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"We Light The Way" - Aemond Targaryen x Hightower Aunt!Reader

a/n: HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY @osferthsbussy MY FIRST FRIEND ON THIS CURSED WEBSITE ENJOY YOUR PRESENT TEHEHEE THE JAIME TO MY CERSEI 🥰❤️

Summary: Aemond's beloved aunt returns to the Red Keep, and this time, he is determined to prove the depths of his devotion to her.

TW: canon typical incest, profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, oral sex f receiving, overstimulation, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampie, mommy kink, tiddy suckin, blood kink, MURDER, alcohol abuse, attempted child abuse, infidelity

Word Count: 5,609 words

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

Growing up, Aemond Targaryen had one constant in his life, no matter what trials life threw his way, no matter how his brother and nephews ganged up on him to tease him, no matter how neglected he felt by his parents, no matter how lonely he felt when the others ran off on their dragon rides.

It was you, his beautiful kind-hearted aunt, the much younger sister of his mother. When Otto Hightower took a second wife, their union produced only one child, you, before your mother passed in childbirth. five years Aemond’s senior and three years Aegon’s, you were often tasked with watching the children, something that a young lady of your age was ill-equipped to do, considering just how many children you were expected to look after. And so, you often ended up favoring Aemond, your favorite of the bunch, sweet and kind and shy, at least when it came to you. While the others ran wild, Aemond was content to sit down beside you and read together, resting his head in your lap, just smiling up at you. The sweetest little thing.

Well, at least as far as you knew.

Aemond first realized he harbored more than familial thoughts for you when you tended to him after Driftmark, when he lost his eye. He refused to let any maesters tend to him, nor any septas watch over him. It was you, day and night, by his side, holding his hand and drying his tears, reading to him, singing lullabies to him. You were a young woman of seven and ten, surely you had better things to do, such as meet suitors or attend fancy balls. But you insisted on tending to him. That’s when Aemond knew he was in love with you.

It was wrong and he knew it. You were his aunt. And yet, he could not bring himself to care. You gave him the love and affection he so desperately craved, letting him rest his head on your chest as you read to him, holding him tight. Being in your embrace, it would be enough to drive any man mad, he thought. But he kept his desires, his admiration hidden as best as he could, not wanting to lose the relationship he had with you.

Your smallclothes started going missing after Aemond left his sickbed. At first, you thought nothing of it, but then your supply began to dwindle more and more. That’s when Alicent found one of your sets in Aegon’s rooms, scolding him loud enough for the entire Keep to hear for his depravity. Aegon insisted that he’d only taken the one pair, that he had no idea what happened to the other ones, swearing up and down.

“Perhaps you stole them when you were drowning in your cups, brother,” Aemond had supplied, giving a wicked little grin that none of you could see, his face buried in a Valyrian text.

“It’s possible I suppose,” Aegon had said, walking off with a puzzled expression.

And, that night, Aemond sneaks into your chambers yet again to steal yet another set of your smallclothes.

His grandsire waited longer than he did with Alicent when it came to marrying you off, in part, because your sister was deathly overprotective of you as well as wanting you to stay and be a companion to Aemond. However, when you turned three and twenty, your lord father promptly matched you with the young Lord Mason Tyrell. It seemed to be a match made in the Seven Heavens, for unlike what happened to your sister, Lord Tyrell was close to your age. You were quite confident that, given time, you’d come to love him.

You told Aemond as much the day you packed your things to leave, that blue eye of his following you as you flitted across your chambers, excited to begin your married life.

“The next time you see me, perhaps I’ll be a mother,” you told him dreamily, your eyes dancing with delight as you continued packing, “Oh, Aemond, I’m so excited!”

Aemond did his best to hold back what it was he wished to say. That he despised your husband, that you should be matched to him for he was now a man grown. That he was the only one in the realm who could love you the way you deserved. That he was devastated by the fact that you were leaving King’s Landing. Leaving him.

Instead, he plastered on a smile, giving you a chaste kiss on the cheek goodbye, feeling his heart break as your and your lord husband’s carriage rode away, off to Highgarden.

But now, when Aemond sees you, for the first time in five years, he knows your dreams of having a marriage where you and your husband come to love each other have not come true. For your husband, though not unkind, does not seem the least bit interested in the kind of passion you so often spoke of when reading Aemond stories. He’s a complete dullard, Aemond thinks, and he smiles, not a sarcastic or sardonic one but a genuine smile, for the first time in a long time when you walk over to him after getting out of your carriage.

“Nephew,” you say, taking his large, calloused hands into your own smaller, softer ones.

The feeling nearly takes his breath away. He tries to calm the thunderous beating of his heart when you smile up at him, in that sweet, easy way you always have. You’re as beautiful as the last time he saw you, riding away from him. His heart can hardly bear it.

Aemond wonders how he is meant to look at you without getting flustered, how many times he has to tell himself you’re like his mother to stop himself?

And yet, all it does is make him desire you all the more.

“Aunt,” he says softly, bowing and bring your hands to his lips to kiss them, the action meaning so much more to him than you could realize, “It’s been too long.”

“It has,” you agree, “You’ve grown so much, my sweet Aemond.”

Aemond smiles at the idea that you might finally see him as the man he is, “And you are just as beautiful as I remember.”

“You flatterer,” you laugh, the sound reminding him of days long past, where the two of you would sit in the Godswood, reading together, his head in your lap as he gazed up at you, “Oh, you haven’t met my boys!”

He lets you take him by the hand and lead him to your twins. You introduce the four year olds as Mace and Lorick, both of whom are excited to meet their cousin, but are dragged off by their maester for lessons.

Aemond feels a tug at his heartstrings as he watches them run off. They look so much like you, a blessing truly. He wonders what his children with you would look like as you link arms with him, walking into the castle. His breath catches in his throat as he looks at your entwined arms. Gods, being near you again is like everything he’s ever dreamed.

“They bring me such joy,” he listens to you speak of your children, “Lorick reminds me very much of you, you know.”

Aemond is surprised but entirely elated at your words, “He reminds you of me? How so?”

“He always clings to my skirts and cries when I’m not in his presence,” you tease, “Much as you did. I still remember when you used to insist to my poor sister that you would marry me!”

Aemond’s cheeks flush at the reminder of his impassioned declaration before the rest of the family, “I was eight.”

“You didn’t think it strange that you wished to marry a girl of three and ten when you were right?” you let out a soft laugh at his words.

“I have no explanation, Aunt. I was a child,” Aemond stutters, his blush worsening.

“Well,” you squeeze his arm gently, “Clearly you’re not a child anymore.”

“No,” Aemond’s voice is thick with some emotion yet unknown to you as he responds and looks at you, looking at that soft, sweet smile of yours, “I am not.”

He thinks he might just die if you keep smiling at him like that. It takes every bit of self restraint within him not to kiss you when you gaze up at him like that, with your big doe eyes, framed by those long lashes.

“So tell me,” you say as the two of you continue walking, “Did you miss me terribly when I was away, sweet Aemond? You were only eight and ten when I left. Gods, four years now.”

“I missed you more than I could ever hope to express in mere words,” he replies quietly before asking a question of his own, “How is life in Highgarden? Being a wife and a mother? Is it all you hoped for?”

Aemond watches as your face falls ever so slightly, his heart dropping with it. A face like yours should never be sad, a heart like yours.

“It’s not what I expected,” you admit quietly, “I do love my boys. They bring me so much happiness,” you pause before adding, “My husband finds his happiness elsewhere.”

Aemond’s blood boils at your admission. How dare that Tyrell cunt hurt you like this? If it were up to him, he’d feed him to Vhagar right this instant. He clenches his jaw and manages to speak.

“You deserve better than him. You deserve all the best that this world has to offer.”

You let out a quiet sigh and speak once more, your voice as gentle as he’s ever heard it, “You’re too sweet to me, Nephew.”

And you smile at him once more. Aemond feels the warmth of your hand on his arm, your body tucked against his side. What is the proper response to your words? How can he stop himself from taking you fully into his arms and pressing his lips to yours, showing you what it means to be kissed by a man who loves you? How does he explain to you the fluttering in his chest when you smile at him? The desperate need to protect you from all harm?

Aemond clears his throat and speaks again, “And as always, you are a beacon of kindness and beauty.”

He knows he sounds pathetic right now, but he cannot bring himself to care.

“You’ve always had such a way with words, you must have the noblewomen of the court swooning at your feet!” you grin at him as the two of you continue inside, making your way to the chambers you once used to inhabit, already prepared for your arrival.

“No lady of the court could ever be you. You’re precious to me, Aunt. The finest lady I have ever seen.”

The most incredible woman I will ever see.

“You know you needn’t call me ‘Aunt’ anymore, darling,” you tease him, making his cheeks flush at the pet name, “You can just call me by my name. Aegon and Helaena both do. You’re the only one who does not.”

“It feels improper,” Aemond mumbles, “But if that is what you wish,” and he says your name, savoring the way it feels on his tongue, how right it feels, “I will do my best to call you by your name.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. And thank you for walking me,” you beam at him, so radiant and lovely as you reach the door of your chambers, this nickname making his heart beat even faster than the last, “I will see you at dinner.”

The way you speak, the way you carry yourself, all of it serves to send a wave of desire through Aemond, more powerful than he has ever felt for you before. The bare skin of your arms in your dress, the hint of cleavage you show, it drives him mad. He is entirely intoxicated by your presence, by your touch. You aren’t doing this on purpose, right? He thinks to himself you surely would not.

And when you lean up to kiss his cheek, your lips brushing against the raised skin of his scar, he thinks he might just die and ascend directly to the Seven Heavens. Gods, you have completely taken over him, mind, body, heart, and soul.

When you close the door to your chambers, a sweet smile on your face, he decides.

He cannot go on hiding his love for you any longer.

At dinner, you are dressed not in a dress of typical Highgarden fashion like that you wore when you arrived, but an emerald green one, in true Hightower fashion. Aemond cannot take his eye off of you as you enter, hand in hand with your children, your husband already deep in his cups, the bastard, a serving girl seated on his lap. The Lord Hand stares at the Tyrell disdainfully before approaching you and kissing your forehead, your sister coming to you next.

Aemond cannot hear what you tell them, but he sees the angered expressions on their faces and realizes it must be about your husband. He sits, seething with rage, though he is quite delighted when little Lorick comes up and asks if he can be seated beside him.

“Of course,” Aemond says gently, gesturing for one of the servants to approach, “Bring the little master a chair, please.”

You watch as Lorick flourishes under Aemond’s attention, smiling at him brightly and telling him about all the things he’s learned with his septa. Mace remains by your side, ever your little protector, watching Aemond with curious eyes.

As Aemond speaks with little Lorick, he looks over to see you, running your hand through Mace’s hair, the little boy gazing up at you as though you know all the secrets of the universe. You were made for motherhood, Aemond realizes, the love of the Mother has always been a part of you. It’s why he loves you as he does.

“I wish you were my father.”

Aemond almost doesn’t hear Lorick’s remark, too absorbed in looking at you. He quickly turns to look at your son, concern evident in his eye.

“Why is that?”

“You look at Mummy differently than he does,” Lorick responds simply, “And she seems happier since she saw you again. She cries a lot in Highgarden. She’s too pretty and nice to cry.”

Aemond’s heart breaks at the earnestness in Lorick’s voice, “Yes, you’re quite right. She’s too pretty and nice to cry.”

Aemond looks up when he sees your husband standing up to leave, with the serving girl nonetheless. You look entirely dejected and humiliated as he leans in to say something to you. That’s when Mace steps between you and your husband.

“You owe my mother an apology.”

Your eyes widen as you quickly shush your son, “Mace, darling, please, sit down and eat.”

Aemond watches as your husband grits his teeth and leans down to scold his son, who raises his chin defiantly and continues to defend your honor, “You do not deserve to have a wife like Mummy!”

You gasp as Mason’s hand moves toward your son, as if to strike him. You quickly move Mace behind you to shield him, closing your eyes. Your husband has never raised a hand at you or your sons, but in truth? He has been drinking more and more as of late, his temper worsening. You brace yourself, but the hit never comes. You open your eyes and see Aemond standing between you and your lord husband, gripping his wrist deathly tight.

“If I ever see you lay your filthy fucking hand on my aunt or her sons again, I will tear the flesh from your fucking bones. You are unfit to be a husband and unfit to be a father.”

The boys’ septa rushes them off to bed while your father takes you by the arm, his face stricken by grief at the idea of this being what you deal with on a daily basis. He had hoped that by wedding you to a younger man, unlike what he did to your sister, you may have had a chance at a happy union. His efforts were in vain, it would seem. Your hand trembles as Alicent comes to your other side, holding it tightly, squeezing.

“You will not go back to Highgarden,” she says firmly, “I will ask the King to secure your husband some position here so that you may remain with us, you and your boys. You will stay in separate chambers. I will not allow this to happen to you.”

Your lower lip trembles slightly and you allow yourself to cry into your father’s chest, squeezing your sister’s hand, letting yourself be vulnerable for the first time in so long.

In the dining hall, Aemond is still seething when he returns to his seat beside Aegon.

“Poor Auntie,” Aegon mumbles, shaking his head as he watches your husband continue in his debauchery, “She’d be better off a widow and her children without a father than they are with the likes of him.”

And in that moment? Aemond knows what it is he must do. One off-hand comment from Aegon is all it takes to spur him into action.

When you are in your chambers that evening, your husband likely balls deep in some poor girl working the Streets of Silk or looking down the bottom of a mug of ale, you hear a knock at your door. You cringe slightly, hoping it is not your father or sister, come to pity you some more.

You open it and are surprised to see Aemond, standing there, his hands behind his back. You gaze up at him and it hits you that if it weren’t for him…

You shake the idea away and give Aemond a soft smile, “Yes, sweetheart? What is-”

Aemond gently takes your hands in his and asks, “Are you alright?”

You nod, “I’m fine, Aemond. Do not worry about me. I’m not so weak as you think me to be-”

“I know you are not weak,” Aemond quickly cuts you off, holding your face in his hands, his thumbs running over your cheekbones as he gazes into your eyes, “You are the strongest woman I know. The most beautiful and kindest woman I know. You deserve to be treated as such. You deserve a man who will treat you like the goddess that you are.”

You lean into his touch in spite of yourself and murmur, “Thank you for comforting me, darling. You’re a sweet boy. You always have been.”

“I am not a sweet boy any longer,” Aemond says softly, his hands still holding your face, running his fingers over your skin, “I am a dragon and I will protect you at all costs,” he leans in even closer to you, his nose brushing against yours, a touch too intimate for a woman married with her grown nephew, “Do you understand how much you mean to me?”

His eye shimmers, almost as if it is the very flame Vhagar breathes, dangerous and passionate. The intensity of his gaze is both exhilarating and terrifying.

“Aemond,” you whisper, gazing up at him through your lashes, enticing him without even realizing it, “I am your aunt-”

His eye narrows slightly as he speaks, insistent, “A mere matter of titles,” Aemond’s hands remain holding your face as he studies you closely, his gaze moving from your doe eyes to your lips, hungry, desperate, “Is it so wrong to desire that which is forbidden?”

“I’m older than you-”

“Age means nothing and you are not so old as you believe yourself to be,” Aemond counters, drawing closer, your body pressed against his, his form nearly dwarfing you, “Just tell me if you desire this. If you desire me.”

Your breathing is shallow as you reply, barely above a whisper, “Aemond, perhaps Targaryens marry their blood, but Hightowers most certainly do not-”

“Then break with tradition and follow your heart,” he pleads, his breathing growing heavier, the tension between the two of you thickening, “You know you want to. I see the desire in your eyes as you gaze upon me now. You want this as much as I do…”

“I am married, Aemond! To betray my husband-”

“Husband?” Aemond scoffs, “Any man who raises a hand at you deserves to burn in the deepest of the Seven Hells-”

You press your hand to his mouth, whispering frantically, “Aemond! He is my husband, the father of my children-”

Aemond gently takes your wrist in his hand, pressing a kiss to each of your fingertips, your palm, the inside of your wrist, his lips impossibly soft against your skin. You hold back the gasp that threatens to leave your lips as he gazes upon you, his eye ablaze with desire.

“He does not deserve you nor does he deserve to be a father to your boys. I can do that,” Aemond whispers, his breathing growing ragged, “I can be to you everything that he is not. I can love you the way you deserve to be loved. The way I have always loved you!”

And with that, Aemond presses his lips against yours. Your eyes widen in shock for a moment, but gods, you’ve never been kissed like this before. One of his hands holds you by the waist, keeping you close, while the other caresses your cheek. Your hands move to grab at his shirt, desperate for something to cling to, to ground yourself in reality. Aemond bites down on your lower lip, eliciting a gasp from you that allows him to push his tongue into your mouth, tasting and exploring every bit of you.

You gasp as his hands move to cup your breasts, squeezing them between his hands, his fingers pinching at your nipples over the thin fabric of your nightdress, feeling them pebble against his touch. He moves one hand to squeeze your ass before moving down to the back of your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist, grinding his cock against your clothed cunt. You let out a needy mewl of his name as he maneuvers the two of you so that he is seated on your bed, you straddling his lap. Aemond gently unties the bow on the front of your nightdress, revealing your breasts to him, his eye going wide with desire. He moves you slightly so that you straddle one of his thighs, bouncing it up and down against your core as his mouth descends on one of your breasts. You let out a low moan, your hands threading in his hair as you begin, at his urging, grinding yourself against his knee, the friction being so delicious that you can barely contain yourself.

Especially when combined with the sensation of his hot mouth, sucking at your nipple greedily, his tongue laving attention on you in ways you’ve never felt before. You’ve read books and heard stories from other women about how when they make love, they reach what they call their peak, but for your part, laying with your husband has been nothing if not pleasureless. But now, you feel a burning inside you, begging for him to touch you more as you quicken your pace, grinding against his thigh, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate for him as he bites down gently on your nipple before moving to pay your neglected one attention.

Aemond’s hands are on your hips guiding you as you moan, tugging on his hair and urging him on.

“My sweet Aemond… My sweet boy…”

Aemond feels as though he may reach his own peak from your words alone, and the way your own thigh brushes against his cock with each movement of your hips. You move one hand down to rub at his length over the fabric of his pants, making him let out a hiss of pleasure as you move your hips faster and faster until, suddenly, a pleasure the likes of which you have never felt over takes you, Aemond’s mouth still on your tits, as you ride out your high against him, your ministrations causing him to reach his own.

The two of you gaze at each other for a moment before Aemond begins kissing you again, admiring the flush of your cheeks, the hazy look in your eyes, flipping the two of you around so he lays above you.

“Aemond,” you whisper, resting a hand against his chest, effectively pushing him away, “I am still married. I cannot give myself to you as long as my husband breathes-”

Aemond pulls away and nods, “Of course, dearest Aunt. You are quite right,” he pauses, bowing before walking out of the room, leaving you alone and confused as he murmurs to himself, “I’ll just have to make sure he no longer breathes.”

The next day, you are surprised when Aemond and Aegon invite your husband to go hunting with them. You can hardly meet the man’s eyes, so overcome by guilt about your late night encounter with Aemond. Mason seems to sense something is amiss and frowns at you, giving a curt nod to your boys. Mace and Lorick scowl after him as he rides off, Aegon waving at them and giving a wide smile, earning smiles from the boys in return.

Aemond, however, comes and embraces them before riding off, absolutely delighting the twins, and warming your heart. Then he turns to you and gives you a soft kiss on the back of your hand.

“Things will be different soon, Aunt.”

You don’t realize what he means until the men return from the hunt and you receive news that some tragic accident befell your husband. You are given no further information, at least, not until Aemond comes to see you. His alabaster skin, his silver hair, his clothes, all stained with blood. It makes him look almost like one of the Valyrian gods in this books he always begged you to read him.

“What did you do?” you ask quietly, standing up and walking over to him.

“What needed to be done,” Aemond responds, “I do not regret to inform you that you are now a widow.”

You stare at Aemond for a moment, his heart thudding against the wall of his chest. Then, you throw your arms around him in a tight embrace.

“Thank you,” you whisper, burying your face in his chest, “Thank you, my darling, my sweet Aemond.”

Aemond embraces you tightly, pressing a kiss to your hair, holding you as if he never wishes to let you go. And he doesn’t.

“I will marry you,” he declares, “And I will be the husband you deserve and the father your children deserve. And we will have more children together. I will love them all in equal measure. And we will be happy,” Aemond stares into your eyes, “Do you wish that as well?”

You swallow thickly and nod, pulling him into a passionate kiss, your lips melding against each other as if that’s what was meant to happen. Aemond quickly undoes the bodice of your dress with deft fingers, watching as the green fabric falls to the floor, revealing your slip. He makes quick work of that as well before lifting you into his arms and placing you gently, almost reverently on the bed, as though you’re some deity to be worshiped. You watch as he sheds his own clothes, revealing more and more of his own body to you. He’s tall and lean, but well-built. He is everything you could ever have wished for. He hesitates before removing his eyepatch.

“You don’t need to wear that around me,” you assure him, “My sweet boy.”

Aemond removes his trousers and is completely bare before you, blood still marring his skin. He moves to sit between your legs, lifting one of your feet to his mouth, kissing it, then the other, kissing all the way up along your legs to your inner thighs, before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your cunt. You let out a gasp at the sensation, never having felt anything like this before. Aemond revels in it, looking up at you as he begins licking and sucking at your folds. You throw your head back against your pillows, yelping when Aemond nips at your pearl.

“Keep your eyes on me, my love.”

And you do as he says, your eyes locked on each other’s as he continues driving you nearly to madness with his tongue and those damnable lips of his. His nose nuzzles against your pearl, making you let out tiny whimpers of his name, which only serve to spur him on in his task. The obscene slurping and sucking noises he makes make you want to hide your face and turn away, but you can’t. Not from him.

You feel your peak getting closer and closer as his tongue moves against you, his large hands holding your thighs apart, not letting you squirm away from him. You spill yourself on his tongue, your high hitting you like a tidal wave of euphoria, feeling as though you’ve left your body for a moment.

You feel Aemond’s fingers trail along your still sensitive folds and recoil from him, “Aemond…”

“Don’t you want me to prepare you for my cock, my love?” he coos, his thumb circling your pearl, “I think it’s quite a bit bigger than your cunt husband’s was, hm? Don’t want to hurt you.”

You let out a whine as he pushes one finger inside you. Of course you’re no maiden, but still… To be touched like this, as if you’re something precious, it’s entirely new to you. He curves his finger in a come hither motion, moving it in and out of you, making you cry out his name, your hips bucking up against his hand, meeting his movements with your own. You let out a whimper when he adds another finger, speeding up his ministrations, the heel of his palm moving against your pearl.

Your second peak comes far quicker than the first and you’re a babbling, incoherent mess, crying out Aemond’s name, begging for more, begging for him. Aemond doesn’t think he’s ever been this pleased with himself in his entire life with the way you’re squeezing around his fingers as you ride out your climax.

He moves to hover over you, giving his cock one slow stroke as he runs it along your cunt, “Do you want this? Do you want me?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around him, “Yes, my sweet Aemond. I need you.”

He pushes inside you, burying himself to the hilt in your warmth. Aemond doesn’t know if he could ever even begin to describe the feeling of being inside you, but he thinks it’s the closest thing to heaven that there could possibly be, you squeezing around him, moaning his name, begging for him.

You two stay like that for a moment, his lips brushing against yours, a soft kiss as you meet his gaze. Aemond begins moving slowly, holding you close to him as you adjust to his size. Every movement of his cock hits that spot inside of you that makes you feel as though you can no longer breathe. He stretches you out so perfectly as he begins pounding into you, his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust as he stares down at you, his gaze intense.

“You look so perfect under me, on top of me,” he mutters into your ear as he continues moving his body against yours, moving to mouth at one of your nipples, “Fuck, you are perfect, my love.”

You wrap your legs around him, urging him to fuck you harder, that you can take it. And he does, pistoning his hips against yours over and over until you reach your peak yet again against him. But he doesn’t stop, fucking you through your climax. You let out a squeal when he grabs your legs, pushing your knees up against your chest, hitting you at a new angle, harder and deeper than before.

“Going to fill you with my seed,” Aemond hisses, “Over and over. You’ll grow round with my babe, and when the babe is born, I’ll fuck another one into you, my love, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Overstimulated and overwhelmed but still wanting every bit of what he’s giving you, you let out a breathy mewl, “Yes, Aemond…”

His thrusts begin to slow as he gets closer and closer to his own peak, his hips stuttering slightly as he spills himself inside you, your own peak reaching you when he moves his fingers down to press against your pearl. You stare up at him, both of you panting and breathless, yet so completely satisfied and in love.

Aemond pulls out of you, only to replace his cock with his fingers, smirking slightly, “Don’t want to waste any of my seed, do we?”

You gaze at him, fondness evident in your voice, as well as complete and utter adoration, as you speak, “I love you, my sweet Aemond.”

“And I love you. I always have and I always will.”

The next day, you and Aemond are wed, despite the protests of your sister and father. He ensures that your sons are given the name Targaryen and declared legally his. You are wed even before the funerary processions begin for your husband, but Aemond could not care less, nor could you or your boys.

For you finally have the family you had always dreamt of.

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goth-iqqa · 1 year

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BLAME THE ROSES

Chapter Two- The Son, the Crippled, and the Queen

(Revised and edited)

18+ MDI

Life can only be paid with death. After the demise of Princess Allysanne, a cursed couple brings forth a new life across the Narrow Sea, unbeknownst to the war approaching.

Daemon × Fem!reader, Aegon II × reader

Warnings: angst, cheating, smut, neglect, violence, death/gore. mentions of suicide. kidnappina. dub con, non con, (Targ)incest, pregnancy, miscarriage.

AN: I’m sorry this took so long, idk what happened, pls forgive me. Im not very confident in this chapter, so just bear with me. Also if you’re reading this, thank you for your support💕ily all!!!!

THE MOMENT LADY Y/N BEGAN her descent into fire and blood was in the tourney to Jacaerys name, settled above the chants for gore and the clash of swords from men who proudly raised to the young prince. She sat next to Rhaenyra then, charmed away by the rows of bannermen and knights who crossed the burning grounds for a glorious victory, honored to their house and their lords.

It had only been a few hours since her arrival, the feast had yet to begin, and the first round of champions was set to battle. Princess Rhaenyra did not spare a moment alone for the youngest, before the scurry of pastries entered the great hall and the abrupt facade of the girl-child fell, she slithered her arms around hers with a promise to a festive slaughter of blooms. Thorns of the mighty, she called it. “You’re to be part of the Dragon soon, you will sit with us.”

Before the ground painted red, in the passing of her ripening, her ladies in waiting tugged at the strings of her dress, suffocating and tightening over bruised skin and shattered bones to the smallest silhouette her father deemed perfect. One, the oldest woman, greyer and quieter than a mouse, rubbed scented oils behind her young lady’s ears, her arms, and between her legs down below.

“Why?” Y/N asked, confused.

Her voice went dead between the ears of her maids when a knock at the door caused their heads to lower down and welcome the golden prince into his youngest daughter’s quarters. The veils of oak doors opened and Calyx Endo, dressed in black and threads of gold, stood before them, underneath the gaze of a frail sun, a smile spread across his face.

“My,” he stilled when he saw her dress. “You are beautiful, my dear girl.” Long fabrics of soft orange and yellow sunsets, woven with the symbol of her house, stretched to the floor and danced behind her figure. A jaguar, threaded with black and silver gists of precious stones remained at the pleats of her skirt, thin in rows for the aloof weather. “The most beautiful girl I have ever seen, indeed.”

“You speak lies, Father. I could never compare to the beauty of your oldest daughter. Lady Aelle is the one who should stand here, rather than me.”

Though Y/N would never speak ill of her sisters, Aelle, the oldest sired by the prince and his first wife, was the only one she spared. Aelle Endo was not wise, and—according to the jabs the young princess would often taunt—a cunt with poor skills to maintain herself afloat. One who failed in her wifely duties and carried vines of whores wrapped around her fingers and beneath her feet. If their father's wealth was thinning, Aelle would be the one to blame.

“She’d do anything to remain in your grace, Father.” She stepped away from the hands of her maids and forward to her father. Her fingers fixed and stretched the collar of his shirt. “Aelle would be more than willing to marry a child. She would not greed for more, a queen gets all the gold she desires. My sister does not have an empty hand to play if I’m allowed to say.”

Calyx chuckled. “You are right, Aelle would do anything. She is rogue and careless. I could never trust someone as sloppy as your sister is. Which is why you’re here, not her. Is that not what you wanted? To be a queen?”

“I’d be past my prime when Prince Jace sits the Iron Throne.”

“You are a child, my dear. You are much too young to think of your gray years.” He added, “I was as old as Prince Jace is now when I first wed. Aelle’s mother was nearly five and ten. Age is not a matter of concern.”

“It is, Father, it is to me. Lady Baela and Rhaena have equal name days as the prince. Who’s to say Princess Rhaenyra will choose me over the granddaughters of the Sea Snake?”

“You mustn’t worry too much,” his hands reached to hold her face and his thumbs soothed the furrow of her eyebrows. “All you’re to do is be yourself. Teach the princess to play chess without a board, make her king bend to your will. It would not be the first time a black king falls to a white queen.”

Y/N only nodded in her father’s embrace. Choosing to continue adorning her ears and fingers with golden jewelry, her maids crowded her once more. “The Tourney will be starting soon. We must make haste. The King wishes to meet you before then.”

The princess pursed her lips, like she usually did when she was disconcerted. And while that had the habit of irking her father, as long as she was not airing out her frustrations or speaking wild schemes in a game of chess, Calyx Endo was content. “Fetch Midnight, as well. He will be your gift to the prince.”

They were not the first ones to arrive, though not the last, judging by the empty row of the box where the sons of the King were meant to sit. Rhaenyra pulled her to the seat beside hers, smiling as she prepared herself to gossip with her future daughter-by-law about the different knights and ladies present. Mere heads, sworn to her and bent to her rule over them in the years to come. Hers…and the hereafter queen that lolled at her side.

It was a few more moments before the King finally rose to greet the ecstatic crowds of commoners, high lords, and knights gathered beneath the sun. He rose amidst the cheering of the tribunes below them. "Be welcome!" The crowd began to quiet down as he began his welcome discourse. "I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise, you will not return disappointed."

Y/N heard a scoff come from beside her. A pale shadow, dressed in green and flattered by the beauty of his ancestors, flumped onto the chair meant for her father.

"When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories. On this auspicious day, ten years ago, the realm was blessed with Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, my first grandson! I am happy to share this blessing among all of you,”

She looked at him, for the first time. The line of his silver scalp dancing above his shoulders, the flicker in his lilac eyes, the tip of his crooked nose, and down to the muddy boots on his feet. “I am Aegon,” he leaned with confidence and the titter of a drunken man. “Prince Aegon. And you are…?”

“Y/N,” she simply answered. “I am Y/N Endo.”

“Ah, the princess of Manmo. Mother spoke plenty of you.”

“May the light of the Seven shine upon all combatants!” King Viserys concluded with a smile, raising his hands benevolently before returning to his seat. The crowd cheered and clapped, as did all sitting in the royal square, some more or less enthusiastically.

The games began at once. Red painted the ground before long and delicate petals soothed the ache in the shouts of the people who roared after more, bashing a man for another. Y/N did not react. Not when the skull of a knight exploded beneath the fist of a bare cavalier of no house. She remained still, watching the bits of flesh spread to the walk so gently like opals of red roses. The body of the knight writhed in its last breath before falling deadly still, in foolish honor.

“What a shame,” Aegon leaned toward her once more. “Baratheon knights tend to put on a show before their end. Your brother made him squeal like a pig.”

“My brother is quite skilled, my prince,” Y/N said, pleased and raised in pride for the brother she loved most. “It is no surprise, at all.”

“That is known. It is said he fought alongside my uncle in the Stepstones when he was just a boy. Beheaded many dornishmen in battle, the knight of Blood and Steel they called him. I need not wonder if they’re just rumors anymore, Ser Syrion Corgel has proven himself quite well.”

Y/N shook her head, though her expression never changed. “My apologies, Your Grace, but you are wrong. It would be impossible for Syrion to aid in the Daughters’ War. He’s only a year younger than me, and I was only a babe when the siege came to an end.”

Below them, the drums rolled in anticipation as a King's Guard mounted the black flag and red crest of House Targaryen onto the barrel across from their shortened square.

“It was my oldest brother,” she continued. “Ser Haenys Endo, who fought along the sellsword army. He was a fine knight, and he died, with honor, as one.”

In truth, Y/N did not know many things about the War for the Stepstones or her eldest brother. A once-named heir, Haenys Endo was the only son fathered by the Solstice prince and his second wife, spared by the gods on his twentieth name day when the sword of another and the crest of a sun and a spear slew his body whole.

It was a shame, the young princess often said. She didn't remember his face anymore, puzzles of the brother she once knew were twisted and foggy in her mind, the remembrance only in the words and stories her father uttered. The bronze child, a death paid for her birth.

For a moment, Aegon appeared to register her words. She watched him, his mouth opened then closed when it seemed a joke and a taunt threatened to spill from his cracked lips. “I did not know, my lady. I simply assumed Ser Syrion was—“

“Brother?” At last, Princess Rhaenyra acknowledged the missed beat. When her question to the young girl went unanswered, and the soft grunts of discomfort disappeared, Rhaenyra turned to Y/N. She had wondered if the gore had been too much for her like it’d done in the much younger years, but her eyes landed on Aegon and she worried much more. “Are you not meant to sit beside Aemond?”

“Aemond is an idiot,” Aegon answered with a shrug. “I much rather this view, sister.”

“I’m sure your mother will not be pleased to hear you speak of our brother that way.” Rhaenyra’s eyes moved to Y/N and a smile perched on her lips. “Do you wish to change seats?”

“It is quite alright, thank you, princess.”

A pale hand soon fell over hers, embracing cold fingers in familiar warmth. “I’ve got you a gift,” Rhaenyra said, excitedly. “You used to enjoy playing Cavysse when I first met you. Do you still play?”

Y/N nodded. “I do. It’s the one thing that takes my head off all chaos.” Marriage, her father, her brother, her mother, the young princess could not decide which one. “I could not think of a more pleasurable way to relax.”

Both Aegon and Rhaenyra laughed.

“Well, yes,” the crown princess straightened her poise but the flicker of tease did not leave her eyes. “It is a mind-consuming process, I imagine. I could never keep up when you spoke about it, Cavysse and chess. A passionate little girl you were then. I almost wondered if you spoke anything other than kings and queens across black and white squares,” she said. “I hope in your stay, you will teach me to play.”

While not everything spoken of the princess was true, her love did truly lie in the pieces of wood and a simple checkered board. Even when the cards flipped, and the ashes of a lost dream roamed in the wake, Y/N remained aside the gift she most treasured. A gift from the other princess she came to love most. “I’d be honored to.”

“If you decide to spend the years to come in Dragonstone, you will need a partner to play with.”

“If I decide?”

“If you decide,” Rhaenyra repeated, “To wed my son. I will not agree to the union unless you’ve chosen for yourself. Your father is a man who speaks to please, I do not wish you to be rattled and swayed by his words, as well.”

“My Father is—“

“For his first challenge,” The loud drums announced to the crowds below them. “ Prince Daemon chooses Ser Syrion Corgel, sworn protector of Bilge and the golden islands of Manmo.”

Upon his name, Y/N’s response went quiet and she jerked her eyes to the battlefield once again. The bastard of Alanis Endo moved forward, mounted in the black stallion of his sister, and he bowed his head to the King, lifting his helmet when he turned in her direction. He smiled, confidently, shimmering in the light and fortified in clatters of silver armor. “I would kindly ask for Princess Rhaenyra’s favour.”

On the opposite end of the field, the churlish princess could see Daemon Targaryen staring, intensely, at the exchange between the bastard of Manmo and the crown princess while his squire polished the red lance in his fist. Rhaenyra, upon the tease of her husband, Laenor Velaryon, blessed the weapon of the knight with a wistful smile and a crown of red roses, delicately looped through the heavy metal lance and let it fall to the leathered grip.

“Best of luck, Ser Syrion.”

Y/N smiled, proudly, when Princess Rhaenyra returned to her seat and the beat of the drums began again. The familiarity of the scene brought a sudden chill to her back, a spark that traveled to her limbs and goosebumps painted the flawless skin of her arms and beneath her skirt. Her fists tightened in anticipation as she neared the edge of her seat.

The crowd cheered, and with one simple kick of the heels against their horse's sides, the two were off, hurtling toward one another at a speed so high. For a moment, Y/N could not distinguish their armor, had she not seen the crests carved into their shields, she would not know who declared for each side of those tribunes.

“You said your brother was skilled,” the boy at her side chimed above a whisper. “I hope he’s skilled and wise enough not to return home a corpse, my lady.”

She flinched at Aegon’s words, unwillingly, but she did not bother to reply.

Syrion was skilled, a strong cavalier, and strangely, was as much an enigma to his contemporaries as to his sister. His commanding presence drew men to his sword, Thorn, yet he had no close friends, save for his sisters, Y/N and Saera, the companions of his youth and first breath. Women were drawn to him, the princess often joked, but Ser Syrion remained ever faithful to his knighthood and the blade he wielded with passion.

The brother (the only one) she loved most, Y/N never failed to let others know. Not the people of court, not the dragons that watched as she stood and approached the rim of the balcony, silently standing next to the dwarf who watched everything, alone.

Below, in the field, Syrion and the prince neared the center in chanting mares. Her brother was quick to the task, leaning only slightly forward to ram his lance into Prince Daemon’s shoulder, almost knocking the cur off his horse. Y/N gritted her teeth, anxiously, when the silver prince managed to tighten his hold and remain on the horse until they each reached the other end of the stadium. Regaining his previous position, Daemon hurtled toward her brother once again, determined to be the only one left on his horse by the end of this.

Y/N saw it coming before her brother did. In the bite, Prince Daemon decided to stick his lance in front of her horse, the mare, much faster than smarter, rammed into the blunt curve of his weapon, a cry left the stallion’s lips when he dropped to the ground, still. His eye was raptured and carved by the lance that pierced through his skull, Y/N gasped. Her fists tightened, her knuckles turned white and they seemed to explode when she looked at his rider.

Her brother, Syrion had been thrown to the ground, folded at an awkward stance in the dirt beneath the petals, his back twisted and his arm broken. His armor was dented from the impact, edged and digging into his bruising flesh.

Despite it all, the Prince seemed perfectly content to ignore the scene he had just caused, instead he trotted his horse over to the royal box. Daemon spared only a glance her way, smirking, as he greeted his daughters and requested his youngest’s favour for the next round.

The crowd cheered hesitantly as two guards rushed to aid the defeated off the field.

Ser Syrion Corgel never got up.

According to her maids, when the hours of the owl painted the Red Keep in its dark veil, Y/N remained at her brother’s side, loyally. It was said, when the news of the incident traveled to the ears of the young princess, she’d not taken kindly to the butcher of her brother. Surely, if it were any true, Grand Maester Mellos, faithful and true to his duty, did not expect the dagger drawn to his neck, threatened by the vicious Volantene tongue.

The curtains had risen, and light flickered from the sun above into the window from the highest peak of the castle. Among the soft clatters and whispers of maesters, shuttled in the sheets, Syrion Corgel watched the scene take display mere feet from his own.

The blade, black with obsidian stones and chiseled to the sharpest of steels, pressed to the maester’s throat in a single breath. Much too fast for the watchful eyes and the bodies of the guards to react, the princess did not hesitate and she embraced the light drag of the dagger against old, damaged skin.

“Udligon nyke!” Y/N gritted, “Answer me! Will my brother ever stand again?”

Grand Maester Mellos took a shaky breath. His hand went to the girl’s shoulder in an attempt to thwart her attack, but the much smaller frame did not stop. Instead, she pushed forward and the blade dug deeper. “You said you will heal him. Did you not? You said he’d be fine, then why is he still unable to rise?!”

“Princess, I’ve done everything—“ the man tried to explain, “I’ve done everything in my knowledge. My hands are not powerful, my lady, I’ve read through countless books in the Citadel. There are cases in which the damage fixes itself. If we just give it a few days…perhaps, Ser Syrion will stand.”

“Perhaps? I will cut your—“

“Let him go, Y/N.” Behind them, the heavy doors pushed open and Calyx Endo marched with the confidence of a proud man. “Hurting the Maester of the King is punished by death, it is treason in the council’s eyes, my dear. Let the man go.”

It was the first time Y/N had seen her father. After his sudden disappearance, he had not heard the sudden call and cry that rioted from her throat, the tears that ran down his daughter’s cheeks when her brother failed to wake in the early hours after the battle of second sons—he’d been scheming, Y/N was sure. The look that was only carried by a man who stumbled upon a barrel of gold laced in his eyes so mischievously, for a moment, she feared him.

His hand did not waste a moment to yank the knife from her hold, separating both bodies with the cane, carved with the finest stones and of dragon glass. “Apologize,” he demanded. “Apologize for the mistake you’ve made and the inconvenience you’ve caused.”

Like a corpse, Y/N went along. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her eyes remained on the oldest man of the two. “It was not my intention, my Lord. I did not wish to harm you. You’ve done everything you could. It is not my place to expect miracles from a man who shares a table with the King. I deserve a punishment.”

She bowed, almost shamefully.

“It is quite alright.” He tried fixing himself. “I understand emotions are high. Your brother, Ser Syrion, will heal. Whether his legs will continue to function, is not up to me.”

Again, Y/N apologized. After a while, when the Maesters were gone and just the three of them remained, silence in the room was broken again. “He killed my horse!” She hissed, “He made my brother into a cripple! Why must he be free of punishment?”

“It was only a duel,” her father answered. “They both agreed to it. One of them was set to win, and Prince Daemon won.” Calyx turned to Syrion, who laid quietly on his bed. “Be only grateful you did not die, instead of the horse. Your mother would rain hellfire if you returned a corpse.”

“It is not fair.”

“I know. But it was a game, a game Syrion played and lost. It is nothing more, my dear.”

Y/N returned to her brother’s side. “I’m sorry,” Syrion was the first to speak. His voice was groggy, and his hand trembled when he reached the sheathed sword that rested aside him. “I can no longer protect you, sister. I had planned to, until my last breath, but—“ a sob choked from his throat.

“Don’t…”

She almost spoke further, a remembrance of the past, wooden swords and pit-and-patters of feet chanted by laughter then a threat to a wordless boy who forced a scar to his sister’s chest. Her eyes harden when she glanced at her brother once more: weak and bruised, frozen in the favour of the warm blanket that covered his twisted legs.

“You never needed my help, not ever.” When his arm stretched, the sword, leathered in a tunic of skin, was pushed into her own, forced into her grasp until her fist tightened around the sheath. “If I must return home, I will not leave you undefended. Thorn will remain in your hands.”

“It will not.” She tried to protest, “You will stay here, with it. Your legs will get better, and you will fight once more. You are not to give up, brother. I will not allow it.”

Syrion shook his head. “No. If you speak of my legs once again, I will be offended,” he laughed, a bitter laugh. “Stop being stubborn and receive my gift, at once. Swear to it.”

“But I—“

“Swear to it.”

For a moment, Y/N was quiet. She could not say no. The missed beat was soon fetched by the blade being unsheathed, the soft clatter resonating in the room like quiet pins. Thorn, the sword red as gore and mended by hot dragon breath, was a gift from Queen Visenya to the girl queen of the neighboring golden islands. Once said, fought the same wars Dark Sister slaughtered, wielding alongside Vaghar and the cats of black fur against great houses of the West.

Alysanne Endo, the Untamed, mother of all, the blessed, was—as books came to call—the first true friend of Visenya Targaryen. Before the crown was placed onto the head of her brother-husband, in the sky above, Vaghar rumbled and shook the clouds when the oath of loyalty came from Queen Alysanne, in all her mighty glory, sworn to the friend she loved most.

In the hours before her execution, as far as historians cared to record, the girl-queen broke her vow, and the blade of her sword bit into her flesh, breaking skin, and the last thread Queen Visenya declared a traitor. Alysanne Endo did not die painlessly, her last breath came with a curse to her friend and the line of successors that came from her blood.

“I will come back, one way or another,” Alysanne Endo seethed before the Iron Throne, King Maegor, and the dowager Queen. “And every time you’re reborn, I will drag you to the deepest veil of death before your first breath. I will hunt you till you are nothing but ash.”

And at last, in Ser Syrion’s eyes, the last queen had come back in the body of his sister. Weaker and smaller than the frame of the warrior afore, but Y/N would be one to prove him wrong. “It is said, only a true fighter is worthy enough for Thorn. You must only use it for protection. Do not taint its reputation with the blood of the innocent. Swear to it, sister.”

Y/N continued to watch the blade rather than her brother, observing the majestic splendor of red and silver. “I swear.” There wasn’t any truth in the words she said, yet only her father seemed to catch them. “I will wield this sword as honorably as you did.”

Anything but, had it been, when the young princess crossed Maegor’s Holdfast, the clatter of her newfound sword was not missed by the man with a debt to pay. Daemon Targaryen stood before her, a lamenting smile adorned his chalky face and his eyes roamed her figure whole for a while. The look of a jealous man, preying upon his daughters’ competition for a title that was not secured.

He was offended, Rhaenyra had hinted in the early hours. His daughter’s offer was placed on the table but refused for the one with a lesser name.

It did not help his aunt, Saera Targaryen, vile and rich with her words, only spoke the truth when it came to her granddaughter. “A girl so innocent on the outside”—her fist tightened over the handle of the red blade and her tongue rolled with unspoken threats—“but so cruel on the inside.”

The flower before him seemed to be anything but.

“How’s your brother?” Daemon asked. “I heard the King granted him countless aid.”

“He’s alright. The Grand Maester has faith, and so do I. It is not the first time Syrion has gotten injured in a tourney. Injuries come and go, they heal and are forgotten.”

The prince nodded his head. His eyes moved to the sword guarded in her hands. “Thorn,” he whispered, almost amused. “Last I saw it was in Ser Haeny’s hold as he slaughtered men in my name. It is nice for Dark Sister to be at its once-companion's side yet again. A good change, even. It deserves to be in the hands of someone like you, niece. People speak lively of your skills, it is no wonder.”

Y/N bit her tongue and smiled. “Perhaps you would like to help me. I do not know much about swords, a knife gifted by Otto Hightower is the closest thing I’ve held to a blade.”

“I’d enjoy bonding with the blood of my whore of an aunt, but I don't seem to have enough time. Should you be in urgent need, seek the help of tainted bastards like yourself, niece. Perhaps one like your brother will teach you well.”

Daemon smirked then pushed past her.

“Prince Daemon,” Y/N called. He turned to face her. “I hope you are careful at night. It is your tendency to escape into the tunnels of the Red Keep, you might not know what hides in the darkness. You are aging, and your senses must be going mute. I will pray for your safety…uncle.”

A quiet oath was made when she was the one to walk away.

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goth-iqqa · 1 year

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.ೃ࿐ 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙪𝙡: 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 1

summary : you are the youngest daughter of Viserys I Targaryen and Aemma Arryn. Outlived your mother and your older twin brother, Baelon, in childbirth. You were titled as (Y/n) “The Undying” Targaryen.

pairing : jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!reader

warnings : incest, sexual content, tension, age gap (reader is about 2-3 years older), jace is about a year older in this fic, misogyny, self-harm, violence, teen pregnancy, birth, events do take place in hotd, meraxes is alive and thriving with vhagar :D

Chapter 2 Chapter 3

The dreary atmosphere in the chambers that were occupied by Queen Aemma’s birthing was soon vanished and was replaced by sudden cries that did not belong to the Prince Baelon but a Princess.

“Your grace, it appears she had carried another babe. It is a girl,” the maester carefully wrapped the babe in a cloth before bringing her to King Viserys, “a very healthy one, in fact, what will she be named?” Viserys couldn’t believe his eyes as the babe kept wailing for her mother but in an instant, he held the babe with much affection and love while he cried.

On that day, the realm has lost their Queen and Prince but has gained another Princess, named (Y/n) “The Undying” Targaryen.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Gently pressing your hands onto the old dragon, Meraxes, who you bonded with for years now. You began caressing her white scales as she leans into your touch—wanting to keep being the eye of your attention before you pulled away and started heading your way back to the castle in your personal carriage

“Meraxes seems to be growing even more each year, my Princess. Might be even larger than the Black Dread soon enough.” Lysanna, your Lady-in-Waiting, nervously utter as you laughed. You have been forcing her to feed Meraxes for weeks now—you never seen the young girl sweat so much while handing your dragon food.

You handed your gloves to Lysanna for safekeeping and she pocketed them in her coat. You both reached inside the castle. You had wanted to check up on your sister as she was to be expected in labor soon but first you headed to your father’s chambers to see how well he’s doing.

You opened the doors with Lysanna by your side, “Ah! My young girl…what brings you here, my sweet child?” your father, Viserys, lights up to see his daughter visiting.

Like always, he’s sitting by the windows and sculpting. The architecture has increased in size each year ever since you were just a babe. He would always lecture about his creation with you on his lap. Till this day, it still amazes you that he created this.

“I do not need a reason to see my father. I was on my way back from the dragon keep,” you sat in front of him, raising your hands to grab his in order to place a kiss on it, “Meraxes also wishes good fortune. She even cried out for my attentiveness today.”

To your words of Meraxes, Lysanna slightly giggles.

“Of course,” he brings his attention back to his sculpting, “you remind that dragon of Rhaenys Targaryen, the wife of Aegon the Conqueror. Whether you like to believe it or not.”

It is true. You have been often compared to the late Queen Rhaenys Targaryen, you both shared similarities. Perhaps that is the main reason why Meraxes chose you to be her new dragon rider.

“Have you considered the Queen’s offer?”

You turned your head back to your father—who looked rather serious. You could only gulp and rub your hands anxiously, “about…the betrothal to Aegon..? I can’t say I had put much thought to it.”

The atmosphere in the room changed quickly, you felt. You didn’t want to spend your precious time with your father talking about betrothals. You wished to be free from marriage and children as much as you can.

“The Princess is right, my King,” Lysanna spoke up, there was no evidence of nervousness in her voice, “she has been under much stress due to Princess Rhaenyra’s upcoming labors..”

The thought of marrying your young brother scared you tremendously, knowing how he treats the handmaidens—including you, Halaena, and even Lysanna. You did not wish to be betrothed just yet, especially to a man like your brother.

You cleared your throat and sighed, “If you do not wish to be betrothed, my sweet girl then I understand,” your father promises as you looked up with eyes that were prickled with small tears, “I will give you all the time in the world.”

“Thank you, my King.”

Although there was a slight crack in your tone, you certainly appreciated your father’s patience and understanding. You seemed to feel guilt for wanting to put off opportunity of marriage for as long as you can but you are certain you won’t have much time before you are forced to be betrothed.

With your thoughts disappearing, Viserys only looked at you with a soft smile and placed a kiss on your cheek. You got up from your seat and headed out with Lysanna.

After leaving his chambers, you walked all over the castle to find Rhaenyra’s chambers, you pass by lords and ladies who would bow out of curtesy. It was clear they all know you had just visited the King. As you place your hand over Lysanna’s in an affectionate way,

“Thank you for stepping in. I could not last another second talking about marriage, especially with father.”

Lysanna looked over to you—she was obviously feeling upset for you. She had voiced her concerns many times about how she did not want you to be married off to Aegon. No—you deserve better than that.

“If I could, I would do anything for you to not be wedded off to that boy,” she said with ease, paying no mind to the people around you both, “I would rather have you be betrothed to my brother just so we could be sisters and both be ladies of Winterfell.”

At the thought of living out the rest of your days in Winterfell, you could only laugh. Maybe your life would’ve been more easier and happier if you were to be living in the North. Lysanna had told you many stories about Winterfell, it only left you wanting to visit the cold Castle even more. It even meant you could always be with Lysanna and see the snow everyday—you always wanted to see the snow.

As the doors that belonged to Rhaenyra’s chambers opened, you were attacked by the limbs of the young princes and their clinginess towards you and Lysanna. They quickly wrapped themselves around you both.

“Auntie! Have you just came back from riding Meraxes?! I saw you both flying in the sky! I was waving too,” Luke exclaimed. With swiftness, he was already up in Lysanna’s arms. You and Lysanna only giggled at the young boy and his eagerness.

You gave his forehead a big kiss before walking over to the couches that were placed in the middle of the room to sit. “Indeed, my dear nephew. I even had Lysanna to feed Meraxes today,” Luke gasped at the statement, had he only been begging to touch the Silver Queen for weeks now. He feels betrayed that you let Lysanna feed him. “do not fret. You can mount her…if your mother only agrees.”

As you hear him whine at the agreement—knowing Rhaenyra would never let him or Jace near Meraxes until they were at least twenty, you see Jace only sit right next to you and place his head on your shoulders.

“Mother is starting her labors. She had just left and even wished to see you before you left the castle,” Jace muttered, though you could see how scared he is for his mother. Placing a short kiss on his head, “I shall stay and company you and your brother until she has come back.” You said as he smiles at your efforts.

Watching Lysanna and Luke play on the floor—both very indulged in the wooden figures that are scattered, you could hear your nephew shouting battle cries as Lysanna merely plays along. But still, you worry for your sister—you wished you came sooner and possibly be there for her during her labors.

Jace suddenly spoke up and forced your attention back onto him, “Aegon had said..that you were to be betrothed to him. Is it true, Princess?”

With the young boy’s confused look, you could only sit in silence and grimace at the fact that your brother had the audacity to spread such gossip to your innocent nephews. Your thoughts were soon to be interrupted by the Prince,

“Please don’t marry him!” he cried out, it brought Lysanna and Luke’s attention, wondering why is Jace getting so emotional. “He said that if you do then I won’t be able to see you again, you will be locked up in your shared chambers and occupied being swollen with children.”

How dare Aegon say such inappropriate things to him!? You would never let yourself be treated with such disrespect, especially by your own family.

Jace continues to plead, you quickly hold him in your arms as a way to calm him down. “What did I say about never believing a word Aegon says?” you smiled down at the boy, you had to put up a front in order to not let him see how hurt you were from those words. “He is only jesting and I promise you, I will not leave you. If he says another word about this then ignore it and don’t let him tease you, alright?”

As the boy nods his head, he spoke up once more, “If I could, I would ask to be betrothed to you, Targaryens do marry each other and that would mean I could be your sworn protector.” the words settled in and all you could do was smile and mess with his curls. You didn’t expect him to answer back but it left you feeling rather troubled.

After awhile of waiting, you felt yourself drift off on the couch but was quick awaken from the sound of the chamber doors opening—expecting it to be your sister but it was only the Commander of City Watch, you gave Ser Harwin a smile when he walked in.

“Princess,” he bowed his head before the boys made their to greet him. You nodded your head and out of respect, you fixed your position on the couch.

“Oh! How could we forget?!” Luke exclaimed before making his way to the counter that held a huge black pot, “Auntie! Ser Harwin had taken us to the dragonpit while you were away, we had collected an egg for the baby! Come Liz, you must see too!”

You wanted to see the color of the egg so badly so you quickly made your way towards the kids with Lysanna, watching Jace lift up the lid and it revealed the egg—it was certainly gorgeous, the whole egg was a dark colored that reminded you of the Black Dread’s scales. The egg must’ve been from one of the several clutches of eggs that Meraxes had laid during this month, she has been laying as much eggs as she can but it only made your father happier than ever.

In awe, you still kept your focus on the egg before Lysanna had nudged your shoulder. “Be careful, my Princess. You will burn yourself if you are too close.”

“We thought of a few names for the dragon! But of course that is up to the baby to decide.”

“Very well. Make sure the egg is placed in the cradle soon,” you voiced out and let Jace put the lid back on before watching them lead the commander onto the floor to play with the toys. They seemed to become even more happier now that Harwin Strong has come back but if they were happy then so are you. He acted more like a father to them and you weren’t the only one to have noticed, almost everyone in court seems to think so—especially the Queen. Unlike the other lords and ladies from court, you do not bother in such gossips about their parentage. They are still Targaryen, that is what matters.

“And, he sees a big scary dragon!” Jace exclaimed, playing with the toys, and you smiled at how invested he was in the game. The door suddenly opened and it revealed to be your older sister. Ser Harwin stood up as your sister and her husband walked in. You watched Jace and Luke quickly run to show mother the dragon egg. Rhaenyra’s hair was damp with sweat and messy, she looks completely worn out.

“Dear sister, I hope the labors went well. Let your mother rest, children.”

“Thank you, young sister. I must admit, it was rather more discomforting than the last.” She smiles, leaning into your touch and you can feel the sweat that was painted on her skin. It felt good to be by her side once again, even if it’s been a few hours that you both were separated.

“Mother..look,” Jace said as she moved to find a seat. Rhaenyra glanced at the dragon egg as she carefully sat down with Ser Harwin’s help. The Commander of the City’s Watch was always so kind to all of you. “We chose an egg for the baby.” Luke finished for Jace. In Laenor’s arms was the new child to your sister’s family. The thought of her having a big family warmed your heart—you felt the possibility that you were experiencing baby fever.

“Ahh…that looks like the perfect one.”

“It’s not everyday a dragon egg leaves the dragon pit, my Princess. I thought it was best to escort the lads.” Ser Harwin explained. Rhaenyra nodded, reassured that there was someone to watch over them, “Laenor and I thank you, Commander.” Jace closed the pot and you focused your eyes back on the newborn child.

“Another boy, I heard.” Ser Harwin softly said, and you watched as Rhaenyra smiled, confirming. As Laenor was coddling the babe, whispering sweet things. You heard him clearly, “You will make a fine knight,” he had said. The thought of the three boys becoming knights once they were more older was a fine one for sure.

“Do not worry, sister. You will soon have a girl, I’m sure of it.” Rhaenyra laughed at your comment, giving your hand a quick squeeze. She had always wanted a daughter and you knew this.

“Might I?” Ser Harwin asked, kindly.

With silence disappearing quickly, Rhaenyra uttered, ”Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey.”

The Velaryon didn’t argue. He simply gave the babe to Ser Harwin before he started to rock the babe gently. “Joffrey, is it?” he asked, Laenor nodded. The name left you a little baffled, it was an unusual name for a Velaryon nor Targaryen but you did not want to voice your opinion.

Rhaenyra cleared her throat and laid her eyes on Lysanna, “Lady Lysanna, I apologize on behalf of the rejection to your wish on riding back home to the North,” from what you heard, your lady-in-waiting had asked to attend back home once again to celebrate with her brother who become the next Warden of the North, “I am sure the Queen has her reasons but I will make sure to speak of it with council on the morrow.”

Lysanna gave your sister a faint smile and nodded her head. You knew she had just come back from the entombment of her father—Lord Rickon Stark, whom had passed away. She received word from her brother, Cregan, not too long that he wishes to see her again. You had no idea why Alicent would even reject the idea, considering they are distant relatives from her mother’s side.

“The Queen knows what is best for me..she had promised my mother that she would look after me during my time here in King’s Landing.”

Even if Lysanna says those words with a grin on her face, you can tell she was still upset. She had missed her family dearly and wishes to be back home permanently but you knew there was a slim chance that Alicent would allow that to happen.

“I assure you, you will ride back to Winterfell. I will talk to the King..his word is above the Queen’s.” You reassured the young lady, Lysanna was truly in debt to you and your sister.

“Father, may I hold Joffrey?”

Suddenly, you spot Luke clinging to the baby, trying to hold him before getting yanked away by Jace and his father. “No, no, no.” Laenor fiercely exclaimed, dragging them both out, “Off to the dragon pit, you two.”

“But I want to hold Joffrey!” Luke whined.

You let out a loud laugh and ushered Lysanna to follow them, “Please escort the princes to the dragon pit. I shall meet you three there, I must talk to my sister on an important matter.”

Lysanna quickly glanced over to Rhaenyra then back to you before nodded and left with the kids as Laenor closes the door behind him.

Once they left, you could only sigh in relief. You had longed to talk to Rhaenyra and she quickly noticed your sudden change in attitude after she had excused the Commander of City’s Watch, holding young Joffrey when he gave him to her before leaving, “What has been troubling you, young sister?”

You fiddled with your thumbs in response, not knowing how to speak about the topic of marriage, labors, and children.

“Father brought it up again.”

With that, Rhaenyra immediately knew. Of course she knew, she was the one who quickly stood to your defense when the Queen had first proposed the idea. She let it be known that she was your voice in court and always stated that you will wed under your own terms. Afterall, your ten-and-four nameday was coming up soon and you were at the age of being wedded off, Alicent made sure you had known that.

Rhaenyra snaked her unoccupied hand to hold yours, she wanted to comfort you. Truly, she loves you so much. You were the only thing she now has of the memory of your mother and it was quite known that Rhaenyra was protective of you.

“Listen to me, sister,” Rhaenyra whispered, softly, “you will have the choice to yourself, I will make sure of it. You can put off the decision for as long as you want, I was ten-and-seven when I was betrothed.”

Her reassurance only helped little. You know she will do her best to keep you safe, she always showed this. But the Queen will always do everything in her power to have it her way. Ever since you were just a babe, she was so persistent to take care of you like you were one of her own children—even referred you as her “eldest daughter” way too many times in court and it had always left Rhaenyra with a sour feeling.

“A wise woman had once told me,” Rhaenyra lets out a sharp sigh before continuing, “that we both have royal wombs and you will lie in this bed soon enough, sweet sister. This discomfort is how we serve the realm and with that, I had now understood what she had said. But of course..merely hours later, that wise woman had died in childbed.”

You could only take a deep breath and breathe out slowly, you did not want to cry but your own body was betraying you.

“Was it mother who spoke those words?”

Rhaenyra only gave you a fainted smile before nodding, “She would’ve been so proud on what you had become, dear sister.” Those words completely broke you and you could no longer hide the warm tears streaming down your cheeks.

Truly, you missed your mother and years after years you had blamed yourself for the death of your twin brother and mother. As though you were named to be the Realm’s Beauty and Undying—you knew deep down the Realm had longed for your deceased brother, not you.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Oh my gosh, it took me about a month to write this lol! I am honestly going by hotd’s plot and a few of my ideas for the story. I do not want to fully go by fire and blood because I want this story to be less angst hehe. My first time writing, so sorry if it sucks! I apologize 😭

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goth-iqqa · 1 year

Text

BLAME THE ROSES

Chapter One- Words of a Broken Fool

18+ MDI

Life can only be paid with death. After the demise of Princess Allysanne, a cursed couple brings forth a new life across the Narrow Sea, unbeknownst to the war approaching.

Daemon × Fem!reader, Aegon II × reader

Warnings: angst, cheating, smut, neglect, violence, death/gore. mentions of suicide. kidnappina. dub con, non con, (Targ)incest, pregnancy, miscarriage.

Thank you for your support 😫💕 (comment if u wish to be added)

@myrcxlla @alisonbecker @hightowerwife @winxschester

YEARS AFORE THE BIRTH of the Saddened Queen, the lore extended further than the books of vines and kings told. The fool, Mushroom, tethered with the laughter of court, said it started way before Prince Daemon sowed the love of the Manmo Princess, before all the bodies fell and the wings of a dragon took forth a flight across the Narrow Sea. He said it began amidst a rumble of the crown and a greedy offer from the lions of Casterly Rock.

“Betroth them, Your Grace.”

King Viserys did not expect the words to taunt his hazy mind. Laughter had tumbled in the tent, a facade to veil the shouts of a docile princess who wished not to marry, but the sweet taste of grapes blessed his lips and the offers for a wildling’s hand did not make haste. He was trapped, among the men who lusted after a white stag and the women who whispered of the Stepstones. The least a king could do was to drown away, expecting the fire to burn outside and the ashes of a lost dream to fly with the wind.

“What?”

“Prince Aegon and Rhaenyra.”

His eyes searched for the boy he sired. Behind the silken curtain of wild skins, Aegon whined and writhed in the arms of his maids. He reached for the girl across the small square, stuffing her mouth, round and full, of lemon tarts and raw honey treats she was not kind to share. Alysanne, daughter from her father’s loin, was the bare mimic of the beauty Queen Aemma had been, before the butchering came and the curses hallowed a corpse. She looked up at the King, eyes wide with mischief, and she smiled at him.

Viserys returned it, waving the girl’s attention back to the souring brother. “The boy just turned two,” he said. “Otto, he is a child.”

The Lord Hand nodded. “Yes. But it would cease the endless proposals for Rhaenyra’s hand. Only then, they will move on to Alysanne. The Lord of Casterly Rock sounded open to a marriage with a princess. If Rhaenyra and Aegon are betrothed, he will settle for princess Alysanne—“

A peal of laughter broke from the King. “Princess Alysanne will remain untouched by offers from a man whose ego is greater than his head.” His chest rose and the goblet of wine touched his lips again. “I came here to unwind,” with a loud gulp he turned back to the man who spoke. “Not to be suffocated by all this politi-king!”

“Of course. Let us speak no more of it.”

Otto Hightower stood from the stolen chair and parted, shamefully, away from the King.

When the last bit of his cup dried, and his belly could hold no more, King Viserys raised to the quiet tent and watched the flickering light of endless logs. He, stolen from sober sanity, had not felt the tug to his leg and the eyes of his youngest daughter, Alysanne, that watched him from below the shadows. The calls of servants for their small princess went unheard, filched away by the cackling flames of the fire that burned the skin of his cheeks red and raw.

“Is Rhaenyra to return soon, father?”

The princess of just nine name days, as Mushroom would include, was well-spoken for a girl her age. It was no surprise her tongue ran fluently when only the proper knowledge, provided by maesters and scholars from the Citadel, was given to the princess who acted with wildness like her sister’s. “My tent is dark, and she promised to sing to me. She promised, but she isn’t here.”

Viserys did not waste his breath on a foolish explanation, he did not know where his daughter hid nor did he care to know after the mockery that left her lips and silenced the entire court. Instead, he kneeled before his daughter and his warm hands caressed the cold of her cheeks. “She will sing to you. Rhaenyra always keeps the promises she makes to you, does she not?”

A smile spread on his face. Not a genuine one, but one enough to satisfy the hesitant ache in the flicker of Alysanne’s eyes. “Head to bed, now. I am sure Rhaenyra will return before you are tucked in.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Gods were cruel, Mushroom explained. Their eyes, twisted and vile, had dotted on the most innocent soul who wandered the halls of the palace and pleaded giggles and jokes from a mere fool. For the moment the fire died, and the King vanished into a deep slumber, the light of one tent remained.

The death of Princess Alysanne was no mistake. Not when the blood pooled at the bottom of the hill, and strands of hair and milky flesh caught on the spikes meant for the white stag Otto so proudly chanted for. It was a tragedy, truly, the guards began the puzzle of the unknown, and their theories, hazy with sleep, mocked the cries of King Viserys all at once.

It was said the youngest princess wandered into the line of twisted trees, calling out for her sister, brimming with tears, as she stared into the deep, green abyss of weeping winds. When her sworn shield saw her, Alysanne was lurked further away by the claws of darkness.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

Alysanne had tripped in the mangled roots and rolled down the drop-off that sliced through the terrain. In the shadows and fog, the girl dove into a pit of sharp branches—a deadly trap meant to ensnare another life.

"I deserve the highest punishment; I failed my only duty. Princess Alysanne is dead because of me."

King Viserys stared at his daughter's body, at least what remained of it. He'd been quiet the entire time, frozen in place, watching as if the last piece of his beloved would fade away with a single blink. It would, eventually, when the fire devoured what was left and her ashes flew away with the scorching wind. Until the chants of Syrax came, and the Silent Sisters took her, he held onto his daughter's hand.

"Husband." his wife, Queen Alicent, said after a while. She'd been sleeping, at least trying to, in her tent when the news of the missing princesses arose. Her father had been the one to deliver the news, the old man of brown hair bursting into her tent despite her ladies’ pleas to not disrupt the pregnant queen's sleep.

His words were drenched with sarcasm, and a mocking song escaped his lips as he wondered about Princess Rhaenyra's whereabouts and if she too whisked the younger princess to her savage adventures. She had shushed him when his tongue twisted to place blame on her friend for causing a rumble of chaos on his grandson's second name day. Then, after he suggested poor Alysanne’s demise, she marched in search of her drunk husband's tent.

"My sweet girl,"

Only fate would have Otto Hightower's words be true. For the moment the eldest Princess returned, bloody and disheveled, and in the company of Ser Criston, without knowledge of her sister, did the noblemen, ladies, and servants begin to search for the second daughter of the crown.

It had been Jason Lannister who found the young princess’s guard. His armor of steel was off and he cradled himself against a tree, crying, or sweating—the Lord couldn't tell. His shirt was off, his once fair skin now rubbed raw with dirt and blood. His nails had been ripped out from climbing back up the hill, he muttered between gasps, "It was my fault." Beside his legs, on the cold mossy ground, laid a disfigured body covered by his linen shirt.

"My innocent girl," Viserys cried when the Lannister twin arrived with the body of his young daughter. He'd wobbled up to him, snatching the girl from his arms and taking her into his own embrace. The King collapsed to his knees, rocking the child, begging, no, ordering, demanding, for her eyes to open at once. They didn't. He blamed the wine from the night before, the septa in charge of her, his own guards, the useless servants—for a moment he thought of blaming Rhaenyra.

Surely, if she'd just agreed to his offer, or at least showed a bit of interest in his choice, they wouldn't have fought. She would have stayed at their side and poor Alysanne would have remained asleep, lulled away by that stupid melody Aemma would hum into her ear.

When his eyes turned to the crown princess, she too kneeled beside him. She hummed that same song with tears brimming in her eyes. Her voice was soft and shaky, probably caught by the knot he felt in his own throat.

She gently caressed the muddy locks of hair, soothing as if the child were to awaken by a sudden pull. "I'm sorry.” He wasn't sure what he apologized for. His eyes met hers, violet and flickering in red pools of water. "I’m sorry.” For your mother, for your sister. For everything.

Rhaenyra remained quiet. The taste of grief was becoming a familiar palette to the princess, she was sure her father savored it on his tongue as well. She hoped he would, at the very least.

"It's time."

When the guards approached to take the child, the King yelled at them, pointed a dagger of pure Valyrian steel, and told them to stay away. He begged for another moment, a mere second to enjoy the touch of his daughter like he’d done before by the cackling of the fire. But the body was beginning to swell and maesters warned him of the morbid process of decay.

"A father should never witness such a thing, Your Grace."

"Don't! Don't you fucking tell me what to do!"

In the bite of it all, it was Rhaenyra who tugged at his arms, soft pleas rolled from her lips till they silenced with a kiss to his temple. He finally gave, then. One of the remaining pieces of his darling Aemma silently slipped from his arms once again. His heart ached.

Viserys didn’t feel the hands of his wife fall on his shoulders, the gentle whisper of comfort that failed to reach his ear. Instead, he was taunted by the promise he did not hold. Rhaenyra had not returned to sing to her. He wondered—no, hoped, her death was peaceful, at once, and not slow and painful. He choked, and for the rest of his days, he would wonder why no marks sowed to her skin, and when the rebirth of a flower bloomed, the King would slowly die. Surly and painful.

He watched as Rhaenyra left, trailing behind the servants who carried her sister into an empty carriage surrounded by ladies and lords of court, and Mushroom, who stood ghastly still.

“She shall have a bed of roses prepared for her burial,” Queen Alicent spoke, for both her husband and the late princess's maid. "Red. They were her favorites."

Though his head rested low, the king nodded. "Red,” he whispered to himself, almost like a chant. "They were her favorites."

When it first happened, years after the demise of an infant princess, a new season bloomed and the streets of King’s Landing were covered in a bright sheen under the pale sun. Clouds were shaped like tufty pillows then, and glided slowly across the sky, until they shattered, pulling apart when the wings of a golden dragon flew past and ringed ribbons of flickering light from its throat into the frail sky above.

It was the morrow of Prince Jacaerys’ tenth name day, and an open invitation traveled to the realm, spreading to every corner of the West like vines sowing through the soil and tugging at the last speck of ice in Winterfell. It was no surprise when ships of every house arrived at the port of Blackwater Rush, bearing gifts and hailing the prince, a future king, while others, in vile whispers, hailed a bastard born of sin.

Before the Saddened Queen, there was the Churlish Princess, wild and poisoned like the waves that separated the mouths of her ancestry home and Dragonstone. In a fleet with unfurled banners of a black jaguar in a yellow field, Y/N Endo stretched across the border of the deck to watch the dragon kiss the ripple of the sea. The golden dragon, saddled with a faceless rider, waved his wings, and light, drizzling rain greeted the skin of her face with strangling coldness and the taste of salt on her lips.

“Beautiful, ghastly beasts they are,”

Her eyes, brown and wide like her father’s, turned to the man who dared stand at her side. “You said they were filthy creatures. That one seems to be made of gold, brother dearest.”

“From afar, yes. Up close, sister, you will tremble to your knees with fear and disgust, alike.”

Syrion Corgel was the bastard of Manmo, sired by an unknown and birthed by the same womb of their blind mother. It was often rumored of the men she entertained at her husband’s wish, they were not true. But her name carried a filthy history. Alanis Endo was said to be a whore like her own mother had been, blind, and sold to the wealthiest. A curse expected to follow like thorns to the next babe born of her blood.

Y/N, however, would not. “I hope to see one up close. Then, maybe, I’d die the death of my choice.”

“Being devoured by flames?” Syrion laughed. “You have been speaking of death since the moment you stepped into this ship, why? What’s grasping your small mind, sister?”

“Father seems to think an offer for my hand will be made tonight. He says Targaryen court is the most thriving for a proposal, even better if I catch the eye of a prince or the mother of one.”

“All your father wants is the crown back to the head it belongs to. It was only your luck to be born an Endo,” he mocked. “If it’s fated, the Queen has borne three princes, and the crown princess has a future king and the future Lord of the Tides.”

A small scoff left her lips. “He already decided my fate. Yet, all I want is a home with a big garden, brother.” She leaned away against the deck, and a wave of long, pale-silver hair cascaded down her sides, waving in the wind, as she continued to watch the golden dragon disappear in the flames of the sun. “I want nothing more.”

While many servants and charladies of the princess spoke different versions of what led the Endos away from their seat in Manmo, the truth only laid in the intentions of a father to wed his daughter to a Targaryen prince. It was no surprise when a smile strewed across the face of Princess Rhaenyra, a gentle and affirming one, when her eyes landed on the ones of the girl promised to her eldest son. Y/N Endo, the heir to the Solstice name, and future leader of Manmo, would join the books of dragons, unaware of the infant stud butchered and crossed from history meant to be reborn in her sake.

“Prince of Manmo, Lord of the Solstice name, Calyx Endo, and his heir, the Princess of Bilge, Y/N Endo.”

Above her gaze, the Iron Throne sat on a raised iron dais with high and narrow steps. King Viserys plumbed himself in its sharp edges and melted handles, and on his lap, with a smile so timidly, Prince Jacaerys waved at the girl he knew only by a vaunted name.

It was said, even before their meeting, his mother did not spare untold details of the great beauty his future queen was. A wife with the blood of Old Valyria, blessed by the gods, their children would bloom just as beautifully and the silent questions of a certain heritage would stop, once and for all. Had their betrothal gone through, and the princess had not ached for the greed, the betrayal of queens would remain a thought to be wither away with the winds of a war.

“I’ve brought you a gift,” Y/N said with a smile. From behind her, her bastard brother carried a golden cradle and presented it to the feet of the young prince. “Jaguars are said to symbolize strength, ferocity, and courage. Black fur is rare among them. Being born on the same moon as you, my prince, it seemed awry not to bring you two together.”

Jacaerys raised the cub in his hands. It screeched, writhing away from the unknown scent before him, biting and clawing at the hands of the prince who gasped and shook nervously.

With a painful poke to her rib by the cane of her father, Y/N stepped forth. Purpling fingers stretched over Jacaerys’ own and she tugged at the black fur of the tiny creature. “He won’t like you for a while,” she said, softly for only him to hear. “He was taken from his mother’s side. Unsureness and fright is the cruelest and most dangerous form of men and animals alike, my prince.”

The Churlish Princess pushed the frail ball into his chest, letting the claws bite at the leather of his shirt instead of the reddening flesh of his hands. She rubbed the tiny cuts, whispering luring heals into his ear. “May the gods always keep you in their good grace.”

From the side of the throne, Rhaenyra raised her goblet in the air and toasted to her son’s name. Her eyes, however, did not leave Y/N Endo, not when the girl bowed and retrieved back to the crowd of chanting guests with a vanished smile. Instead, she nudged Mushroom, and with lips red by the wine, she requested of him a new task.

“Do make the princess laugh. Happy people tend to speak more freely than words laced with wine, do they not? I want to hear her laughter before the sun sets.”

The broken fool could not say no, not to the princess he adored the most. When he wobbled to the youngest, eyes gleaming at the beauty of a girl he once knew, he bowed and the bells sewed to his clothes clattered against one another. “I am Mushroom, princess, this court’s fool.” He bowed again, “It is my pleasure to meet you.”

“Mushroom,” she repeated. “What an odd name.” Her lips twisted to a smile and she extended her hand out.

When the fool did not move and stared at her waiting fingers, confused, she laughed. “I am Y/N. It is common for people who have just met to shake hands, Mushroom.” Y/N explained. She extended her hand out, once again. “You and I have just met. Come on, now.”

For a moment, Mushroom seemed to hesitate before her poised stand. Her hands were much larger than his, every finger, long and cold, decorated by fine rings and jewels that danced to her wrists. She’d been too naive then, the eyes of her father watched them from afar, almost ashamed of the way her words addressed a man lower than a servant. Had he been close, the older man would not hesitate to pinch the bruising skin his daughter held beneath the fabrics of her skirt.

“Mushroom?” Her fingers flexed.

At once, the smaller hand swarmed into her own, bending to palm, and they shook, like friends would have done. For the first time, the broken fool smiled, genuinely, at the girl who fated their end.

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goth-iqqa · 1 year

Text

For @obsidian-hearts who requested a Daemon x fem reader with Somnophilia

WC: 840

Warnings: Somnophilia, mild daddy kink, mild dub-con

*comments/reblogs are appreciated

The sweet red wine had gone to your head as the heavy feeling overtook your body. You wanted your comfortable bed and the sweet relief of sleep.

“Where are you going?” Daemon asked after he drained his cup. You wondered where he put it all.

“To bed,” you yawned before you stood and helped yourself to a honey cake. A little sweet treat before slumber. You stumbled slightly, letting out a soft giggle as you steadied yourself.

“Mayhaps I should carry you,” Daemon mused, and you felt his eyes glued on you.

“I’ll be fine,” you replied with a soft pout.

He tilted his head, a smirk on his face as some of his long silver hair toppled down a shoulder. “You say that, and I’ll be scooping you off the floor a few moments later,” he scolded with a light tsk.

"That has happened.... thrice at the most,” you teased as you gathered your dress before making your way down the dimly lit halls toward your chambers.

“Riñītsos,” he hummed before he stood to follow you. You paid him no mind, almost tripping over your own feet as you attempted to scurry away. He lifted you into his arms to carry you the rest of the way; a disapproving look etched across his face. Your breath caught in your throat, making your ribcage feel tight as you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck and then nuzzled your face into his shoulder.

His grip was tight and strong as he whisked you safely into your shared quarters before placing you on the bed. His lips claimed yours in a hungry kiss before he pulled away to stroke the dying embers of the fire, making the blaze hot and bright. You buried your face into a pillow as sleep began to overtake your body. Lulled by the scraping of the poker and the sound of his boots against the stone, your eyes fluttered shut as drowsiness set in.

When Daemon returned to the bed; you were almost asleep. In that sweet state of haziness and peace. You murmured softly when you felt his face press against the back of your neck after he had swept your hair away.

Pleasure twisted in your belly when you felt his hand settle against it. But you were so comfortable. You could barely move.

“Daemon,” you whispered, not even bothering to open your eyes.

“Is that my name, riñītsos?” A dark edge to his voice.

“Kepa” you panted.

“Very good,” he praised. His hand moved to gather your dress around your waist as he left you settled on your side. His pretty sleeping princess. That one warm hand pressed between your plush thighs before his fingertips stroked across your wet folds.

A little moan escaped as you wiggled against his touch.

“Shhh just lay there and let Kepa take care of you,” Daemon cooed into your ear while a skilled finger circled your pearl. Teeth scraped against the back of your neck. Slowly, his fingers opened you up; making you drip and ache for more. Pleasure swirled inside as you inhaled a shaky breath. The wine made your limbs heavy and mouth dry, but still, you didn’t want him to stop. You were caught in a blissful nirvana.

You whined when his fingers pulled away and you heard the soft ruffling of fabric before the tip of his leaking cock teased your swollen folds. You imagined his hand full of hard, plump cock, stroking himself until he was ready to take you, to claim you. A simple lift of your thigh, while he shifted closer to press inside of you. Slow thrusts allowed him to slip deeper and deeper. Fingers gripped the pillow as he slowly filled your sweet cunt with all of him.

You simply lay there as he rocked his hips; the arm around your waist pulled you closer against his warm body. A bit of drool puddled around the corner of your mouth as you clenched around him. It was the most your body was willing to give. Everything else was in his control. You enjoyed it. A hand cupped one breast over your gown, kneading it firmly as his pelvis snapped against the soft curve of your backside. Molten and silken under his touch. Sleep still clung to you as if heavy, woven webs of a black spider as he grunted in your ear. Caught in a space between reality and a dream world.

Your belly tightened as you gave into the gratification of it all, allowing yourself a sweet release as your juices coated him. His mouth clamped against the curve of your neck as he rutted hard before he spilled his seed inside of you. You waited for him to pull out, but it didn’t happen. Instead, he remained nestled inside of you as his own body grew heavy with sleep. Your hands rested on top of his large ones which rested on your belly as the two of you melted together into the sweet embrace of slumber.

Tag List: @watercolorskyy @shruie @aemondsdaemons @rottingviserys @borikenlove @megatardisbaby @evisnotok @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed

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goth-iqqa · 1 year

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bestie just imagine ivy league!boyfriend geto 🥴🥴

oh.

from above, they are untouchable, unapproachable, two gods looking down from where they sit in the balcony taking in the best and brightest, all so young and free and ready to change the world. geto sits at the back of a lecture hall with his chin tucked into his palm and gojo right next to him as their eyes scan across the room nonchalantly. with his feet kicked up atop the mahogany railing, gojo chews on homemade daifukus, already bored out of his mind, then shoots you a smirk when he's caught you staring, "another one of your fangirls," he teases geto.

he just so happens to be one of those fleeting thoughts, the kind that disappears just as quickly as it came. how does he even exist, it's impossible, and you're so close to believing he's just a figment of one's imagination because—"he's a genius you know, geto plays the guitar, speaks seven languages, and saves manta rays in his free time," says the girl next to you, bragging about this man you barely knew.

she's memorized his schedule and you know this because she isn't the only one, apparently everyone on campus is in on it too. and you don't understand why he's gotten every woman making heart eyes at him, sighing dreamily as he lays on a bench in broad daylight reading under a tree, high pitched voices asking 'please could you tutor me?' it's all so unbelievable.

you think he's pretentious, overly critical, impossibly difficult to impress, so hard to please, and you know what, he's not as nice as people think he is—"it's an attempt, although not a very good one. i wished i had the courage to be proud of something so...mediocre?" he tells you after reading a draft for a story you were thinking of submitting. plopping the printed copy in front of him like it was too gross to hold, to touch, almost as if he's offended that you would call it writing. you're on the verge of asking him why, wanting him to explain himself but you're taken aback, caught off guard by his bluntness, mouth gaping like a fish out of water. "it's amateur work at best, maybe you could try publishing for a less well-known journal," each word is like a dagger to your pride, cutting deep, all your flaws on display, but he smiles through it all like he's glad that he's making you feel like a failure.

he infuriates you, so confused are your feelings when you see him all the time. tucked by a quiet corner in the library, he looks over your revisions a week later, "it's much better this time, you're doing well," he says, it's the first time he's given you a compliment, a real one that isn't backhanded or rude and warmth blooms across your body when you hear it because it feels so good, so sickly sweet and viscous coursing down your spine, dipping low down to that tight crevice between your thighs when you think about the implications. picturing him saying it over and over, he could take you right here, press you up against the books, hot breaths puffing out across your shoulder, my good girl gritting past his clenched teeth.

it doesn't start sinking in just what a complete and utter babe he is until you start telling yourself it wouldn't hurt to indulge in the eye candy. he looks incredible in anything; blazers, sweaters, leather jackets and white button-up shirts, vintage watches around his wrists, and glasses that sit on his face like they wear made for him, knows exactly what he's doing when he looks so distinguished, so sexy, dressed down in t-shirts repping harvard, brown, columbia, yale, given to him as gifts because he's done talks and tours and crash courses, a football jersey in strikingly bright neon colours, and especially when he's in the pieces of clothing that don't hide his physique, all skin and muscle on display, at the gym, by the pool, at a frat party chugging down grey goose and all the orange gatorade man has to offer, sweat dripping down toned pecs, his hair sticking to the back of his neck.

nothing prepares you for that side of him, that this intelligent and insightful man had been wild, playful, and a little bit mean just for his pleasure, just because he could. he is a killer out for your heart, there is no way you'd ever survive the sound of his laugh, the way it carries over into your dreams, your thoughts. his voice breaking down latin and greek, tongue traveling down the palate, curling around syllables and rhymes, analyzing homer, virgil, amor animi arbitrio sumitur, non ponitur, the way his smile curls when he gets to his favourite line of a midsummer's night dream, "love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind", he stares right at you as he says it.

the same way he stares at you from across the room at a house party. only this time there had been something else hidden in them, something heated, his lips parting around every breath, eyes taking you in under dim lights and his hand itches to touch. you had danced for him then, turning his brain to mush, at a loss for words the more he's entranced by the sway of your hips, blinded by your beauty. there was no need for reason or thought or any need for words at all. just a girl wanting to make her move, make a claim. people watch from around the room, jaws dropping and eyebrows raised at the sight of you, who dares to seduce a man like this, he's isn't straight-laced by any means but surely he'd be above it all. if only they knew he's got a weak heart.

locked up in gojo's room, the muffled sounds of the gaudiest, bass-heavy songs bounce and echo through the house, all the club anthems and trap beats, so seductive it makes your tummy flip with anticipation, with need. despite how it shakes the walls, you hear it loud and clear, the hisses and groans he's letting out, your moans caught in the sheets when he weighs you down atop you, neruda poems he's reciting off the top of his head, "i want to do to you what spring does to the cherry trees," he whispers into your skin, pressing kisses down the curve of your back. even here he can't help but be a nerd, arm curling around your waist as the other peels your panties off, his fingers slip inside and you forget everything else but his name and the way your heart beats when he looks you in the eye, so intense, so passionate. it wasn't long ago that he'd rejected your work, thought of you as an amateur, that you would never be on his level. now as he watches you come apart, with perfect moans and a pleading face, he thinks he's definitely falling hopelessly in love.

"oh how the mighty have fallen," gojo muses. judging by how geto's got mussed up hair, swollen lips, his tie knotted a little differently today, it doesn't take a lot to guess what went down the night before. impressed, but less with geto and more with the woman who keeps him up at night, abandoning his work, leaving behind study notes he's yet to prepare, the thousands of words he has to keep up with for his daily reading, the many, many, citations he's yet to complete, all the people who want more help, more answers, more of him. "i never thought i'd see the day," gojo hides a smile, glad that at least one god comes back down to earth.

they make a trip down to cambridge to see nanami and they find him in his office buried under stacks of books and paper wrappers stained with sausage roll crumbs. gojo and geto look on pitifully, making themselves at home in his office by opening up the curtains, letting some light in. they pick some books off the floor, and nanami would thank them if he weren't ripping into an undergrad, "you lack articulation, your topic of choice is too broad, you also have weak theoretical foundations. i want to see a new draft by tomorrow and for the love of god use spellcheck," it rolls off his tongue so quickly like he's been repeating them, rubbing at his temples before he gestures for his student to leave the room.

so they head out to a nice field and he grumbles on about how much he hates his job over a round of croquet and cigarettes, tells them he hates the weather because it's too cold and his skin is drying out, can't stand the food and misses that tokyo bakery he used to frequent, all he wants is a beach house and some spare time. "i'll go somewhere far, just me and my books," stubbing his cigarette in an ashtray and already reaching for another but he doesn't mention the dream of having a beautiful wife or a healthy child because the three of them can't discuss anything without it turning into a debate and will always fail to agree on a consensus when it comes to love.

gets up before the sun rises because they decided to join in for rowing practice. it's such a treat when you catch them standing by a lake in tight shorts, muscles dripping with sweat, geto looks up and shoots you a wink as he pushes his hair back, fresh-faced and so gorgeous under the morning sun. it's 7 am and you're dreading finals but it doesn't compare to the heat you feel when he waves at you and you can only think of the swell of his bicep. best part is you know just how lovely it feels when you wrap a hand around it later on. like it belongs to you along with every other part of him. he's walking down to the pub with you, nanami and gojo trail behind in old harris tweed jackets and sweater vests, somehow it looks like it was made to fit them and not at all like they're playing dress-up. london is beautiful at night but you can only look at the man next to you, stare into his eyes, gleaming and so full with love when he stares back.

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goth-iqqa · 1 year

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A Targaryen prince is a heavy burden

atpiahb masterlist, part1, part2

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader, platonic!Aegon II Targaryen x reader

words: 1.287

summary: Aemond is cheating on his wife with Alys Rivers. Y/N finds out.

warnings: angst, mentions of cheating, mentions of death, mentions of non-consensual sex

a/n: English is not my native language

Y/N was sitting on the window bench. Her eyes were puffy and red from days of crying.

She lifted her wine glass to her lips, but it was empty. She reached for the decanter beside her to fill it and knocked it over. The wine spilled on the cushions of the bench and the hem of her dress.

Her hand holding the glass trembled, and she put it on the marble in front of the window.

Y/N clenched her trembling hands and tried to calm herself, but her eyes filled, and her vision blurred. She put her hand over her mouth and tried to stifle her sobs.

Aegon got up from his chair. He came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder.

"It will be all right."

"No, Aegon, it won't. He doesn't want me," she said between sobs.

Aegon sat next to her, ignoring the wine on the cushions.

"He had been going to her since the first day of our marriage. He always told me he had a mission that could take weeks.”

Aegon did not comment and averted his eyes.

"How could I have been so stupid," she said.

Two weeks ago, she found out that Aemond had cheated on her. They had been married for two years, and almost every month, he would get on his dragon and be gone for a week or two.

Y/N kept reminding herself that he was a prince and had duties. But Aemond was cheating on her with a woman named Alys Rivers, and his affair with her even predated their marriage.

"He married me so he could inherit my father's lands."

Aegon reached out and patted her arm.

Like many in the castle, he had known this for a long time.

The Queen, the King, the lords, and their wives, everyone knew. That was why they had looked at her with pitying eyes at her wedding and when she first moved into the palace.

Even the servants in the castle felt sorry for her.

It was common for high-ranking married men to have affairs with other women. But it was not considered appropriate for them to have a lover.

"I thought he loved me," she said, turning to Aegon.

xxx

In the evening of that day, the wet nurse came to her room, holding Aemond's and Y/N's son, born a week earlier.

Aemond was not with her at the birth of their son. He wasn't even in the castle.

Aegon had waited outside the room during the birth.

The queen had come to her room after the birth to hold her grandson.

Y/N’s parents lived three weeks away and were unable to come when she went into labor.

She had to deal alone with the thing she feared most in life.

She was all alone.

After giving birth, one of her trusted ladies-in-waiting told her about Aemond's mistress.

Y/N took her son in her arms from the wet nurse. And she buried her nose in his head.

He was the son of the man she loved.

Her eyes were full as she rocked him back and forth in her arms.

She could not go back to her family. Her parents, as much as they loved her, could not accept such a thing. She was married and her new home was The Red Keep, next to her husband.

The door to their room opened, and her husband came in.

His hair was disheveled because he had come to the castle with his dragon. Aemond looked at his wife as he closed the door.

When he saw the baby in her arms, his throat tightened. "I didn't know. I found out the moment I arrived at the castle."

He walked toward his wife and reached for the baby in her arms, but Y/N pressed him against her chest.

Aemond paused and dropped his hands to his sides. "My mother said you gave birth to a boy."

"Yes, I did."

He nodded.

"All alone," she said.

"I would have come earlier if my mission-

"Your mission?" she laughed nervously. "What was that mission, Aemond, to fuck that witch?"

He didn't answer, but the muscles in his jaw tightened.

"I could have died in childbirth." Then, she paused briefly. "Of course, you'd be happy if I died. Since I gave you a son, it doesn't matter if I live.”

"You've learned."

"Yes, Aemond! I've learned!"

Aemond continued to maintain silence. His silence infuriated her even more.

"You won't say anything? Won't you defend yourself? Don't I deserve even a simple apology?"

"There is nothing to defend," he said and approached her. "She's been in my life since I was 19."

Y/N couldn't hold back her tears this time. She couldn't remember how many times she had cried that day.

"Can I hold my son?"

She looked at him incredulously. "If you want to hold him, and if you want to be in his life in the future, you will leave that woman."

Aemond took a deep breath. "I can't, Y/N."

"Why? Why can't you?!"

"Because she's pregnant."

Y/N didn't know how much more upset and angry she could feel. "So after years of bullying your nephews, you made your Strong bastard?"

At that moment, the baby stirred restlessly in her arms and slowly opened his eyes. Y/N started rocking him back to sleep.

"Don't make me choose between you."

"Do you hear yourself?! I'm your wife. You already made that choice by marrying me.”

Her son wouldn't fall asleep and started to cry. The tension in the room had affected him too. Aemond reached for him once more. This time she let Aemond take him. She couldn't bear to hear her baby cry, even though she felt guilty for feeling that way.

He looked down at his son in his arms, smiling. He placed a kiss on his head. With his eyes still on him, he spoke. "Was Aegon not enough to fill my absence?"

Y/N's eyes widened. "Do you realize what you are accusing me of? I am not you, Aemond."

"The courtiers are not blind, Y/N. As I set foot in the castle, they told me how much Aegon enjoyed spending time in our chambers."

She backed away and sat on the bed.

Y/N folded her hands in her lap and began to play with her fingers.

Aegon was another matter.

Nothing inappropriate had happened between them, but she felt safe and at peace around him.

She always felt his gaze on her in crowded places.

His facial expression when he looked at her would sometimes cause her face to warm up.

Aemond came to her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "If he comes near you again, I will cut off his hands."

She looked up to lock eyes with Aemond. "You impregnate another woman and then turn around and question my honor." She laughed to herself. "That's so like you."

Y/N wanted him to be angry too. She wanted him to hurt even a little, but there was not a trace of emotion on the one-eyed prince's face.

"I'm going to take our son to his wet nurse. It wouldn't be right for him to sleep here tonight. I miss my wife."

"Do you think I'd bed with you after all you've done?"

Aemond spoke as he walked towards the door. "You have to. It's your duty as my wife."

As he opened the door, he turned and spoke for the last time before leaving the room. "Besides, everyone will expect me to have another heir."

As Y/N looked at where Aemond had just stood, she remembered what her mother had said on their wedding day.

‘A Targaryen prince is a heavy burden.’

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goth-iqqa · 1 year

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BLAME THE ROSES

Prologue— Death To The Green Queen

18+ MDI

Life can only be paid with death. After the demise of Princess Alysanne, a cursed couple brings forth a new life across the Narrow Sea, unbeknownst to the war approaching.

Daemon × Fem!reader, Aegon II × reader

Warnings: angst, cheating, smut, neglect, violence, death/gore. mentions of suicide. kidnapping. dub con, non con, (Targ)incest, pregnancy, miscarriage.

AFTER IT ALL HAPPENED, Alysanne Targaryen declared an apology to the ashes of the fallen soldiers. On both sides, the black roots and the green stems of the bloodied garden her once home turned. There was nothing left, the lords had whispered, nothing but war in the wake of her husband’s name. Thorns of gore that would pierce into cadavers and shells of empty lives and unnamed graves.

“Prince Aegon The Younger must be crowned.”

It was not a tragedy when King Aegon was found, deathly still, and sweet Arbor red on his lips. His skin was strangely yellow, swelling and decaying under the delicate touch of his beloved wife. Alysanne, the Saddened Queen, cried and called for The Stranger, pleading a moment for a woman and a dying lover.

There had been quietness, maesters often said to their pupils. The room was made up of only a pitiful queen, a grasping king, and the claws of a growing shadow tempting the soul from its twisted body. At exactly midnight, when the Dire Wolves in Winterfell howled and the giant cats of striped colors roared, and the grounds of the castle shook, it was confirmed King Aegon II had made touch with death and what lurked beneath the veil.

By morning the candles had blazed to mere specs of wax, yet Queen Alysanne remained unburnt. When the sun peeked through the windows and the empty body of the late King began to blister, she remained. Hand in hand, she cried, mourned like the deaths before of all her line, innocent and guilty alike. Seven nights and seven risings did she stay, the books and medical servant knew the dating was far from precise, Alysanne rose from her bruised knees, and along she took the last touch of the usurper king.

While servants whispered of the things that happened during the secret decay of the king, it was only true that bare parts could be used for a proper burial. The Queen had not truly cried for his death, nor had she turned to black magic to keep her lover alive and hidden in her chambers, or the constant presence of a certain yellow tint of the Manmo Island princess. It was foolery. In truth, as Maesters came to know, after the beheading of the Grand Maester, King Aegon’s body decomposed and exploded in a series of fluids and flesh, finally fusing into the mattress they had burned, all while his wife watched.

A death, unpeaceful and macabre, worthy of the man Aegon II Targaryen was at the end.

When the news of the king’s passing spread, ships of high houses and low-borns of the city all stormed the gates of King’s Landing, bending the knee and hailing their new King. Alysanne, a widow, was not to be seen for another seven nights, her chambers remained empty and untouched, and her dragon no longer roared and shook the sky with his wings. She was a walking corpse, hiding in the shadows, expecting her punishment when a raven from Winterfell arrived at her window.

“Do not ill yourself with sorrow. I was pardoned from death,”

The golden piece of a horse was moved across the checkerboard, just like it had in real life with dragons and ships, outside the room now meant to imprison one of the former queens. Alysanne, dressed in green, like the title had once again sowed and the green stone tethered to her finger with the voice of her husband’s last wishes, sat across Alicent Hightower, somber features of tiredness glinted across her eyes and her mouth continued to move. “I was not pardoned from punishment, however. I am to return to Manmo, and face the consequences of my past actions.”

“As Y/N Endo or Princess Alysanne?”

It was often that their relationship was mistaken. Had the first season come, cool and colorful with blooms in the garden King Viserys sent to be made for her, both widowed queens found themselves under the weak streams of light. Cordial and pacific as they played a humble game of chess, learned by the glued words of their fathers. When the unbearable heat came, and all the summer colors adorned the streets as they did in Dornish lands, they enjoyed a cool tea prepared by the shaky hands of servants, and they spoke, cruelly to each other, of their husbands and their poor jobs as wives to satisfy them.

When the leaves of the giant trees fell, and their sons trained with sand dummies, they did not speak to each other. Servants assumed they fought again, their screams and shouts shushed by the pit-and-patter of soothing rain. Only to be lulled away when the cold wind came and their dresses exploded with rows of skirts for the short-lived winter. They ate and laughed together, dressed in the same shade, for a day, when the lords of their husbands’ council met.

A black root and a green stem, united by the complicated world painted by the men who cared for nothing but titles and wealth.

“Will they…kill you?”

“I am sure of it.”

A white knight moved this time. “They cannot harm the aunt of the King—a queen, you were a queen. They cannot, they cannot do this, they cannot kill you. You must speak to Lord Cregan, you cannot leave.”

Alicent’s face had grown mournful through the years, witnessing death after death of the children she squeezed out of duty, caged in the castle like a simple servant of no name. But now, even after all the slaughter the color green brought, her eyes brimmed red and the whites glossed with tears for a girl she’d grown to like in her days of confinement. The only face that held a smile when she stepped forward, brushing servants off, and keeping the ailing widow company.

“We are cursed. The moment we were born,”

A black knight neared close to the white queen.

“We were granted suffering and despair. Arranged to be bred like cattle for a title that will not follow after death. I was happy, for a few moments at least. I was given a life that veiled the bad with the sweet scent of roses.”

Alicent smiled, for the first time. “Red roses have always been your favorite. Even when you hurt yourself with the thorns, you called them beautiful.”

“I have to thank you, Alicent. It was because of you—everything you have done under another’s tame—that I am here. All the bad things that happened, all the deaths a simple crown and a throne of swords have caused. Everything has led me to this point, my own punishment, in a way.”

When the black queen moved toward the cornered white king, Alicent shivered as she knew she lost. “Your punishment? Was betraying your husband not enough?”

“I loved the man you birthed, not the king he became. He made me bloom, even when I thought I’d died. When a smile never came, he made me laugh like no other. Even when he drank past his limits and crawled with apologies, and fell in love with princess Alysanne instead of Y/N, I kept my promise till his last breath.”

Alysanne removed the ring from her finger. The Green Jewel of the Sad Queen, maesters would come to name it, was given to the new mother as a present for the pair of healthy heirs. It was now soiled, tainted by the rusty smell of blood that soaked into the creases of her hands.

It was a reminder. Nobody but her and the dead uncle she once loved knew of the painful ropes that tightened around Y/N Endo’s neck, only to be shielded by the golden rows of pearls that decorated princess Alysanne's own. The voice of the woman she once knew, dancing in her head, trapped like a curse meant to claim the lives of the ones she loved. She would break the chains, once and for all.

“I’ve died nine times. Princess Alysanne died many years ago. Y/N Endo was killed by the people she loved. Now, my final death has come, at last.” She pushed the ring into the waiting hand of the eldest, “I am not allowed to see my daughter before my leave. She will come to see you, I’m sure of it. When she does, give it to her. She must know I will always love her. She must, Alicent.”

Alicent nodded with a silent promise.

After a checkmate, princess Alysanne exposed her left arm, yellow and swelling. Alicent gasped, she rose from her seat and jerked away from her dying stepdaughter.

“I won’t let any of them have my glory.”

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