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idreamofmagik · 2 years

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The Summer Dragon: Chapter 2

|A Princess of the Summer Isles dragged into Dance of Dragons.|

Alsaedys Targaryen is the daughter of Vaegon, and cousin to the current King Visery I...but she has never set foot on Westerosi soil. Raised by her mother in the Summer Ilse or on her pirate ship, The Jelmāzma, she is used to a diferent way of life. Alsaedys returns to Westeros to claim her and her sibling's birthrights...but is caught up in a vicious dance for the Iron Throne.

Pairings: [Daemon Targaryen X Original (fem) Character X Original (ma) Character] [Daemon Targaryen X Rhaenyra Targaryen] [Daemon Targaryen X Leana Velaryon] [Original (fem) Character X Original (ma) Character]

Chapter warnings: N/A

Later Chapter Warnings: Violence, Nsfw (18+) Graphic sexual content

Chapter 3 - Mother Tongue

She was ushered out of the throne room by the same young handsome Kingsguard that had ushered her in, Sir Criston Cole, she believed, is she had heard his commander properly.

The King had smiled at her as she left, and she guessed that was a good sign. Or, at least, that it meant she likely wouldn’t be murdered in her sleep, and that he hadn’t taken too much offence to her request.

She cursed her father still though, for not writing him prior—though she was uncertain whether it had been her father’s intention to have her ask it of him before an audience to force his hand after he had accepted her as a true Targaryen. If that was her father’s intention, he was playing a dangerous game wither her life.

“Dārilaros,” Princess the deep voice cut through the hall as the doors to the throne room slammed she behind her and her escort.

Sir Criston’s face pursed as he turned on his heel, bowing dutifully to the Prince that approached.

Daemon’s long legs caught up to her easily.

That unabashedly roguish personality carried over in the swagger of his gate—reckless pride abundant, as he shooed the guards guiding her away with a bored flick of his scared fingers. Little scars that only a well-trained swordsman had, old and mostly healed, from his training as a young boy.

Those training swords still left marks…and the welts lasted for days on your hands. Worse when they began the training with steal—even unsharpened, it could still open the skin with a hard enough whack.

“Nyke jāhor dabresta, bona nyke plesdaoroar mapalor, Dārilaros. Nyke ēdan daor thor aōha visit would sagon sīr… eventful.” I will admit, that I am pleasantly surprised, Princess. I had not thought your visit would be so… eventful.

His Valyrian was as impeccable as her father’s, all salacious rolling ‘r’s and lyrical vowels.

“Nyke mērī sepār arrived, Dārilaros Daemon.” I only just arrived, Prince Daemon.

She responded easily, thankful now for her father’s relentless drill-like teachings of his family’s mother tongue…and glad once more that it had been her who had come, and not her siblings, who had never cared to truly learn.

Daemon hummed, and it was an all too pleased sound; a sound men made that were not meant for public spaces.

She couldn’t tell if it was at the prospect that she may be the center of more ‘eventful-ness’ during her none-to-short stay, or just at the sound of her Valyrian…maybe, both.

“Sīr ao gōntan. Se rēbās ilie naejot ñuha lēkia’s dēmalion se eptan syt īlva zaldrīzes drōma,”So you did. And Walked straight up to my brother’s throne and demanded his dragon eggs. He said, and she could hear the smile in his tone—or maybe that was just how his deep voice always sounded after years of goading.

Alsaedys ran a hand over a beautifully rendered erotic painting on the hallway wall. It shocked her it was here…in Westeros of all places, surrounded by monuments of their Seven-Pointed Star, this was a painting worthy of the Summer Isles, in a Temple in Lotus Port, or on the Isle of Women. Daemon’s eyes followed her fingers for a moment as it drew across a plush pair of fair, rose-tipped breasts in the painting.

“Issi īlvon ondoso ānogar paktot. Iksan daor brōzare syt mirros iksan daor enkagon hae iā direct riña hen Aegon se Dāritys se se zaldrīzes dāryssy hen Uēpa Valyria, se iā Dārilaros hen Targārien Lentor.” They are ours by blood rite. I am not demanding anything I am not owed as a direct descendant of Aegon the conqueror and the dragon lords of Old Valyria, and a Princess of House Targaryen. She said, dulling the sharpness that threatened her tone, her eyes snapped to the Prince at her side, and he was all but grinning down at her in unabashed enjoyment.

Her eye narrowed as he responded.

“Sīr vestā.” So you said.

They had nearly reached an area she could tell was for guests, decorated lavishly to show off all that the great Red Keep could show, they turned again and wandered up a short but beautifully marbled stairwell to a wing for the guest chambers she could only guess.

She huffed a sigh.

“Nyke daor, ȳdragon bona?” Should I not?

He stopped before what she could only assume was her chamber, situating himself between Alsaedys and the massive carved double doors. His violet eyes dropped slowly down her form once more before holding her own, his lips quirking up slightly.

“Daor, Nyke raqagon skori vestrā bona.” Actually, I quite like it when you say it. He said almost softly, the satiny tone of a lover.

She raised a brow, and Daemon’s head canted slightly as he held her gaze.

“Kesi sōvegon hēnkirī bisa bantis, tolī īlon ipradagon. Kesan urnēptre ao bisa oktion. Hae istis sagon ūndegīon.” Fly with me tonight after dinner. I will show you the city as it should be seen.

She blinked at the offer she had yet to ride Jaedos more then a few times, and very little could have temped her more than seeing the city from the sky, since she had resisted arriving on dragon back, uncertain how the other inhabitant’s mounts would receive an unknown dragon—or if they would even have space to house another dragon in the famed Dragon Pit.

She opened her mouth to answer and his eyes dropped to her lips in wait, but she closed it again. Sucking in a breath.

“Nyke jorrāelagon naejot ȳdragon naejot ao lēkia ēlī. Mirre gō kirimves.” I need to speak to your brother first. Work before pleasure. She said, despite herself, letting her own disappointment slip into her voice, if only slightly,.

He did not seem offended, just blinked slowly before brushing a finger over the Valyrian-blond streak in her barely tamed curls, drawing out from the rest. Playing with it between his callused fingers.

“Hemtubis pār.” Tomorrow then. He said, unperturbed, holding her gaze, “Konīr iksis va moriot jēda syt kirimves.” There is always time for pleasure.

**My work is not Beta-read**

Masterlist

#prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon fanfic #daemon targaryen fic #daemon x reader #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen imagine #house of the dragon imagines #hotd fanfiction

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idreamofmagik · 2 years

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The Summer Dragon: Chapter 1

Chapter warnings: N/A

Later Chapter Warnings: Violence, Nsfw (18+) Graphic sexual content

|A Princess of the Summer Isles dragged into Dance of Dragons.|

Chapter 1 - Targaryen Blood

The Summer isles had never been a place worth speaking much of for the people of Essos and Westeros alike—and certainly not an ally or aggressor to the seven kingdoms of Westeros.

Alsaedys’ mother had told her as much as they sailed and passed the many ports specked down the west banks of the Narrow Sea. Some might say her mother was a pirate in those days, and Alsaedys might agree, but never in front of her mother herself.

Today though, Alsaedys felt all the pirate her mother had been.

Today, she walked into a castle nearly the size of The Great Pyramids in Meereen to steal an even greater prize than her mother had ever dared to in her youth.

She marched across the polished floors, down halls of the Red Keep, a city guard, a ‘gold cloak’ as they were called, and a younger-looking Kingsgaurd at either side. Her Targaryen-style regalia—rings, and bracelets, earrings, and necklaces clinked with her every swaying step.

Silks and stains were not unfamiliar to her, she had traded with all the most notable silks and satin weavers in Westeros, and the continent alike. Crushed velvet, the softest cured leathers and muslin, and furs when they sailed up the cooler northern end of the narrow sea too…but that had always been a necessity or costume. The summer Isles, where she was born, had no need for cold weather clothing.

This Targaryen Regalia did not feel the same as those random expensive silks though. It weighed heavier and came with the threat of a ball and chain that she had often contemplated in her childhood whenever they ever dared to port in Westeros.

False names; always, to avoid being dragged to her Targaryen family.

Her father, Prince Vaegon, had always said falling for Alsaedys mother was ‘the most exciting thing he’d ever done’, according to his siblings, and that even Princess Alyssa, the sister that disdained him the most, had approved of her mother. Not that he had cared—the dour ass he was and still is; but that was all long ago.

Alyssa was the mother of the current King’s, King Viserys, and her funeral had been the last time Alsaedys’s mother, Ambraxi, had visited Westeros.

…And that was long before Alsaedys’s birth. Her mother and Princess Alyssa had been quite close, and Prince Baelon, Alyssa’s husband had invited her mother back multiple times after her passing, and the news of Ambraxi’s secret marriage to their brother Vaegon had reached his ear.

Vaegon, Alyssa , and Baelon’s father, King Jaecarys attempted to force the matter too when she heard of her sisters Daedra’s birth…but a royal summons means little to someone not within your kingdom. Specially to a foreign Queen as her mother Ambraxi was.

Years past, and after all King Jaecarys many heirs died, Baelon included, he summoned again; to show face for The Great Council, that was to take place due to choose an heir to the iron throne.

And To have Alsaedys bend knee to whatever ruler they chose.

But Alsaedys’s mother didn’t trust them.

“Nine is old enough for those Westerosi to keep you and use you for breeding stock for their Valyrian sons. You’re legitimate and you have got enough dragon blood for it so—they wouldn’t waste a womb like yours. If you go, you won’t come back.”

So when her father ask her later that night to come with him; her mother having been heavily pregnant herself and unable to risk laboring on the ship to Westeros, Alsaedys had shaken her head so vehemently it had nearly spun off her shoulders.

She’d watched her father sail away from the Summer beaches for the last time. Though in the days following, she often imagined him sitting adjacent to his father, the King, looking miserable as her father always did; those great Westerosi halls towering around him. As curious as she was about her father’s homeland—nothing could have convinced her to go because anything was better than the possibility her mother had described.

…And yet here she was all of a half-decade later—the same fears as they drew waited to announce her name to at the grand doors of the throne room; and Her father, Prince Vaegon, uncle to the current King of the Targaryen dynasty, Viserys I, was not at her side.

His transport had been delayed from Oldtown, where he had returned to nearly seven years prior. She had only been notified when her ship docked, and a horseman road up and placed a small letter in her hand—She recognized her father’s writing, always clean and precise, despite him not having signed it.

‘Storm delayed transport—will not arrive in time to announce you at court. Wrote to his majesty of your arrival. No need for my coming now. Write if I am needed.

Short and curt, as her father’s letters always were. She had never wondered why her mother said his siblings never liked him. It’s had always been an obvious.

She fixed the black and gold satin of her gown and her short capped sleeves, it was a mild summer for Westeros, winter for the Summer Isles.

The herald met her eyes, and she nodded; the doors of the grand pillar-lined throne room swinging open loudly.

“Presenting Princess Alsaedys of House Targaryen, Princess of Walanto, daughter of Prince Vaegon of house Targaryen and Queen Ambraxi of Walanto and Omboru of the Summer Isles.”

She stood in the massive archway of the doors as he announced her, and the entirety of the court turned to stare.

The court of King Viserys I was not a small one, and all the many courtiers were dressed in their finery. A hundred people, no-less, various vigils hung from several tunics, some she even recognized, but none large and more imposing than that positioned on either side of her cousin’s throne.

Black slashes of fine-dyed cloth embroidered with the massive red three-headed dragon of her father’s house; the symbol of her ancestor—Aegon the Conquerer and his Queens, Rhaenys and Visenya. She knew the Westerosii liked their sigils—it was no less like The Summer Ilse houses and Feather Flags, but for the Westerosii… their sigils were more like…an homage to the glory of old, and none demanded such praise on Westerosii soil as Aegon I.

The massive throne, was all her father had described, a veritable blanket of swords. She tried to think of the practical uses of such a masterpiece of intimidation…but only came up with the possibility king impaling disrespectful courtiers onto it when he was bored.

From some of the courtiers faces as they appraised her—one might think he did, and that she had just interrupted their bloodsport.

The walk towards the Dias was long and rife with giddy-eyed onlookers whispering and gawking as she passed—‘The long lost princess’ some said, ‘The Princess of the Summer Whores, ' said others…’The summer pretenders’…the most daring whispered.

She ignored them, and kept her eye front and forward as she neared the Throne. Her eyes on her… surprisingly kindly-looking cousin.

She stopped at the base of the stair to his pedastal, his Kingsgaurd and their white cloaks flanking him, well-trained hands on their hilts; three others stood near his dias facing her. Two Plantum-haired royals; a man, handsome and mildly bored looking, and a young girl beside him, equally bored looking. And on the right, a tall brown-haired middle-aged man with deep, calculating eyes.

King Viserys stood, and all the whispers came to a halt, waiting on the cue to which of their whispers would become truth after nineteen years of wait.

The king’s arms swung open, “Cousin,” he greeted kindly, gold threaded sleeves gleaming above, the sharp-bladed throne in a welcoming gesture, “How glad I am that you arrived safely.”

She felt her entire soul sigh in relief; she had been prepared to fight for her legitimacy. ‘Cousin’ though, thank the gods, all worry over legitimacy had vanished with a single welcoming familial title.

“King Viserys,” Alsaedys greeted back, “I kindly accept your welcome, and thank you for your warm, greeting. I am sorry that my father, Prince Vaegon, was unable to join me.”

It is an unnecessary reminder after his greeting, but reiterating their bond as many times before the court as possible, couldn’t hurt.

“Yes, he wrote of the flooding of the roads in The Reach, it seems my uncle, will not join be joining us at all. He has always preferred his studies to court—I cannot say I was surprised that the gods intervened for him.”

She chuckled and he smiled back, but the King did not seem truly disappointed. No one liked her father, just another miserable scholarly man haunting their halls.

And since his letter had reached the King there was no real need for him—she had only written him on the slight chance that her and her sibling’s legitimacy would be questioned.

“I admit—it is good to finally meet you. I did not believe I ever would.”

A small bout of laughter burbled up from the court—their audience at her back, but they were silenced quickly by the sharp stare of the tall young man a few steps down from the King.

He was clearly Targaryen, dressed in similar royal Targaryen back regalia to the king, with his long, pale satiny hair and cool violet eyes. Her father had been the only Targaryen she had known, but her mother had often described his family to her, the beautiful, feisty Alyssa and her Handsome brother…and husband, young Prince Baelon.

This man looked just how her mother had described the man…and from his position, she could easily extrapolate that this was the infamous Prince Daemon; her cousin, and the late Prince Baelon’s rogue son.

The King’s brother.

He stared her up and down—his appraisal heavier than the Targaryen costume she wore, “yes, many whispers about the Summer IlseTargaryens in the south,” The Rogue Prince said, looking more interested now.

“My siblings and I could not disengage ourselvesfrom our duties; my mother recently took the Omboru. And we have taken care in solidifying our hold these last years decades. We have not had the chance to…visit.”

Viserys nodded, smiling pleasantly enough at her reasoning.

“Have you come to bend the knee, then?” Prince Daemon inquired.

Alsaedys paused, turning slowly back to the Prince and away from the King.

The brown hair man’s on his other side, clenched his fist next to the prince, the hand of the king, she gathered from his pin.

Alsaedys met The Princes’s eyes, resisting the scoff that threatened to bubble up her throat. At thirteen, she had not yet been named her mother’s heir, and being summoned to swear fealty to her father’s family was not yet considered an insult, but that was not the case any longer. The summer Ilse named two heirs. At the age of maturity, fifteen. And though her older sister was the eldest, Alsaedys was still considered heir apparent as her equal until Daedra sister ascended the Swan Throne.

“I was a child when the court summoned me; but King Jaecerys had the embodiment of my …oath to Westeros assured when my father, Prince Vaegon, bent the knee to the council’s chosen King. I am my mother’s heir and a future queen of Walanto and Ombolu, my knee will not bend to a Westerosii King.”

A sly smile quirked the rogue prince’s mouth at her response, a mere teasing joke then, but no less of an insult. Viserys sent his brother a sharp, scolding stare—the rogue prince did not seem to notice.

“Yes, of course, Princess,” Viserys cut in through the thick silence, “We are always grateful for our open trade with the Walanto since your parents’ marriage. Lord CorlysVelyaron is also very appreciative of the swan ships your mother sent to offer aid in our recent…tousles in the Step Stones. No ships are of greater craftsmanship. None are faster.”

It might be flattery for the princes’ insult—if it wasn’t simply fact.

“We are glad to be of aid,” Alsaedysresonded easily, fixing a pleasant smile back on her face to match the genuine benevolence in the Kings eyes.

And for a moment, she wondered that no man with such pleasant continence could remain on that bladed throne.

“I must be plain though, Your Majesty.”

He nodded still smiling warmly, “of course. I would prefer it.”

She wasn’t sure that was true, it wasn’t for most—despite what they said, but she continued anyway, “I have come on behalf of my siblings. And their rights as children of a Prince of House Targaryen.”

The King raised his brows, “What rights have they been denied? Tell me, and it will be rectified.”

“Dragons. Your Highness,” the court audibly gasped, and the King went still in his seat. “We are children of the Royal line, legally, and unquestionably…but in, what can only be an oversight on both our parts and the vast distance between us, we were not sent our dragon eggs for our cradles.”

The King blinked back at her, the hand who had seemed solemn and uninterested before was now tense and alert. His eyes snapped between herself and Viserys.

“I have come to ask for my sibling’s birthrights. As members of our great house, Your Highness,” she nodded her head, the only bow a foreign princess could offer in respect.

If someone had dropped a coin in the throne room, it may have echoed for days in the silence that followed, as if all persons had simultaneously sucked in the gasp. Waiting for some cue to release it.

Viserys seemed genuine in his uncertainty, frozen into statued stillness, to the point that she felt the keen sense that the King himself was waiting for someone else to answer for him. Clearly, her father had not written to make him aware; of her request. The hand stepped forward a second later, but then before he could speak, someone else cut in.

“Not for yourself—Princess?” The rogue prince spoke through the silent room.

Daemon shifted in his stance, rolling his broad shoulders, “Do you fear riding such great… beasts?” He went on.

Alsaedys straightened, meeting the Princes’ eyes taking obvious measure of the man, as he had done so to her. The Valyrian steel sword—DarkSister at his hip, his palm constantly gracing it’s enigmatic pummel. He smiled under her appraisal.

He was likely just under a decade older than her… and the young Princess next to him, who Alsaedys had only noticed then; interested now, at the mention of dragons was likely just under a decade of her.

She nodded to the Princess, and the girl seemed surprised at her acknowledgment. Nodding back thoughtlessly before Alsaedys spoke.

“Prior to our arrival we were set upon by a large grey ‘beast’, I believe it had likely made a home in the cliffs of the Stormlands and caught wind of a fishing boat we had passed shortly prior. I claimed the beast before it could tare our hull to shreds in search of food; my dragon is circling a few small Ilse off the coast—”

There were more gasps from their audience. And the hand straightened more, gaze sharp, wise…and distrustful.

“You claimed him?” The young Princess cut in wide-eyed, stepping forwards forward from the Dias, “You claimed the Grey Ghost? A wild dragon.”

“Her,” Alsaedys corrected, and at that, all the Valyrian’s perked at the notion of a she-dragon, A woman at the corner of her eye, Valyrian-blond hair piled high on her head like a pseudo crown, “and no, I don’t believe her to be the Grey Ghost. I have seen that dragon in passing before… Jaedos’s scales are a sky blue, and she is more akin to Meleys build than Grey Ghost.”

The Girl nodded, The Crown Princess Rhaenyra, Alsaedys was certain now, “What have you named her?”

“Jaedos.”

“Ah… a true Summer Dragon, then,” Prince Daemon hummed, his long bone-coloured blond hair slipping over his crushed-velvet-clad shoulder.

He seemed intrigued at her dragon’s Valyrian name, and she suspected the prince preferred speaking Valyrian from the small grin it put on his face, but from the way his eyes drew over her again, making her ears heat and her heart quicken she suspected he may have been referring to…someone else too.

She did not feel in need of her father’s family’s acceptance, but there was something satisfying in being referred to as a ‘dragon’ by the rogue dragon prince himself.

His grin widened. Teeth gleamed along with the sharpness in his eyes, as they peeked from between his lips.

She turned away, all pride and heated satisfaction, and gazed back at the King—whose eyes also held a weary interest now.

“The claiming of a wild dragon is an impressive feat. No one can deny that,” he shifted on the throne, flinching and frowning a moment at a catch of his cloak on one of the wayward blades, he sighed, turning back to her, “a female dragon, at that…”

“Yes, and upon my first ride, she brought me to what could only be a she-dragons nest. She is likely to lay her own clutch sometime.” Alsaedys added smoothly, knowing he was dancing around the statement, “and though I have no doubt she will, my older sister and younger brother, are not children anymore. And as it may yet be years before she lays her first clutch. I would refer the eggs they are owed…and I am certain we could agree over …a trade for two eggs from inevitable Jaedos’ future clutch.”

The King sat back on his throne, “That seems an overly fair proposition.”

The Hand bristled at his side, and her eyes narrowed at the man. Not even a Targaryen himself—bothered by her request.

The king seemed to catch the man’s subtle disapproval also and cleared his throat.

“We shall discuss your proposition, Princess Alsaedys. As I am sure you are aware, the dragon keepers are the ones who gauge the wellness of a clutch’s haul, and I have not yet spoken to them of our most recent clutches.”

She suspect that was the truth, from the frown on The Hand’s morose face, and from the rumour of the King’s lack of interest in dragons themselves, since his mount, the Black Dread, had passed on nye fifteen years prior.

“Of course King Viserys, I am grateful for your consideration in this oversight, and I am more than happy to spend this time getting better acquainted with our family.”

He stood arms open in welcome once more after the breif interlude of uncertainty.

“We shall make a grand feast of it, and have a joust,” He smiled, “It is not every day a long-lost Princess returns.”

She supposed it wasn’t after so few of her grandfather’s children had survived.

Alsaedys nodded, “You honour me, cousin.”

**My work is not Beta-read**

MasterList

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