanting child?

"I know you love me, sweetling," you cupped Aegon's pudgy cheeks, and he blossomed, tilting into your soft touch, "but men are flawed creatures. They cannot help themselves when given ceaseless power. I will be nothing but a pretty memory if you become king."

"Then I won't!" the Prince shouted desperately, begging for his life. "I am not fit to rule, my Mother knows it. So does my Father. He would've named me heir years ago if he wanted me so."

Your stare broke from his, brown orbs flitting away to gaze at the wrinkled sheets. Shame gnawed into your mind like the teeth on your lip, nearly breaking your facade.

"You truly love me enough to turn away the crown?" The words sounded like a plead more than an inquiry, your voice mirroring his own.

"Yes! I swore an oath to you, my love. I pledged my heart and soul to be yours and only yours." You returned your vision to his, eyes flicking to the mole on his chin, lips, and eyes again. "I will be yours until my last breath, as you will be mine."

You smiled, head tilting in blissful relief. "Not every man is as strong as you, Aegon, strong enough to turn away power." Your hand trailed from his cheek to his neck, your fingers barely wrapping around the pale flesh. "I believe you deserve to feel the depth of my appreciation for such a selfless act."

The Prince's tongue swiped across his lip, knees becoming weak as you gave him a serene smile, gaze hooded. He was helpless against you. From the moment he saw you in the alley behind Madam's, brown and violet orbs staring back at him, an annoyed expression on your face as your girlish hands collected the apples from the flagstone, he knew you were his.

Aegon tried to forget the meeting when it happened. How foolish he felt now for doing so, but you stayed with him wherever he went.

The years back then were a blur, nothing but figures and outlines for memories, yet he remembered you. He remembered the girl with the same lilac in her dark eyes as his, the white streak in her hair that resembled his own. He couldn't rid you in the weeks leading up to Daemon's arrival, frequenting your caregiver's house more than ever, hoping for a glimpse of your girlish form.

It was fate that brought you together. Aegon didn't believe in the Gods, yet when you were placed before him with rags for clothes and dried locks from the harsh soap you used, he felt it was destiny. A divine force put you in his path, and he thanked whichever one it was every moment.

Your gaze flicked to the Prince's parted mouth, chest rising and falling too fast to be typical as your lips met his. He devoured your kiss as if it was his first meal, your essence bursting over his tongue as your fingers tightened around his throat.

When you finally pulled away, teeth dragging over the soft flesh of his lip as he met your gaze, your pupils dilated in want. Aegon chased after you in search of that feeling, but you leaned out of reach, failing to hide the smirk on his sullen face. You merely grinned in response, your hand traveling to brush back the stray locks of white that fell over his pink ears.

"You are such a good boy, Aegon. So good to me. I want to show you how proud I am of you."

Aegon died in that moment, ascending to the Seven Heavens, and before him stood an angel singing hymns of praise. He hadn't known how long he waited for someone to say those words to him. The Prince was putty in your hands. He would do anything you asked of him if only you would praise him more.

Slowly, you sunk to your knees, Aegon observing you intensely as you gazed back, a particular look in your eyes. It had been moons since you took his cock in your mouth and felt the heavy weight of his shaft and the salty taste of his seed down your throat. You had hidden the enjoyment of the action when you previously did it, denying yourself the happiness you now believed you deserved.

His breeches were still untied, and his member still hard, a bit of his spend dried on the silt as you took him in your hand. The flat of your tongue wet the milky droplet, tasting like you remembered. The action kindled the fire through your veins, and you rubbed your thighs to alleviate it.

You gave Aegon a few experimental pumps to ensure he was ready, his head tilting back in response as he gulped. You licked languid stripes up his shaft, lips wrapping around his cockhead at the end before you released it with a final pop. His digits went into your hair, smoothing it back for purchase and seeing your face unobscured. Each time you moved, the Prince was near ecstasy, legs trembling and jaw tensed as you accumulated your saliva, dribbling it onto him.

You were far better than any whore he had ever had. Aegon understood you lacked the apparent skill that came with experience, yet it was far more pleasurable than even the most veteran woman he laid with. He did not have the connection to them that he did with his little Princess, her mere presence enough to set his blood ablaze.

Your mouth engulfed Aegon's cock, jaw having to unhinge more than expected to accommodate his girth. It felt wonderful to finally have him inside you again, though you much preferred it in another place, a moan vibrating into his hips as his fingers pulled at your roots.

You slowly took him further, lips covering your teeth as the wet muscles of your mouth stroked him. The muscles in Aegon's stomach tightened as he attempted to stave off his premature release, wanting to feel the pleasure of your mouth for as long as he was able. You were a little more than halfway before his tip hit your throat, momentarily gagging at the foreign intrusion.

Hand gripping Aegon's thigh, you relaxed, closing your eyes as you puffed air through your nose and took him to the hilt. It was his favorite thing, the feeling of his cock entirely inside you. It nearly sent him over a cliff and crashing to the ground below, but he halted, gripping your hair harshly enough to make you whine.

"Fuck," he hissed, grounding himself in the feeling that was you.

You smiled around him as much as allowed, proud that you could reduce a Prince of the Realm to a wanton mess. A gush of slick coated your small clothes at the realization, retreating until only your lips were left around his leaking tip.

You inhaled a deep breath through your nostrils as your gaze flicked to meet his in quiet assurance. Hooded purple eyes met yours, light brown lashes fluttering as you began to bob back and forth with the rhythm of your fist. Aegon appeared as if he was about to crumble, his brows pinched together and lips pursed.

You felt dominion over the Prince despite being in a position of weakness, on your knees, the display a show of subjugation, yet you held all the power. If you felt inclined, you could ruin him, stop your ministrations at any moment, and leave him denied of his release, mind swirling with thoughts of rejection and self-hatred. But you were not cruel despite what the Court said. Those who suffered your wrath were deserving of it. You had rage, but you were not bestial.

Aegon punctuated your thoughts with a harsh snap of his hips as his manhood collided with the back of your throat, gagging. Your eyes became slits, humming in disapproval, grabbing his stones and pinching them meanly. The Prince whimpered, knees knocking and attempting to regain composure with his sturdy grip locked in your hair.

He felt a mixture of patheticness along with his arousal, the two emotions creating an intoxicating mix of pleasure and self-loathing. He would not have it any other way so long as it were you. Your touch made him crumble, an impuissant mess of a boy rather than a man. Aegon would take whatever you gave him with a broad smile and eager, open arms.

You released Aegon with a rugged gasp of air, your hand hastening to make up for the departure of your mouth.

"My sweet boy," you cooed from below, licking your lips before attacking his cock once more. "My good boy. You deserve this, don't you? You have been exceptional to me, denying the crown like a favorable and obedient son. You care for me, do you not?" you badgered rhetorically, continuing your assault as you licked the underside of his shaft. "Yes, you do." Your mouth latched onto his balls, the soft skin molding around it, causing him to hurdle toward the cliff. "Good boys who love me get to peak. Are you a good boy?"

Aegon nodded fervently as if the very fate of the realm depended on his answer, and perhaps it did. "I asked you a question, Aegon. Good little brat princes answer me. Now, tell me," you spat onto his member, some saliva splattering onto the fine dusting of hairs at his base, "are you a good little boy?"

"Yes!" he shouted, the words traveling to the heavens above. "Yes, yes, yes! I'm a good boy. I'm your good boy. I love you." He groaned, chin tucking into his chest as he watched you pleasure him with focused determination. "Please -fuck- please let me come. I want to come for you so bad."

Tears were pouring from his amethyst orbs that you hadn't noticed, his emotions too intense to keep hidden. It brought another wave of mind-numbing arousal through your body to have Aegon such a blubbering mess, begging you to let him peak.

"You are my good boy, that's right, and good boys get to come wherever they want."

It appeared like Aegon was going to combust, your words moments away from sending him over the edge, but he withheld, managing to grunt out, "face" before his seed covered your flesh.

Ropes of his spend painted your face, eyes shut and grinning with satisfaction as you pumped him through his high. Each splash of warmth to your cheeks brought further gratification to your features, your countenance becoming a welcoming canvas for Aegon's devotion, his peak sliding down the column of your throat.

His stomach tensed, nearly doubling over as your touch began to burn, the pleasure becoming painful until you ceased. The Prince's cock throbbed, the thumping in his chest matching the beat in between his legs as he watched his spend drip from your cheeks.

What a beautiful site, Aegon thought, but what a waste of seed. He longed for the chance to have his babe quicken in your womb, a princeling or little Princess with his eyes and your hair causing mayhem in the halls of the Red Keep. What a thing that would be, more dark-haired children within the House of The Dragon. His Mother would keel over at the sight. The idea did not seem too far off as he wiped the pearlescent droplets from your eyes, gaze flicking to your abdomen.

"Your beauty is bewitching. 'Tis a wonder how I lead myself from temptation." You beamed, head resting in Aegon's palm as you stood, leaning into his devouring lips.

"You flatter me, my love, but you have a true beauty," you replied, still having difficulty accepting his compliments. "Your eyes are the color of lavender, hair the moon, skin softer than the finest silk." Your digits brushed his strands behind his ear, fingers resting and gaze boring into his. "You are my love. I will have no one else but you. Cursed be he who seeks to tear us asunder."

Reciting the oath of marriage before Aegon, he kissed you, swallowing your moan, a puff of air leaving his nose at the force.

"It should have been you who I was married to," he spoke noiselessly onto your skin. "I never wanted to wed Helaena. She is my sister."

You flash him an empathetic look, tracing the outline of his face. "She feels the same. I am sure of it."

Nodding, you lead the Prince to your wrinkled sheets, wrapping yourself in his embrace as you lay down. The lust between your thighs was still there, but one question raged in your mind, creating a cavernous feeling of anxiety.

What would happen if they forced Aegon onto the throne?

You were his strength yet also his weakness. Lord Otto and Queen Alicent could use his love for you if they found out and twist his thoughts until nothing was left but their schemes. You dreaded the inevitable discussion of this scenario with Aegon, but it did not feel as heavy as you believed it would. He loved you. You understood that now, but the haunting shadow of doubt and failure lurked within the corners of your mind.

"Aegon," you spoke, voice sounding smaller than intended, "what would happen if they tried to crown you even though you do not want it? What would become of us?" Tears pricked your eyes, unable to withhold your genuine emotions any longer.

"I will not let them. I shall die before they put us against each other. I will have no reason to continue without the only person who cares for me," he answered plainly, voice holding a finality.

You turned your head to meet his, the Prince's stare hard with determination. "I do not wish you to die for me. I want you to live for me." Aegon returned your gaze, tenderly mirroring your actions from earlier and tucking a lock of ebony hair behind your ear. "For as long as I exist, someone will love you."

He grinned crookedly, pecking your forehead. "What do you suggest we do, little dragon?" he asked, laying back onto your goose-down pillows.

"I have a notion of who could help us. I've spoken to her about this subject before, but if she is no longer willing..." you trailed off, doubt festering in your mind. "I will find a way or make one."

With a resolute purpose settling into your bones, you took a calming breath, curling into Aegon's side with a sigh. Time was of the essence. Viserys was living with the Stranger at his bedside, and at any hour, he could leave this plane, but for right now, at this moment, all that mattered was the fair-haired boy humming faintly in your ear.

***

Winter was at its peak, yet no snow fell, unlike Dragonstone. You received ravens from your family regularly, detailing their life back home. Jace's fifteenth nameday had passed, and Luke's fourteenth. You could not attend both small celebrations due to your Father's wishes. It hurt not to fly to see them; it would only take a day, but Daemon explained the precarity of the late-season months. The King's health declined, and the cold only worsened his condition.

These were the sacrifices you made for the good of your kin and the kingdom, and as any obedient child and daughter of the realm, you bore them with a stiff lip. Yet there were moments like this, your moonlit child resting in your lap as he gazed out of the library window. This made those sacrifices painless.

"At the time of the Rhoynish Wars, Nymeria ruled in Ny Sar. During the Second Spice War, Prince Garof Chroyane united the nobility in a grand alliance against the Valyrian Freehold," you read from the History of Rhoynish Wars by Beldecar.

"Only Princess Nymeria spoke against him, warning the other princes that they could not win the war. However, the other princes shouted her down and joined their strength to Prince Garin, and even Nymeria's own warriors were eager to join his cause."

It was inevitable that Aegon was not listening, his fingers fidgeting with the ring you gifted him his first nameday with you, but it was no bother. You knew that this was his only moment of peace from his duties, which he was tending to as of late. Otto unthinkingly took it as a sign that he was finally preparing to become the heir he and many of the lords wished him to be.

"Princess Nymeria led her fleet of ten thousand ships down the Rhoyne, past ruined towns and fields of corpses. To avoid Volantis and the dragonlords, Nymeria chose an older channel and emerged into the Summer Sea, where the city of Sarhoy once stood. The following voyage was long and gruesome, and more than a hundred ships sank in the first storm they encountered. More were taken by fear and turned back, only to be captured by slavers out of Volantis. Others fell behind or drifted away and were never seen again."

Aegon released a puff of hair, turning his neck into an awkward position to look at the hand-painted illustration of the Princess setting sail with her ships. "That seemed to work rather well for her in the end, didn't it? That's why you travel with dragons and not ships."

You threw a half-hearted scowl at him for his unappreciated anecdote. At least he was listening.

"For three years, Nymeria's fleet wandered the southern seas," you continued. "Nymeria led the Rhoynar first to the Basilisk Isles, where they were attacked by corsairs. She refused the corsairs' offer to settle on the Isle of Toads, and the Rhoynar continued on to Sothoryos, where they struggled to survive at Basilisk Point, Zamettar, and Yeen."

The timbre of voices outside the library doors stole you from your studies, confusion etching your features as to who would be speaking. Ser Erryk posted at the entrance like a sworn protector should, following the commands of Aegon that you should not be disturbed. Just as the voices came, they went, fading into the distance and your mind.

"After an unsuccessful year in Sothoryos, the Rhoynar set sail and travelled again, this time for three years. They were welcomed at Naath, but left when they became afflicted with a deadly illness on the isle. Nymeria led them next to Abulu in the Summer Islands, which became known after as the Isle of Women, but they were unable to grow enough food on the land there."

The Prince perked at that, a mischievous glint in his eyes as you shook your head. "Isle of Women? That has gotten your attention and not the act of a single woman leading a fleet of ten thousand ships?" He chuckled, responding with a flippant shrug, tilting his head and quickly pecking your lips as an apology for his boyish antics.

"After years of arduous journeys full of storms, disease, and slavery, Nymeria led the surviving Rhoynar to Dorne in southern Westeros. Some Rhoynish ships landed on the Stepstones or surrendered to slavers from Lys and Tyrosh, but the remaining ships landed at the mouth of the Greenblood in Dorne. Nymeria made common cause with..." You turned the page to find the next missing, torn from its spine.

Perplexed, you flipped the bleached parchment back and forth as if the missing piece would appear with enough persistence.

"Go on," Aegon said, removing the ring from his finger to inspect the glowing gem in the sunlight shining through the window panes.

You skimmed through the pages, hoping to find the missing words somewhere, but had no luck, letting out a huff of annoyance. "I cannot, Aegon. A page is missing."

He sat straight, glancing at the jump in history. "Well, it appears like she creates a war in Dorne," the Prince chortles, snatching the tome and placing it beside him. "It does not matter, little one. We already know of the history and I am sure there are plenty of books that are far more entertaining than that. Have you read the Loves of Queen Nymeria?"

Playfully rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms, your lips smirking downward as Aegon batted his eyelashes impishly. No matter his age, he would remain a newly bloomed lad with thoughts regarding that of raunchiness. It was one of the many attributes you adored of his, though many viewed it as a vice.

"I love you, my pet, despite your boyishness," teasing, you failed to hide the grin splitting your face. You could not be cross with him. You spent far too long denying yourself from feeling such a thing. Gods be damned if you allowed it to happen again.

Aegon scooted closer to you on the plush settee, forms barely a centimeter apart as you became one, mouths ravenous for each other. You were unsure when you began to miss his touches, the caress of his lips on yours. It left you breathless and filled with indescribable joy within your gut. You wanted to be one with him, one heart, one body, one mind, one soul. You wished towed before the Seven, your hands bound and palms touching.

It was not something you would have, you realized with great melancholy. The threat of Dalton Greyjoy's proposal still hung cumbersomely over your heart, mind running out of witty things and excuses to give him before he grew tired of your procrastination.

Aegon relinquished your tongues from their dance with a sharp breath, hand traveling up the expanse of your thigh, clothed in a thick layer of swirled nacreous fabric until he reached the filleted embroidery of your bodice. His thumb gingerly caressed the area where your bud would poke, peppering kisses down your neck.

The doors to the library opened, abruptly ending the Prince's assault on your skin. You both glanced at Ser Erryk, annoyed, Aegon refusing to pull away in the presence of one who swore to keep his secrets.

"Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but the Queen wishes to speak with you both."

Aegon slowly retreated, missing the warmth you radiated in these icy months. "Eck," he scoffed with ire, sliding a respectable distance away. "Let her come."

As soon as the knight left, Queen Alicent appeared, a grim look on her heart-shaped features and fists clasped together with raw cuticles. "What is it you wish to say, Mother? I am currently studying the life of Queen Nymeria. Did you know she led an army of ten thousand to Dorne?"

"Yes. I did, my son," the Queen nodded primly. "She married Mors Martell soon after she landed."

"Ah," you acknowledged, swiftly attempting to end the increasing tension between the pair, "that is who she wed. A page was missing from the tome, as if someone tore it."

Alicent's gaze quickly went to the opened book on the settee, large chestnut eyes welling with unnamed emotions. She stared far longer than necessary as you and Aegon shared a questioning look. You shifted, ankles crossing just as your Septa taught you before she finally fixed her sights on your unsuspecting form.

"I have matters I would like to discuss with the Princess," she suddenly stated, a shadow casting over her face, "if you will allow me, my son." The title sounded unused and stiff, Alicent's knuckles turning pale.

Aegon opened his mouth to disagree, but you stopped him with a reassuring smile and nod. He reluctantly stood, his dissent evident. "As you wish, Mother."

He stood, dusting off his wrinkled trousers as he cast you one last glance. Seeing no regret, the Prince exited but did not stray far, slouching against the wall beside Ser Cargyll.

"What did you wish to discuss with me, my Queen?" you inquired politely, back straight and pearl necklace glinting in the light.

She flashed a forced smile, appearing more like a grimace as she sat at the other end of the furniture. The piece was slightly longer than your height, but the distance between you felt like an age. Alicent's vision was misty as she observed your features.

Your style choices differed significantly from when you first arrived at the keep. Typical Targaryen reds and blacks were now switched to those creams and gold, and Dragonglass Valyrian steel jewelry was replaced with elaborate chains of diamonds, rubies, and pearls. It was lavish for her taste, too yellow and grand, unlike her pious green. It seemed like something Aegon would wear. Her expression soured at the idea.

"You have been here for some time, yes?" The Queen began, your face etched with unasked questions. "And in turn you have grown close to my son."

You nodded solemnly but with hesitancy. Where was this headed?

"You know that I discovered his affections when I requested your aid for his twentieth nameday. While I can never repay you for preventing the embarrassment his absence would've brought, I do believe that your allowance in serving on the King's Small Council is enough," she said, words Alicent had swallowed vomiting past her lips.

Having an idea of what she was slowly getting towards, your mood changed. You crossed your arms displeasedly, no longer confused and open to the conversation.

"You have missed much of your brothers' ascent into maturity. Jacaerys and Lucerys are nearly men now, and I do not want you to feel obligated to stay here and live without them," the Queen expressed. It was false sincerity. "After all, our kin is all we have."

Unable to hide your scoff, you stood, rolling your eyes as you faced Alicent. "Unlike you, I do not enjoy the pomp and circumstance of courtly talk. 'Tis better to yank the rooting tooth instead of waiting for it to decay. Speak plainly so that we may not prolong this more than necessary," you declared with squared shoulders.

Alicent cleared her throat, shifting her weight and briefly fidgeting with the golden Seven-Pointed Star enveloping her throat.

This is what she despised about you, Targaryens. There was no tact, no appreciation for what separated the nobles from the small folk. Where was your sense of duty? Simple manners and a correctly placed smile could do far more than the threat of steel.

"I had hoped we could discuss this with more propriety, but I see that is something you Targaryens do not understand," she spat. Her poisonous words shot through your heart, momentarily stopping it and widening your eyes into a dumbfounded expression. "You must leave King's Landing. Your presence here is not a welcomed one if it indeed was."

You took her words as a challenge, a threat from an opponent. If you were on the battlefield, the glint of metal and blade slash would have stopped the Queen from finishing. She was fortunate that she was married to the king.

"You do not have the authority to send me away, Alicent," you snarled, losing all respect for her title. "What would your husband, the King, say should he discover you're attempting to exile his daughter's ward?"

She brushed off the thought, large brown eyes staring up at you with an unaffected disdain, as if you were nothing more than the slop underneath her finely crafted shoes. "There is no need for you now that Rhaenyra has promised to return on dragonback. I suggest you go to your chambers and alert the servants of your departure," she sighed, rising from the plush cushions in finality. "It is best we do this in a timely manner so as not to cause any unnecessary attention."

Your stare narrowed, lips pursing as you stepped toward the Queen. "Unnecessary attention? You mean for me to leave like a rat in the night so your son will not know."

Alicent should have expected this reaction. It was in her nature to hope for the good within people, yet time and time again, she was proven there was none.

"I shall not leave King's Landing nor will I ever. Aegon is my kin and someone I hold dear. I will never abandon those I love."

You shouted with much conviction, and it nearly swayed Alicent into believing you, but she knew better. She knew you had no love for her child; you were using him. You were an extension of Daemon and his ambitions. At a time, she pitied you for it, seeing a reflection of herself, but that softness had hardened under the realization that your actions affected her child.

"You people do not know of love," she laughed coldly. "Duty is love. Obedience is love. I will not allow your rot to afflict my son as Rhaenyra did me. You will leave King's Landing by order of the Queen."

Alicent missed the slip of her words until a blanket of silence covered the library. She said something no one was ever to hear, not even Rhaenyra. It was something she denied in the early years of her girlhood when days were packed with nothing but the yellow sun in the sky and silver hair in her fingers. What had she done?

What had she done?

Your steps were calculated as you stood barely a pace away from the Queen. It made sense now why your Mother would be unable to meet your gaze when you brought up Alicent, why the Queen would speak in such a way that left you puzzled. They were in love, at least at one point in time. You were unsure if either of them knew what the other felt or if they understood what that love was.

The overzealous religious imagery of the Keep was Alicent's guilt for what the gospel preached as a sin from the Seven. You almost felt sympathetic for her, but her projection of the inner turmoil she had inside turned into your punishment. You had no sympathy.

"Love can often be mistaken for hate," you spoke. It was something you knew far better than most.

The Queen balked at your words, still reeling at the notion of her confession and the potential consequences that would arise from them. You were not cruel. Even to those who deserved it, you now realized as you bid farewell.

"I shall reside in King's Landing until my Mother acends the Iron Throne, and even then, I will still be here," you proclaimed with your chin held high, Knowing she could not protest. "Good day, Your Grace."

And with a definitive curtsy, head and knees dipping low in mock reverence, you exited the library, book long forgotten as it lay open to the torn page.

Masterlist of Series

I totally did not fall asleep while posting this and then wondered why no one interacted with the post. XD

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galacticwildfire · 1 year

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Sad, Beautiful, Tragic | Alicent Hightower

One

Alicent Hightower x Targaryen!oc

Their fathers sworn enemies, Viserra and Alicent should never have been as close as they were, yet it was a connection neither could fight. What began as an innocent girlhood companionship becomes something scandalous, with the bastard daughter of Daemon Targaryen showing her true colours. As the dance begins she finds herself torn between her loyalty to her house and her love for her father. Yet neither hold a candle to her forbidden love for the new queen, a love which threatens to destroy them both.

Word count : 6600

A/N: this chapter is set during episode one, setting up the tone for the rest of the story. For hotd/got stories I do not typically use tags unless it is for severe content warnings, all violence and themes will align with that in canon.

A year it's been since I've stepped foot in Kings Landing. So long has passed since my father decided to take me on one of his adventures to Dorne and then across the narrow sea, to show me the ruins of old Valyria with my own eyes, only to return for the heir's tournament.

Except despite his insistence, it is not his tournament, but that of the king's unborn child. I can only imagine how Rhaenyra must feel as the king's daughter, because gods do I know how my father is taking it as the king's brother. If he were to be disinherited by a baby boy he may just kill it himself.

"Now," Father begins as we walk through the gates of the Red Keep, our dragons returning to the Dragonpit for the first time in so long. "If that cunt of Hightower makes even a single comment I want to know."

"It's Otto Hightower, of course he will," I reply, knowing the reason he decided to take me and leave. Otto Hightower made the mistake of complaining to the king that I am of too low a status to be seen with his daughter. Something my father did not take well to. "He's a cunt by nature, you can't win them all over."

"I don't have any desire to win him over, what I desire is to cut his tongue out for calling my only daughter a bastard."

"Except I am a bastard," I remind him, the very words Viserys told him. "His tongue cannot be cut out for speaking the truth."

"A legitimised bastard, I made sure of that," he reminds me in return. "My brother knew he'd have hell to pay if he didn't give you the Targaryen name and legitimise you, especially after I named you in his honour. Don't forget that when you walk through the Red Keep you are my heir and a fucking dragon rider. You are above the likes of Otto Hightower."

"It's not hard to be above him," I remark and say "I'll just be glad to see Rhaenyra and Alicent."

He groans. "You truly wish to run around with that girl knowing who her father is?"

"Alicent is sweet," I dismiss, immediately protective. "It's hardly her fault who her father is."

"That may be true but she is utterly boring," he remarks and I roll my eyes. "Rhaenyra is the one you ought to be close with."

"If I recall I was inseparable with both before the kingsguard had to stop you from cutting Otto's tongue out in the small council chamber."

"And I'd do it again."

"In that case I'll happily run around with Alicent and Rhaenyra," I tell him. "They are the closest thing I have to sisters, I will not let insults take that from me."

"Yes well, as long as Otto doesn't like it I'm fine with it," he allows and reminds me. "Now don't let them keep Darkfyre in the pits for too long, she's growing fast out of captivity. I give it only a few years and she'll be as large as Caraxes." He looks towards the throne room. "You go settle in, I'll see you after."

He leaves me to my own devices, and the first place I go is to the queens chambers to see her, it's only by chance they are both there as well.

"Your grace, the Lady Viserra."

As I'm announced they all look to me in surprise, but it is a happy one.

Rhaenyra immediately jumps up to hug me, followed by Alicent, and I look over their shoulders to Aemma, sitting up with a hand resting on her belly.

"I was starting to worry your father would never bring you back," she says and reaches out her hand. "Come here child, let me see you." She smiles as I come over. "You look like Jeyne more every day."

Jeyne. My mother. A lady in waiting to Aemma when she was first brought to court from the Vale. I know well enough it was not love what happened between her and my father, for he left her at the first mention of pregnancy and returned for me after she had died in the childbed. But before then Aemma had promised my mother she would care for me, and she has.

"How are you faring?" I ask her, noticing her discomfort.

"I could be better, but as I was just telling Rhaenyra, you three girls will soon be in this bed and you must learn to face it with a stiff lip."

For Rhaenyra and Alicent an arranged marriage to a great house is a certainty, for me it is an impossibility. "I think my father would sooner send any suitor to the sword than have me wed."

She chuckles. "That is true." She looks past me to Rhaenyra and Alicent and says "Now you girls go and have fun, I have no doubt there is much to catch up on."

The three of us walk arm in arm through the Red Keep, the two of them asking eagerly of tales from across the narrow sea which I give vividly. When Rhaenyra is called away to serve as her fathers cupbearer on the council, I take Alicent to the dragon pit.

Come," I say, holding her hand. "Come see how Darkfyre's grown."

Darkfyre, named to honour my fathers sword Darksister. The keepers are still coaxing her into the pit since it's been so long since she's been in captivity.

"Lykiri," I tell her, since the keepers struggle to tame her. Alicent stands behind me as I put a hand on her black scales to ease her. "Lykiri."

"She's larger than Syrax," Alicent comments in surprise. "Far larger."

"Keeping them captive in the dragon pit is hindering their growth," I tell her. "Since travelling around Dorne and the free cities with father she's been free to grow."

"It's been so long since a Targaryen's stepped foot in Dorne," she says, knowing her histories. "What was your father doing there?"

"Well, he decided to go remind the Dornish we have dragons," I put it simply. "Parading himself trying to gather favour. We were guests of the prince of the Dorne for a while, it truly is beautiful in Sunspear."

"I can imagine," she says. "So what's brought your father back?"

"Gods know, he's likely grown bored and has decided to give his brother and your father hell again."

We're both able to laugh despite how our fathers despise one another. While my father is content to burn his bridges, I don't have that luxury. As a bastard my standing is fragile enough, I need all the friends at court I can have.

"I'm glad to be back," I tell her. "I've missed home. As much as I love my father I have no desire to spend my time in Dornish brothels as he does."

She raises an eyebrow. "Then what is it you desire?"

"To be the greatest dragon rider there is," I tell her, flashing a smile as I take her hand, coaxing her towards Darkfyre. "Here, don't be afraid."

She's too stunned to refuse as I bring her hand to Darkfyre and she gasps at the touch. "I've never-"

"Touched a dragon?" I finish, knowing how she's always refused to. "See, there's no reason to fear them. They're loyal to their riders."

"Except I'm not her rider."

"Yet," I tease, knowing she's large enough to saddle two. "My father took me up on Caraxes when I was just a week old, as his mother did with him."

"My father would kill me if I even considered it."

That makes me smile. "It would be a bit hard for him to kill you if you were on dragonback."

She shakes her head, smiling. "You have not changed a bit."

The three of us lay beneath the Weirwood tree in the garden. Alicent testing me on my studies which have been truly neglected this past year, except I've gained a knowledge that is truly invaluable. Experience. Seeing the places we read of, being part of their living history instead of flipping through books.

"It doesn't matter what lord married what lady fifty years ago," I lecture. "What matters is the state of everything today, and unless it's Valyrian history what's the point?"

Rhaenyra laughs. "Did Daemon tell you that?"

"Well it's true," I say, him being my sole educator for the past year. "Across the narrow sea no one asks what lord married what lady fifty years ago, they want to hear of the dragons and the conqueror."

"Now that is something I can agree with," Rhaenyra says much to Alicent's annoyance, who's trying to get us up to scratch for the septa.

"The Septa will be furious if you two insist on jesting."

"The Septa's funny when she's furious."

I laugh but Alicent senses something deeper. "You're always like this when you're worried."

"Like what?"

"Disagreeable."

There's something in the look the two share that makes my heart sink a little, that in my absence the two have become closer. It was always the three of us, and now it is them with me there as well.

"You're worried your father is about to overshadow you with a son."

"I only worry for my mother," Rhaenyra says, a sentiment I share.

"She'll be alright," I try to assure her. "She's done this many times."

"And yet I'm the only one that lives."

Her reply is morbid enough to make Alicent quiet.

"Yes, but if you're mother has endured childbirth this many times over the odds are in her favour," I say, trying to put it logically. "Trust in the maesters."

I look to Alicent, who lost her own mother whilst I was in the free cities, and silently reach for her hand. It seems more has changed in my absence than I thought.

That night my father requests I come with him to Fleabottom to witness his new force of Gold Cloaks. I stand by his side as he gives his speech to his men, listening as the men howl and the violence begins.

It's pure butchery unlike anything I've ever seen, but father watches me so I keep my horror buried deep, not letting it show. I don't understand the reason for me being hear until he puts Darksister in my hand and the goldcloaks bring forth a bloodied man.

"Now, you may have returned to the keep but I cannot allow you to get soft," he says as I stare numbly at the sight. "You must not be afraid of blood nor a blade, for one day it could be the only thing standing between you and death." The man writhes, begging for mercy. "This blade will be yours one day, Darksister, blade of Visenya. I intend to make you worthy of it."

And so I raise the blade and spill my first blood.

Alicent is with me the next morning, helping me alter a dress for the tournament since my bust has come in this past year and the clothes I left here in the keep are ill fitting as a result.

"You're tired," she notices, and from the way her nose turns up I know she can smell Fleabottom on me. "Your father took you into the city?"

"Yes, he wanted me to be there as he showcased his Goldcloaks," I tell her, choosing not to elaborate much further. "An eventful night of the kings justice being showcased." But as I reach out to help her the red staining my hand matches the dress.

She's silent as she looks at me, knowing very well what I'm not telling her.

"It-" there's no point excusing it. "My father does not want me getting soft."

"So he has you spill blood in the city streets?"

There's a protective bite to her voice.

"He believes I should know how to handle a blade," I argue. "If I was a man you would see no issue with it."

"Well your father lets you behave as one," she mutters under her breath, going to push my hand aside but her eyes fall to the floor as I see the red of her nails, an old habit worsened.

"It seems my father isn't the only one with expectations," I say, knowing very well the words of me behaving as a man are from her fathers mouth, but that's not what I'm concerned about. "How long Alicent?"

She quickly hides her nails from me. "It's nothing."

I look at her and see a truly sad girl, as if it's so inherent it's as much a part of her as her own heart. "You do not need to lie to me for fear of shame, it's me." She always tries so hard to please her father, to be the good and chaste influence on Rhaenyra. But she needs not be anyone else for me. "How long?"

"It- it's always been a bad habit, but I'll admit the past months it's gotten worse," she tells me shyly. "I just get so nervous-"

I hold her hands gently, looking down at them, at something she is so ashamed of. "You may be the most beautiful girl in Kings Landing and have a reputation to keep, but you are allowed to not have to seem so perfect."

My point is lost on her, for she stammers "Do you truly mean that?"

I just laugh at her naivety. "Well, I cannot speak for men but I can say with certainty after travelling the free cities you are still the most beautiful girl I've seen." She's at a loss for words and I smile. "Come now, show me your dress for the tournament."

Alicent and I sit side by side at the tournament, Rhaenyra deciding to be fashionably late. It's a beautiful day, yet an anxious one as Aemma has begun her labors. We sit at the front with Princess Rhaenys' children Laena and Laenor. I'm showing Laena a golden ring from Lys when Rhaenyra joins us, sitting on the other side of Alicent.

"Has it started yet?" Rhaenyra asks, flaunting some jewellery of her own that intrigues Laena.

"What metal is that?" she asks, not recognising it and I can't blame her, for I doubt the child has ever seen anything like it.

"Valyrian steel," Rhaenyra replies with a smile as she touches her necklace. "Daemon gifted it to me."

Now that surprises me and I can't help but exclaim "He did?"

"Yes," she says with that coy tone she uses. "When you returned to the city."

My father never mentioned it to me, he surely did waste no gold in acquiring all sorts of Valyrian artefacts, he had spent weeks seeking a Valyrian steel dagger for my nameday, yet he never once mentioned a gift like this for Rhaenyra.

Alicent much catch the confusion in my eye for she tilts her head at me, but just as quickly as she goes to inquire the events begin. Rhaenyra gleefully watches the lancing but I sit there in contemplation. Rhaenyra is his niece yes, but such a gift is strange, even for my father.

Finally he is announced.

"Prince Daemon, Prince of the City!"

He rides past in his armor, and I look to Rhaenyra, who is practically blushing, it's then it dawns on me the affection she has for my father. An innocent fancy perhaps, but not one I expected my father to encourage with gifts.

Except of course he would.

I watch as he taunts the line of knights for his choosing, until finally he makes his choice. Alicent's brother.

"For his first challenge Prince Daemon chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King."

Alicent immediately becomes anxious beside me and I reach for her hand, our fingers laced together hidden between the folds of our dresses. She is afraid and rightly so, for we both know it will be my father that wins, and will likely do so taking any chance he can to spite Otto Hightower. Sure enough I watch him look up at Otto before charging.

I'm cringing as my father upon taking a hit decides to play dirty, using his lance to take down the horse and Alicent gasps loudly as her brother is thrown to the ground. I hold her hand tight as she peers over, trying to see if he's alright all while I just shake my head at my father who smirks proudly as he rides over.

While I'm focused on Alicent it's Rhaenyra who gets up to greet my father, something else that rubs me the wrong way, something Alicent notices as we follow.

"Nicely done uncle," Rhaenyra praises.

"Thank you princess."

"Is being underhanded the only way you can win?" I taunt my father, not as impressed as Rhaenyra is.

"No but it's more entertaining," he replies, looking around at the crowd and decides to aggravate Otto further. "Now I'm fairly sure I can win these games Lady Alicent, your favour would all but assure it."

I purse my lips unimpressed as Alicent goes to get her favour while Rhaenyra holds my fathers eye, the tension between them almost making me sick.

"Good luck, my prince," Alicent says placing her favour on his lance, uncomfortable beside me for only a moment before wearing a pleasant smile, and the tournament continues.

It's bloody and beautiful, pageantry alongside brutality. Whilst Alicent watches on in horror, and Rhaenyra lets out a gasp or two I watch on nubmly after having experienced the pure butchery at my fathers hands down in Fleabottom.

In the midst of it I notice Alicent, her eyes fixed on the violence whilst picking at her nails and I take her hands in mine, she almost jumps at the touch, having been pulled out of her daze and I just squeeze her hands, no more needing to be said as we watch on.

My attention is caught by the knight Ser Criston Cole going against my father. A handsome man from what we've seen, secretly I hope he puts my father in his place, and he does. Although I can't help the shriek that escapes me as my fathers horse drags him along the railing, the sound awful as he hits the ground and this time it's Alicent gripping my hand tight.

A man goes to help my father to his feet only to be pushed to the ground, and I run to the balcony's edge as my father gets to his feet, almost maddened with the shame of being dishorsed. I watch wide eyed as he calls for his sword and Alicent and Rhaenyra both jump up and come to my side.

"Prince Daemon wishes to continue in a contest of arms!"

I look behind me for the king but he's nowhere to be seen, no one to stop this madness if it gets out of hand, which it no doubt will. Ser Criston faces my fathers sword with a mace and chain, breathing through fathers shield, the fight becomes hands on, more kicking and shoving than anything else until Ser Criston is on the ground and my father looks up at me, smiling and cheering as he claims victory. Only to have made the mistake of turning his back on his opponent, for he's knocked to the ground and he does something that surprises me. He yields. Not out of weakness, but almost, almost, out of something resembling respect for a good fight.

It's then Ser Criston comes forward removing his helmet, the three of us share an exchange of pleasant surprise at the sight of him.

"Gods, he's Dornish," I hear Alicent exclaim while I can't help but appreciate the sight in front of us.

"I was hoping to ask for the favour of Lady Viserra," he says, not Rhaenyra's, but mine. "The daughter of the Prince."

Doing the same as my father, asking for the favour of his opponent's daughter. I can respect him for that. And so I'm smiling as I reach for my favour, my father watching on in amusement as I toss it down to Ser Criston. "Good fight Ser Criston, I wish you luck."

Rhaenyra can make eyes at my father all she likes, I'll give the Dornish knight my favour. But it's then I notice Otto Hightower returning and murmuring something to one of the council members. Alarm quickly spreads behind us, something Rhaenyra notices and I know it can only be one thing.

"Alicent," I say and she goes to her father who pulls her aside murmuring something to her, she looks back at us and there is no mistaking it.

The queen is dead.

"Rhaenyra," I immediately breathe, reaching for her, she's too shocked to cry but even so I take her in my arms, looking over her shoulder at Alicent in mutual horror. The two motherless girls have become three.

We sit together in Rhaenyra's room, Alicent and I sitting on the edge of her bed as she lies away from us, eyes wide open yet dead to the world.

"Baelor your father has named the boy," I tell her, treading gently. "Would you like to see him?"

She doesn't reply. Neither her or Viserys have seen the boy, he's in the care of wet nurses. I lost my mother the day I was born, I feel no pain for her, the pain I feel is for Aemma, the only mother I've ever had.

"We'll let you sleep," Alicent says gently, and we leave the room having done what we can for her, but she must mourn, there is no easy way to do so. When we're outside she asks me "Are you alright?"

I force myself to nod. "I loved the queen as my own mother, but it is Rhaenyra I worry for."

She nods in understanding, and reaches for me. "We have all lost a mother now. The pain... it does get easier."

I see the pain in her eyes, the loss of her own mother wounding her still, especially now. Silently I take her in my arms, needing someone to hold onto. In her embrace I feel safe enough to finally let the tears escape.

We stand there like that in silence until a guard comes.

"Lady Alicent, the hand has summoned you."

"Go," I tell her gently. "I'll be alright."

She nods, and is escorted by the guard to her fathers office.

In my loneliness I find myself walking to my fathers chambers, he will not be mourning, but I need him nonetheless. I need my father to hold me and tell me he understands, that it will be okay. He has never been affectionate in that manner, but he's always been there when I've needed him.

Yet when I come to his chambers he isn't there.

And so in the shadow of mourning over the keep I find myself coming to the barracks of the Goldcloaks.

"My Lady," Ser Harwin says, recognising me. "Are you looking for the prince?" I nod meekly, like a child seeking out their parent after a bad dream. "He has taken to the Street of Silk."

"To the brothels," I correct, saying what we both know. "Thank you for your assistance."

"Would you like me to get him for you?" he offers and I shake my head, swallowing my bitterness.

"He is mourning in his own way."

Alicent and I stand side by side at the funeral, the babe having passed in the night after his birth.

My father stands separate from us, his eyes on Rhaenyra, as they should be since she has lost her mother, but I cannot forget the necklace, cannot forget the unspoken tension between them.

But today is not the day for that. Today we mourn.

Again after the funeral I seek out my father to find him missing, this time I don't bother searching for him, able to hear the ruckus of the Goldcloaks ascending on the Street of Silk.

So instead I go to Rhaenyra who stares numbly at a candle flame in her room, tears staining her cheeks.

"Come," I say, extending my hand to her. "Syrax and Darkfyre have not flown together in so long."

A shadow of a smile comes to her face as she nods and takes my hand, and together we find our way to the Dragonpit.

When we return the next morning with tired eyes and reeking of dragon as Aemma would say, I'm surprised to find Alicent waiting for me in my chambers.

Yet I'm more alarmed at her demeanour.

"Are you alright?" I ask, immediately jumping to the most likely reason. "Did you have a fight with your father?"

"Viserra," she says quietly, her voice a whisper. "There is something... I- I cannot confide it in anyone."

I look at her confused. "What of Rhaenyra?"

"Especially not Rhaenyra."

That's when my stomach drops at the guilt in her eyes, and so I reach out to take her hand with a promise "I'm not Rhaenyra."

When she looks back at me her brown eyes are filled with tears. "Promise me, promise you won't tell a soul."

I'd never considered myself to be one to take oaths seriously, but in this moment I know I'll take whatever she says to the grave. "I swear it."

And somehow, despite who my father is, despite who I am, she trusts me.

"My father," she begins, voice weak. "He- he asked me to comfort the king."

A sentence that would sound so innocent if I did not know her, did not know her father. "Alicent-"

"I never touched him," she immediately insists, trying to defend herself even though there is nothing to defend. "I just read to him, I swear it, I would never-"

"Shhh," I say, pulling her in tight by her hands, trying to calm her. "I know, it is not me you need to defend yourself to."

That's when she breaks down "If Rhaenyra knew..."

She does not need to finish that sentence, for we both know well how she would react. She is rash, quick to temper, more my fathers daughter than I at times, she would take it as a betrayal and not let it go regardless of the truth.

"She doesn't need to know," I say, going against whatever morals Aemma tried to instil in me, honesty and integrity be damned. They are never things my father taught me. "Your father sent you to him, to his chambers?" She nods, not meeting my eye. "Nothing more happened, I believe that. You are not a seductress nor a mistress. You are a girl whose father is an ambitious man, this is his scheme not yours."

Her eyes are wide, afraid. "She won't believe that."

"But I do," I say, only then becoming aware of how close we are, and I take her face in my hands. "Our fathers despise one another for good reasons, my father is reckless and murderous and yours is calculating and starving for power, they are the second sons and always will be despite their best wishes. We do not need to be the pawns in their schemes."

She blinks at me confused. "Your father loves you, when has he ever used you?"

He hasn't. "You're right. My father merely wishes to rise me to his station, to Rhaenyra's, all he's done is try to make me a true Targaryen out of love. Your's would raise you to something far more dangerous, to be queen to further his own ambition."

She knows it, somewhere she must, but she sees little wrong. "What else is the purpose of a daughter?"

My heart breaks a little, breaks in realisation that my father may be the only one in Westeros who would never dream of marrying me off for his own standing, who would burn a man's city down before giving me as a bride. Then there's Otto Hightower.

It's then the door opens and there stands the bastard himself, the look on his face confuses me until I realise how he has caught us, in an embrace that would have me castrated if I was a man.

Alicent quickly drops my hands, lowering her head as her father enters and I stand there defiant at the man who would have his daughter, not even yet five and ten, a mistress for the king.

"Lord Hand," I say stiffly. "Is something the matter?"

If I was a man there certainly would be, but I am a girl, a girl found in an embrace with her companion. There is nothing wrong with it that he can justifiably make a fuss of.

But he seems not to mind, for there is already a smirk on his face. "Your father has been exiled."

I feel Alicents head whip around to me and I stand there, my blood turning cold as she grabs my arm and asks her father "What for?"

In Otto Hightower's eyes is the gleam of victory over my father, over me. He's basking in it.

"The heir for a day."

My head snaps up at those words, having heard my father remark them offhandedly after the funeral. "Where is the king?"

"You are not permitted to see him," he replies. "I have come to instruct you to pack your things, you may join your father or we can arrange for you to be taken to your stepmother in the Vale."

Alicent looks at her father in disbelief. "You can't mean-"

"I'm to be exiled as well?" I scoff, letting go of Alicent to confront her father. "Is this the king's order or yours?"

He pauses for just a moment too long and I'm pushing past him.

"Lady Viserra!"

I ignore him, running through the halls and attracting the attention of the Kingsguard who follow at the behest of Otto, yelling out orders from behind me, but it all stops the moment I enter the throne room and find Viserys sitting upon the throne.

"Uncle!" I cry out and he looks upon me in concern, out of breath and desperate as I come to my knees before the throne. "Uncle please, don't do this."

He sighs. "Viserra, if you are here to plead on behalf of your father-"

"What he said was regrettable, but exile?"

"It was not a decision I made lightly," he tries to reason. "I know you love your father, but you and I know better than any what sort of man he is."

"One who loves his brother and his king!" I argue getting to my feet as I hear Otto and the rest storming the throne room and even Viserys is alarmed by the sight. "Unlike this cunt here, who's revelling in getting rid of my father and I both!"

The throne room is silent until Viserys speaks. "Otto, did you tell the princess she is to be exiled along with Daemon?"

"She is no princess," he replies now my father is not here to take his tongue. "She is a bastard just as heinous as her father who will corrupt your daughter and mine both. Look at her now, causing a scene after I simply asked her to stay with her stepmother in the Vale."

Before Viserys can speak I turn to look at him, my voice as dangerous as my fathers. "If he were here he'd take your tongue." It's only then I see Alicent in the shadows watching on and something in my voice changes. "But I suppose that's the curse of second sons isn't it? To always be scraping at whatever scraps of power they can get? Even if it is throwing the daughter of your rival out of her own home behind the back of your king."

Viserys stands, voice as harsh as I've ever heard it. "I have lost my wife, I have lost my son, and now my brother. You would have my niece removed from this keep without my knowing? Have her taken from Rhaenyra's side as she is in mourning? All for the spite you bear her father!"

Otto is silent, having been put in his place by his king and a girl of four and ten.

Viserys must see Alicent in the shadows for he asks her "Lady Alicent, escort my niece back to her chambers."

I can almost feel Otto's blood boiling at his daughter being asked to wait on a bastard, but she doesn't see it that way, for she steps out of the shadows to take my arm.

"Thank you uncle," I say, leaving him and Otto to their devices. "But may I see my father off?"

A risky request, but he permits it. "Of course Viserra."

And so I find my father readying Caraxes at the dragon pit with a whore at his side.

"Father."

He turns to me, unsurprised to see me. "Good you're here, I've had the dragon keepers ready Darkfyre."

I just shake my head in disgust. "The heir for a day."

He sighs. "Yes I'll admit, it was distasteful, but it's said and done now. We're leaving for Dragonstone."

Something in the casualness of his voice makes something snap inside me. "And you never thought to come and get your daughter when you were being exiled?"

He merely shrugs. "I knew you'd find me."

"Except it was Otto Hightower who found me!" I yell and that gets his attention as he finally turns to look at me properly. "Is that how you wanted me to find out, him coming to my chambers revelling as he tells me we've both been exiled."

That's when it hits him. "If my brother-"

"Viserys was the one who fought for me, who stood up for me when Otto tried to have me exiled without his knowledge," I argue and scoff "While I had to defend myself against Otto Hightower in the throne room you were getting your whore and leaving me to the rats!"

The whore looks away as my father comes up to me, using a tone he rarely does. "Have you ever thought that my treatment of you is not neglect but rather faith? Faith that you don't need to be babied and managed like a child but instead treating you as you are, a dragon rider."

But I just look up at him, almost laughing with anger. "He called me a bastard, used it as justification to be rid of me. That I'm as heinous as you."

The look in his eye changes and his hand is on his sword. "If I was there-"

"You would have taken his tongue?" I finish. "Except you weren't. You were off with your whore, just like you were when you should have been with your brother mourning."

"It wasn't my wife who died, if it was I would have rented out the entire street to celebrate instead of three brothels."

I look at her, deciding to hit him where it hurts. "Try not to father another bastard seeing as you're content to damn the one you already have to a life of exile for a joke and a whore."

He grabs me, fingers bruising my arm, I try to pull it free but he doesn't let go. "Everything I have ever done is for you, and you fucking know it. If you want to be cruel so can I." I hold his eye, defiant. "I could be like Otto Hightower and sell you off the first chance that comes by, I could discard you, I could sell you to the brothels like bastard girls are. But here you are, a dragonrider and a Targaryen by name. The only reason that is, is because of me."

Despite the anger in his voice I see the fear in his eyes, the fear of losing the last person he has, the one who should love him unconditionally despite his sins.

"I'm staying here in Kings Landing," I say quietly, the cruellest words I could say at this very moment. He stares at me in disbelief, expecting me to follow it up with some type of contradiction, but I don't, and it's then he lets me go. "Did you ever realise Aemma was the closest thing I ever had to a mother?" He's silent, not realising I was mourning her also. "I needed you, and you ran off to the brothel to mourn the fact you had been disinherited. It would have only been for a day as you'd put so vocally if not for your own selfish desire to usurp what is Rhaenyra's."

I hit him where it hurts without realising it. "Do you think it was selfish wanting you to be my heir?"

"It was never about me, only you," I say with sorrow. "You know damn well a bastard would never stand to inherit the Iron Throne, and yet you would take it regardless of the crisis that would follow."

"I would," he says, without taking a moment to hesitate. "I would-"

"Have your niece?" I retort and for the first time I've caught him off guard. "I'm not blind, just disgusted." I look to his whore. "Don't be surprised if he tosses you aside for someone blonder and younger since he seems to desire girls who are barely bleeders."

He scoffs. "You make me sound horrible, this has nothing to do with desire."

"So you seduce your niece for the throne," I realise. "Because how could you ever truly be disinherited with her by your side?"

He ignores me, instead justifying it. "I have raised the greatest dragonrider there is, raised a true Valyrian, and yet despite you having every symbol of legitimacy you are still denied, no one would dare utter the word bastard if I stood to inherit the throne."

I see his delusion so clearly, even if it is spurned by love rather than ambition, it is still delusion.

"I have come to terms with what I am, now you must also."

With those words I turn my back on my father, my face does not betray how my heart cries but Darkfyre does. Her cries echoing as I return to the Red Keep.

When I make it back to my chambers it is not Rhaenyra or Viserys who stand there to offer comfort, but Alicent.

"I'm sorry," she says, but I have no more words left, instead walking into her embrace and holding her tight. Both of us bound now as the motherless daughters of second sons maddened by their own wants and ambitions.

Yet somehow the prospect is easier knowing I am not alone.

Days later we stand side by side as Rhaenyra is sworn as heir to the Iron Throne. My father has seized Dragonstone, a seat that should be her's now by right. He's gone while I remain.

And so I make the decision that will enrage my father, but one that is right.

"Lady Viserra Targaryen, daughter of Daemon Targaryen."

I step forward and kneel before Rhaenyra as I make my oath to her.

"I, Viserra Targaryen, swear to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, the princess Rhaenyra. I pledge fealty to them and shall defend them against all enemies in good faith and without deceit." I look up, knowing my oath is the one that has gathered the most attention of all in this room, a daughter betraying her father. "I swear this by the old gods and the new."

I stand and look Rhaenyra in the eye, my friend, my sister in all but name, and pray I have made the right decision.

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