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its-actually-minicika · 11 months

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The Harshest Winters (18+)

I - II - III - IV - V;

Pairing(s): Jacaerys x Reader x bookcanon!Aemond;

Warnings: We all know what to expect by now - sexual themes, obsessive and possessive behaviour, bookcanon Aemond, angst (there is no light at the end of the tunnel ♡), semi-spoilers (but not really) for Fire&Blood;

Word Count: 23k+ (yes. yes indeed.)

Author's Note: AND I HATH RETURNED!!

Only 3 more instalments to go - this feels surreal. As always, I would like to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart for still following Lady Tully's adventures, and for being so patient with my updating schedule (or lack thereof). Without further ado, please enjoy ♡

♡♡♡ Drop me a comment if you would like to be added to the taglist! And don't forget to reblog your favourite fic writers ♡♡♡

Paths that used to interwoven thread themselves with great uncertainty. When you're free to roam again, which road will you choose to take?

When Aemond beckoned his return, Harrenhal was basked in smoke. Vhagar shuddered low beneath him, letting out enraged, rogue roars. His guts hung low inside his midriff, his heart ached hard inside his chest… his one lone thought was of his Lady – of what became of her, of them.

"Ah – My apologies, Your Grace!" The muted hues of her blue dress obscured across his measured view. Thus Aemond hummed, dissatisfied, and merely moved his gawp ahead. His eye transfixed her for a moment, yet bore through her slighter frame. Nought of what he noticed then deterred him to even bow. To even offer her the courtesy that a highborn lady would receive. He had left their clash at that – with not a singular lax word exchanged, and not a singular exultant glance. He spared no reaction. No compact feeling. And the deep courtesy she offered him was met with deplorable impassiveness. Whether or not she had felt slighted, or passed across as less compelling, was of nought of his concerns. He heard her steps, although unwilling, move fast across the vacant halls – the mousy girl with straight long locks ergo dissolved through the thin air; and as if made of feeble matter, as if diffused whole by the soil, she shed herself briskly afore. Perhaps, he thought but for a moment, the paling shade suited her well. And as she skipped her trail all proper, through the obtrusive and abstaining lanes, her gown outcast a pleasant echo – the rattled bite of a spirited woman, a proof of presence, of fair existence. He made his strides long and decided, reaching towards the damp courtyard. And as he trained, breaking his stupor, the man had thought of her quick struts. Perplexed and quite unparalleled, he deemed the dress had worn her nicely. The girl was far from an alluring beauty, standing small and slight in stature. Still the brief sweep of her garment reached for the goal it had then bared – for the Prince thought of it, admired it, and thoroughly remained somewhat impressed.

He’d been a foolish boy back then, though he remained so as a man. A roguish Prince of one and twenty, far too absorbed by pain and ire to even care about the keep. Alys’ heed had been ignored, his lungs had been filled up with ash. His headlong steps urged through the hallways, desperate to reach for the one door that served so long as their shared chamber. He screamed her name from the base of his throat, so wildly torn and fraught forlorn, that his shrieks of anguish reached for the ears of the few maids and wenches left rooted in place, all hoarded outside and taken aback by his despondent outraged display.

But that wouldn't be the last he'd see her – and the chain of humdrum meetings would thereon constantly happen. They were both quite early risers, insatiable to the seductive waves of glaring rays of humid sunsets, and devotees of the peace and quiet brought across by the luminescence. Still the synopsis would repeat – he, far too preoccupied with the handling of putrid sticks; she, far too absorbed by her dashing knight of golden armour; the Waters brute, as they so styled him, who seemed to be rooted abreast her, eternally waiting for some command which rested readily atop her lips. Though she wasn’t one of his sister’s ladies – the smirking vixens with a lacking sense of pride –, she served as a ward under Lyman Beesbury, the old Master of Coin of his father’s late Small Council. Not the particularly quiet or specifically reserved young maiden, she failed to strike up the attention of any callow man at Court. She wasn’t one for idle chatter, or flamboyant dances at Soirees. Yet he would hear her voice each morning, as she bowed low to him and slithered away.

‘Good morrow, Your Grace.’

‘Greetings, Your Grace.’

‘Good day, Your Grace.’

His hands balled up to aching fists, as the grave callouses inside his palm slid across the piece of silk. Several slices of burnt meat adorned the ground he stood atop. The mess that was made of the bed they had once slept on and the tapestries behind the grate all but pointed towards one thing – that she had made her brash escape, and effectively deceived them all. The Crown Prince sucked in a breath, and turned his head towards a rattled and alerted Alys. What was expected was for him to scream. Trash about, around the room, until his blood would cease to boil. She was ready for that. On all accounts, she had prepared for that. What was most unexpected was the lacing calmness of his evened tone.

“I don’t suppose she morphed outside, waiting submissively by the guards.” Within the first half of a drawn-out breath, the older woman shook her head. “No, my Prince.” He nodded slowly, and expelled a weighty laugh, “She started a fire and ran away.”

“Yes, my Prince.”

“Did she take a horse, as well?”

“... I don’t kn–”

“Every man, woman and child in this stronghold knows by now. Did she take a horse, as well?”

“No, my Prince. I swear she didn’t.”

“How much of this was of your doing?”

Two years she stayed inside the Keep. Two years of residence, of life, of growth. Two years of incandescent worth, during which he could have acted.

Notice her.

Court her.

Marry her.

Cruel Fate had all but laughed at him – for two years she had lived below him, right within his steady grasp. In those two years he could’ve bedded her, he could have won her horrid heart. He could have fathered her her freckled children, he could have owned her House’s flags. He could have dressed her in the finest dresses, and ripped them off her every night. He could have seen her cross stark naked – then it would have been his right. He could have kissed her, touched her, fucked her… he could have made her love him back.

A fantasy. A bitter laugh. A pang of pain, and guilt, and wrath.

The Gods spoke of their directed favour – when the Whore of Dragonstone came forth home with her misbegotten son. When his bastard nephew set his eyes on her, on the nameday of his eldest brother. When he sullied her with his abhorrent probe, and when he danced with her throughout the night. The night of which he finally saw her, twirling in her auburn dress.

“My Prince, I’ve helped you find her before – I shall help you find her again…!” Her delicate fingers entwined together in a tightened and reluctant hold, which morphed the pose of a covetous and tattered statue; a ready vision of the Maiden, praying to absolve all sin. Her slit eyes widened to two round specs of emerald sheen, and Alys opened her mouth again, only to be stopped by Aemond. “‘Tis not your barren promises I want – rather, I demand something more palpable.” She quirked her head low to the side, and almost caught herself relax her shoulders; Endless thoughts surged through her head, each more humiliating than the next. If it was her body he desired, she would promptly let him take her – disputes of the flesh she’d handle, and face proudly with a stiffened lip. His wife was gone, and though lamentable, she could still surge him back in. Shake and wake the stifled feelings that he’d once relished her into, win his favour and his grace, save her and her unborn son.

But two blind steps he took towards her, and Alys finally understood.

“You watched your home burn to its core." Aemond's tone was light and leveled, "You must have gazed into the fires.”

It had been a truth universally assumed, that he wouldn’t even look upon her. Though a first daughter, she presented as a mere third child. Loved among her Lords, ‘twas true, but with a trivial, worthless last name, who’d be of little to no use to him, and honour him no less or more than a lease daughter of Pike or Ambrose. He’d scoffed back then, under his breath, as the two conversed so freely. The graceless children of low descent, so shamelessly engrossed in the raptures of the other’s company.

If only he had loved her then. For Jace wouldn't have walked away from Aegon's nameday scrape unharmed. How many things would have played differently, if only he asked her first to dance? ... But a lowbred with a bastard was a common sight to see. Aemond thus stood at his table, playing harsh tunes with his slim fingers, whilst knocking on the table’s wood.

His hand enwrapped at the base of her throat, moving languidly over the nape of her neck, and thwarting her forward with an exponential pull. The dying logs inside the fireplace still cracked with their dispersive strokes, impelling the air with charred ashes, and softened groans of sizzled smoke. Her cheek had touched a snapping flame – the arch of her enticing lip almost pressed firmly against it. The low sputtering of her ragged breath, the agonizing scream she’d let out, the fear that seeped within her bones; they deterred her to choke out worried, terror-stricken by his dwelling words. “My Prince, please, I’m begging you –” His silk-smooth baritone came out sullen by perpetually placid waves. A clementful element to the fear and trepidation swarming about the narrow place.

“I’m merely helping you reach a conclusion.”

Her body contorted in a desperate attempt to flee him, and her hands pushed instinctively into the fires, as if to cast aside their perpetual danger, and better protect her face from the raptures of the growing heat. Fellen sobs escaped her lips, rolling down and off her cheeks, hearthing right in the blaze. “Please, please, please–”

“Well?” He sighed, calm and taciturn inside her ear, sparing her no lessened hold. And she failed once more to answer him, opting instead to let out another shrill of strangled moans. Her vision blurred throughout with horror – her gaze cast forth the lingering effect of fear, and her body stiffened in anticipation.

“Perhaps you need more help, then.” His disquieted mutter churned her guts over with dread.

Her wails of anguish pierced through his heart – yet his grip didn't uncurl.

He’d be a liar to say he thought much back then of their light and foolish prancing. The shades of orange in her dress laced his eye with milky spots of irritation, and Jace’s laughter filled him with surfeited hatred. Thus he didn’t linger past the notion of a second, and when Daeron’s warm eyes met with his, he only hummed in discontent. “You ought to dance with someone tonight,” He reminded his elder brother through the musings of a quirked-up brow, “There’s plenty of handsome ladies here tonight.”

Strenuously he looked around, though at last settled his orb on the heaving and coveted form of the latter of Helaena’s ladies. Her very own shone bright with wonder as she listened to her nearby friend, which dispersed her hands about with adorning youthful bliss. She was laughing in good spirit, whispering her minor gossip; Still, when his gape was met with hers, her slight smile instantly falthered.

Five seconds it took for her to turn and flee into the crowd – and five more it took the Prince to work through the nearest cup, by fully draining it of wine, and allowing its sharpened sting to warm and breach his stiffened limbs. His deflation would be short-lived, and the ripe pierce of rejection heal itself in a moment’s heed.

“‘Tis not their looks I’m worried of.” He pensively added to his brother.

“She had a rather awkward smile.” The youngest tried to comfort him.

“Yet she still preferred to flee.” Though his tune carried no bitter candour, Aemond sharply turned around, “You’re wasting your time with me, brother. You fail to look where you’re supposed to.”

“Your Grace, I know – I know of another way!”

Confused by his elusive words, Daeron turned his head around. “Elanour Frey has all but thrown herself at you.” He clarified slightly amused, and when Daeron’s ears piqued through with red, the corners of his mouth quriked up. “Go take the fair cunt for a whirl. Enjoy her smiles and dulling company.”

“She’s a Lady, brother! It’s wrong of you to slight her so.” Despite the youth’s endless chastising, the boy still rose to kvetch an approach.

“The spell is not without its consequences.” She drew in through a shaky breath, “B-But I can make you see her by yourself. I know the Riverlands like the back of my hand. I’ll tell you where she’s headed.” It was a risky plan. Yet it had the potential to appease Aemond, and in the process, save her life. When his iron fist had loosened, she hastily convulsed away. Her words spoke of an old ritual, one she could avid perform – one that would show him his Lady, one that would reveal her whole. “I’ll need your blood – blood from the both of you. The fresher it is, the better for the enchantment.”

Aemond solely parted with the piece of cloth used for their wedding. When the notion of shared blood was uttered, he hastily dug for the sleeve, revealing the blotches which took the front of a maroon-brown colour. “It’s two days old.”

“It’ll work for her part. But I greatly urge you to spare fresher droplets from your own share.” Her heart beat frantically inside her chest. She prayed to her God to send her lease, to grant her mercy and forgiveness for that of which she would soon do. She nicked Aemond with the sharp end of a perusing tool. Drops of thick, red-bludgeon clot surged over her waiting hands, dripping in rapid slithers from his damaged shoulder. She forged a phoney incantation, muttering it slowly for the man to hear. She then waited, and waited, for the sphagnum moss to reach its peak. “Tonight is a half-crescent moon,” She explained brashly in a lulling tune, “I’ll throw the damp cloth into a fire and we’ll see where she is headed.” Why exactly she had lied to him, and continued to do just so, eluded Alys in her steep attempts to cast her spell. Perhaps it was due to her poignant state – as her condition would begin to show erelong, and Aemond had to be reminded of the care he held for her. Perhaps it was because she’d die if his wife of chestnut hair uttered to him that she’d helped with her escape. Perhaps it was because she’d learned to like the forlong and dismissive Lady, and saw within her the potential to prevail. Perhaps his loyalists had begun to matter – as she well knew the wrath and ruin that Aemond would bring upon the boys, were he to notice that they all survived the clashing flames, and not emerged with his sweet Lady. “... But we need to leave, Your Grace, and soon.” She ergo pleaded as she sewed him shut, “Daemon Targaryen reached the gables of Maidenpool. He’s to come for us, for all of us.”

“Yet another reason not to leave without my wife.”

Perhaps she’d seen enough of death, and felt the need to reach for safety – for the reclusion brought by Oldtown, and for the one she'd felt with Aemond. The lot of troubled knights be damned down to the Seven Hells and back. Criston Cole could meet the troops, take them to increase his numbers, and march on towards the Fields of Fire, to join forces with the Lannisters.

"There is a chance he's still unaware of your union. If that be the case, she’ll be safer without you taking her back right now.”

“Are you suggesting I leave her here? To be used by the Blacks as leverage?"

"– Twirled with two Princes in a night! Gods, and the most comely of the bunch, as well…"

"How lucky she must feel right now. Having two push for her hand."

"She's not that much of an exquisite beauty. And her sewing is quite crooked." With a loud huff to calm her nerves, the Lady dared to carry onward, " I wouldn't go as far as to proclaim something like that."

His wide step fathered on the course of the narrow and secluded hallway. The maidens’ voices washed over his form like whiplash, and Aemond stood hammered in place, whilst listening to their low chirping.

The latter lady of the two shrugged her shoulders in indifference, as she jabbed her slight companion right into her bottom ribs. Her painted lips sketched to a smirk, and her thin brows rose up in wonder. “Poor Dyenne,�� She snickered briefly as she paused her idle gossip, “Imagine having the One-Eyed Prince glance at you with such a stare – reckon she’ll send out a raven and beg her father to return to Pyke?” The taller redhead looked around in grave and unmistaken panic, before setting her washed eyes on her giggling accomplice. Her hands wrapped around the shawl that she wore over her gown, and she sighed in discontent, as she weighed her words inside her. “Hush now, Talia!” She ended up conducting sharply, “You shouldn't dare to speak such words. Especially in the Red Keep!”

His hands formed into light fists, as the rousing sting of shame prickled across his pale-white skin. With his jaw now tightly set and a frown upon his face, the Prince cast his long gaze downwards – vexing himself for the impropriety of eavesdropping in the first place. He’d come to terms with his mien, well before he turned a man. With how he scared the finer ladies, with how they all deemed him a cripple. But to be such crass acknowledged as a ghastly and revolting monster, so coolly and without chargin, with such ease and nonchalance.... A bitter taste caught in his mouth, as aggravation dauntly surged him – for how dare those two low women speak so freely of his face?

The shorter girl huffed out expectantly, whilst her companion rained her chastation. Her face was hidden, protected onward by her loosened golden locks. But even so, by name alone, Aemond had apputed her; She was yet another one of Helaena’s hexing ladies. “Even if someone would hear me, certainly they'd feel the same!” With her nose held high and her back all straightened, the lassie added with a perfect diction, “I, for one, would never dance with such a brute. He could be the heir to the Iron Throne itself – I would still flinch at his touch. He is such a morbid freak.”

He could feel his cheeks catch on to a shade of putrid red. His probing and now heated leathers fell tightly on his heaving chest, leaving him appalled, constricted, and resigned in his dark space.

Black spots surged and filled his vision before he could extend his arm. Heinous pain stabbed through his heart, rushing through his mustered veins. The last he felt was of his shoulder, which throbbed in place with blazing heat.

***

“Aemond? Gods, Aemond, are you alright?”

The mere softness of her distant voice sent a pleasurable thrill within him. His lilac orb opened with stupor, gazing above him at the remnants of the littered candles, which flickered both across her face and at the sobriety of the dark room. His tenebrous brow rose in surprise, as her brilliant eyes met him with love, and her reddened lips broke to a smile.

“Thank the Gods you’re awake.” She whispered with a timbre of exhilaration, as her small hand came up to brush over the arch of his unfurrowed brows and against his tired face. Her touch was light and barely proded – and, for the first time since he’d truly seen her, a refulgent smile formed on her lips; caused by and bared out for him – in all its kind and gracious nature. His chest heaved once with every turn of his lungs’ deep and churning exhales, as her vivid and concisive image allowed for a heatwave of ardour to surge through his very being. The deep purple of his eye glimmered with abstained affection – the corners of his downward mouth all but quirked into a grin.

As if burnt by dragon fire, his body rose to a quick halt – propped upwards by his left forearm, and supported through the same. The wound that caused him ached discomfort all forgotten with the notion of her brightened and reclusive face. “But –” He began feverishly, whilst turning her head from side to side, “How,” He choked out with a desperate hiss, caressing her cheeks with his rough digits, “You left. You left me.”

A soft gasp lodged from her throat, as Aemond’s hands enwrapped her whole. Her own slim limbs entwined with his, running through his silver hair and over his unyielding jaw, resting on his raucous back and grazing over his resounding heart. The tension in his rigid shoulders eased with every gaudy touch. She wordlessly reached for his eyepatch, and yanked it off in a swift move. Her lips descended on his shoulder, moving upwards to peck lightly at his jugged and immersive scar, reaching for his poignant cheekbones, and pressing softly at his mouth’s high arch.

“How,” He whispered lowly once again, as her eyes met his with glee. "Foolish boy,” She kissed him slowly, whilst aligning her hips to his, “I came back for you. We’re man and wife now, you and I.” She added with a prompt elation, “I could never truly leave you.”

“Harrenhal, the Riverlands –” He grunted meekly as he insatiably chased her mouth. His wife bit over his lower lip, and swallowed down his grouchy growl. “Shh,” She subdued him back to calmness, “We are both in Oldtown now. All is well.” She nodded once to ease his nerves, “Your brother, Daeron, took care of everything.” Before the Prince could inquire anything less or more wanting, her leg prodded in between his thighs, widdling to pry them open. She moved her attentive focus to his red and swollen lips, and gently led his heated body back into a lying pose. The woman smirked at his perplexed submission, and flummeted a listless array of sensual and loving kisses down the curve of his adonis belt. Her knees plunged into the mattress that enwrapped him in a state of lust, straddling and guiding him as she considered at that time.

“Relax, my love,” She urged him gently, “I plan to take good care of you.” For but a moment, her movement stilled. And his wife rose up her head to kiss him in pleded benevolence. “I almost lost you. Never again.” She promised him with an elusive stare. The hardness in his hazy iris softened with her every word. His digits came to touch her own, and he entwined their hands together, taking her own to his mouth. Tenderly he kissed each finger, trailing the softness of her palms with the unquaint and possessed devotion of his flectuous and awaiting lips. She relaxed into his hold, and used her thumbs to graze his cheeks, rubbing faintly at the jarring redness that was forming on his skin. “I would burn the world to ashes if it meant possessing you,” He muttered lowly as he kissed her hands, “The Gods may curse me if they will it – but I would sooner kill a thousand men, and ravock against hundreds of armies, before I should see you leave again.”

Her giggle pierced his very soul, and that alone had been enough for him to free his damning urges. He pawed at her compressing bodice, and sucked with fevervour at the apex of her thighs and neck. “I am sick with the desire to have you. I am not a man to be tamed, my Lady; ‘tis with you and only you that I will submit willingly.” Poignant yet without a hurry, her fingers threaded through his silver hair, earning a salacious moan from the lips of the perturbed. Aemond’s eye was blown with lust, and a shallow but incessive pant ached within his naked chest. Desperate to hear her voice, and maddened by her ceaseless silence, the man drove on with upstrained force. “Tis only you who makes me whole,” He whispered as he shut his eye, “Your beauty is a curse that bound me since the first day that we met. No matter where I turn to look, I cannot escape your presence.”

“Say something – say anything. Tell me that I may – may I?” The desperate edge within his tone transpired over his extended hand. Tremulous and undecided, it touched the lacings of her back, itching to reveal her skin. “Please let me touch you. Please… I need you.” A reserved smile upturned her lips, and the woman trailed her hands over the appended width of his shuddering and throbbing chest. His every muscle tensed at the feeling of her cold and sanity hands – a downy sigh beleft his throat, followed by a swallowed whine. She leaned over to his ear, and trailed a long lick to his jaw. “I love you…” She subdued to his lax face, whilst letting out a brisk exhale. Her forehead came to touch his own, as she muttered once again, “I love you, Aemond.” The sluggish roll of her scant hips deterred the Prince to drone a curse. "Don't say that, my love," His breathing came to ragged pants, "I'm going to… spend… if you say that once more…" His hand came forth to grip her thigh, pausing slightly for a moment to ensure her disposition, before leading her into him with nuanced and languid movements. His brows furrowed in concentration, as his hazy and fogged over eye trailed across her freckled face. “To hell with keeping the bloodline pure,” He gulped as he relaxed into her, “Fuck principle.” His loins ached him with elation at the promise of release. The way she looked at him was too much. “Sīkudi nopāzmi, skori ao umbagon va bē hen issa…” His speech halted with the abstinence of another guttural growl, “Qrimbrōzagon, jorrāelagon, nyke jāhor tepagon ao nykeā gār trēsi.”

Very little he could say on the wild infatuation that he felt for the slight girl. He knew that he had well surrendered his will, his mind, and his whole being to the jolting peaks of madness – of love and lust and quaint desire.

He’d been a man bound by his duty. Prepared to marry his own sister and ensure their pure volition, should his brother prove himself more or less inapt to do it. Marry the Baratheon girl, concur with her father’s banners and one day sit at Storm’s End. But then he went against his mother – against the wishes of his grandsire, against the better of the Realm; he’d married her in disheartened haste, with no quaint or real regard over what would come of them. His extended family, the premise of his purpose as a simple second son, the scarce but mandatory expectations that were laid upon him since the first conditioned moments of his cursed and unwanted birth… they’d all have grown to account to nothing in the face of her lithe form. She was, by all righteous accounts, the one woman that the poets spoke of. The inviting and mistrusting siren that would lure tired men in, the innocent and stainless maiden that drove them all insane with need. His wife, His Lady – the only woman who could drive Aemond Targaryen wild with pure fervour. With every kiss on her pale skin, the falthered licks of true devotion cascaded from his parted lips – with every promise that he uttered in his olden mother tongue, too scared and afraid to claim them in a way she’d understand. For he was nought but a damn coward. A foolish man. One that was frightened. Frightened of the situation which he himself had put her under. Frightened of being rejected by his one true love again. Frightened of loving her wholly, as if but a single touch placed upon her skin would burn him.

Scared, that he would do anything it took to have her. Scared, that he would desolate his House, renounce his titles, give up his birthright – just to be allowed to stay quaintly over by her side. The tightness of his burdened sex deterred him to writhe and moan. His hands had worked throughout without him, undressing her with a light tremour – one that would have better matched a young and senseless stable boy, than a true and balanced Prince. His mouth latched on her heaving bosom, sucking its possessive mark along the low side of her collarbones. His right hand touched upon her thigh, and she immediately spread out her legs. “Se nyke jāhor jorrāelagon hen se tolvie mēn hen zirȳ.”

His trail of open-mouthed kisses faltered in their pushed longevity, as she offered her reply in kind. Her eyes washed over with confusion, and a quivering but dainty hand came up to rest over his scar. Her mouth opened as his closed, daring to utter but one question, after what felt like an eternity of eluding and punishing silence. “Is everything alright, my King?”

As if struck by a red arrow, Aemond countered her position – though he kept her tightly on him, his own chest touching with hers. “What did you say?” Following his own accord, the Prince wrapped a hand around her, “You do not speak High Valyrian.”

Not with this level of content.

“My love…” She strained herself to finally stay, whilst the Targaryen seized up her hand, “Aemond, my heart, what are you doing?”

“This isn’t real,” His voice cracked with dissolution, “This isn’t real.” His thumb trailed where her cut should be, across the soft mound of her flesh – though the only feel against it was her soft and healed-up muscle. In vain she tried to grip his face, and make him face her eyes again. In vain her face had gotten closer, urging him to probe her skin. “Aemond…” She tried her best to reel him back.

“You couldn’t have healed in two days' time.”

“I’m here, Aemond – I’m real. I am real just as you are.”

His thumb grazed her lower lip, trailing at her cupid’s bow. “No,” He muttered with a broken tone, “No, you’re not.”

Regret washed over her fair face – though whether felt or simply mimicked, Aemond wouldn’t dare to guess. Before he could swat her away, her hands gripped urgently at his loose shirt. The sick illusion stilled her movements, and merely pressed up against his form. “What does it matter if I’m not cut?” Her gaze softened as he pulled her nether, “This can be real,” She muttered meekly, as she trailed her smaller hand down the apex of his silver hair. Shyly she encouraged him to wrap a hand around her waist, and to rest his cluching chin on the nakedness of her small chest. “You and me,” She deterred further, “We can make this whole thing work.” She nodded fervently at her own words, as she unclasped the ready dagger that remained tied to his leg. Quietly she brought it forward, presenting it in her clean palms – and smiled at him encouragingly, as she pointed it to his big hands. “We can wed each other again,” She promised with a sweet allure, “And we can make it right this time.” Roaring anguish and relenting pain was all that Aemond found he felt, as her soft digits tried to trail over the sharpness of his jaw again. She raised herself back to her knees and straddled him with a shy look. “You know the words, Aemond, come on,” She coaxed him with a shallow grind, “Father, Smith, Warrior,” Her lips descended on his neck, “Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” A blinding array of wet kisses was panned insistently across his face. The cruel illusion pouted slightly, as her lost set of aching motions failed to be returned by Aemond. She stirred observantly in her found seat, and simply grazed his chest again. “I am his and he is mine…”

“Stop this.”

“From this day, until the end of my days.”

His hand had wrapped around her throat, holding her gently in her place – though firmly enough for her plump lips not to scoot a figment closer. His lone orb bore into her form, sending waves of apt vexation down the curve of her hicked bosom, “Enough.” He domineered his lady faintly, while swatting her off his heaving body. “Aemond,” She tried once more, thoroughly banished, and latched onto his extended arm, “Please,” Her tune had grown desperate in edge, “We can be so, so happy… I can be so good for you–”

But by then it’d been too late – for Aemond opened his eye, and was met with thorough light.

“Aemond.” A faraway voice called out for him.

His head was throbbing, his scar itching, stinging at his tightened skin with waves of blinding and deafening pain. His lips parted with the prying of a hardened groan, and the man hissed at the contact that the mattress made with him. “Shit,” He panted with a shaky exhale. The Prince’s lips pressed hard together, and a harsh frown scorned his features. As he glanced on at the man who’d dared perturb him in his sleep, his own surprise jolted him upward. “Daeron?”

As if motioned by his hiss of pain, the young Targaryen heathered closer, enwrapping his own slender fingers around his older brother’s forearm. Gentily he hoisted him better, making sure to shield his shoulder and press his back against the tall edge of his given bed. “You have slept for too long, brother.” He uttered in a sympathetic tone, “We thought that you might not wake up.”

“What happened?” Aemond jerked his whole arm forward, loosening his sibling’s hold. He winced at the grave discomfort, and Daeron breathed out a tut – though the two remained up close, even through Aemond’s conniption. Defeated or perhaps unnerved, Daeron straightened back his shoulders, broadening his slighter frame. He hummed towards him in slight admission, before resuming his known poise. “It’s good to see you, too, dear brother.” A sadenned smile played at his lips, before his eyes bore his again. “... The Riverlands have been secured two days ago by nuncle’s presence. I came and took you back to Oldtown.” His reply had been quite simple, yet Aemond’s blood surged through with ire. He almost jumped up to his feet, demanding for a hurried answer. “You mean to tell me… Harrenhal has been abandoned. The strongest keep in terms of rally.” His voice had grown huskier yet, as he strained his vocal cords to concur a neutral tone. A bludgeon red obscured his vision, as a palpable realisation hit – his wife had been abandoned, too. “The Lady of Riverrun –” He began with grave ferocity, yet Daeron’s voice befell his ears.

“What was once your prized war captive appears to have remained scot-free.” The deep purple in his eyes registered his wrathful face, “There was nothing we could do. Your shoulder blade was soberly infected. The girl could have been anywhere further South, and Daemon emerged up North with that vexing bastard filly.” As his speech came to a halt, the man expelled a briskened heave, “You’re lucky that you’re still alive, and that Ser Cole stuck out from Maidenpool to take over your share of men.” Aemond’s features turned impassive, as his bold and younger brother carried forward with his discourse. Recoil sprung inside his guts, densening his leaden body. Fury fought with better judgement, until the former struck its claim. “How long have I been asleep.” Though a poignant and illusive question, his words spewed out as a command, “How long has it been.”

“A little over three moon turns.”

“Three days,” The man spat out in disarray, “Three days,” He thus insistently repeated, as he fixed on the lowest point of the cranky wooden floor. His mind’s eye surged with hasty questions, with possibilities and made scenarios that could have feasibly played at her fate. She could not have gotten far. Walking through those fields on foot came near close to be impossible, even for the ones who worked them. She hadn’t stolen any horse, for Alys told him –

Alys Rivers.

The harlot witch who’d sworn before him that she’d find out where she would be.

“Where is the Rivers witch residing now?” Almost clearing through his trail of thought, Daeron’s body hindered forward. “Take it easy, Aemond, please. You have not yet healed your wounds.” The sharpened edge of his advice echoed through the dim lit room. “I shan’t allow your temper to recline your better health.”

“You listen here and listen well,” His wide stance dominated their reclusion, “I remain your Prince Regent until Aegon’s recuperation. You will tell me where that bastard is, or I’ll break this hedge to find her.”

“Do not make me choose between my man’s honour and my family,” Daeron sighed as he unsheathed his sword, “Lady Alys is under my protection. And no harm shall fall upon her.” A humourless laugh broke Aemond’s scowl, as a wild expression settled in. Her ongrowing popularity with younger men with silver hair hadn’t failed to irk him onward. “Ah, she’s shown you her loose cunny yet?” With two wide steps, he reached his brother, “You get the bull-tip of your cock wet and call that an act of honour? For agreeing to protect her whilst buried to the hilt inside her?”

Her deep-set eyes shone with uncertainty. The witch had bit over her lower lip, surging forward with her pleading. “I’m begging you, my Prince, Aemond cannot know.” Taken aback by her renowned persistence, Daeron merely nodded his head. “My Lady, you are well in Oldtown now. For saving my brother’s life as you did, I remain deeply indebted.” Though his stare had but ghosted over the appendix of her womb, the man frowned with laced dubiety. She followed his fixation vaguely, before bringing out a hand to rest over her emergent stomach. “Your brother isn’t a bad man – and he’s never wronged me, my Prince, however–” Her quaint unease shortened her argument. And alas, she’d lost her courage, lowering her arid stare. “However, I do not think it wise to spur him on with my condition.” With how her eyes avoided his, her kind admission of his resting brother might not have been all true and fair. Still he didn’t dwell on it; and merely chose to nod his head.

“He is certain to be mad at me.”

“You ought not to feel afraid, my lady. Any news of your condition will not come forth from my own lips.”

“Careful now, Aemond, you forget yourself.”

“And remain unarmed.” He gingerly agreed, “Did lord Ormund tell you how to be a man of honour? Was swinging your sword about in the face of your unguarded kin a lesson he’d formerly taught you? Or did you already possess such knowledge?”

“I do not wish to fight you, brother. Though you will stay your hand whilst here.” A damning silence cut right through them, clogging up their lungs with pressure and spiking up their avid hearts. Restlessness and grief filled Aemond, who only glanced in trepidation at his shorter and unmoving brother. The crackling fire of the room danced its flames across his face, thus distorting Daeron’s image of the fervour which he felt. “I’d tread lightly if I were you, brother. The Blacks did style me a Kinslayer.” Though filled with vehemence and zeal, Aemond had been smarter yet. With his small hum and low admission, he relaxed his back again. He took a seat near the small fire, and glanced at the boy again. His eye swirled with an iron glint, that merged into the biting flames of the red inviting blaze. His right arm rose in mocked surrender, though his sharp features didn’t lessen from their venomous display.

Despite his face being flushed red by his brother’s cruel last words, Daeron faced his flare with courage, and a straighter back than most, “Is it true?” He interjected, after a trifling plummet of silence. Though neither Prince required clarity upon the nature of his question, the younger lass protracted onward, as to secure Aemond’s reply. “Is it true that I should call the Tully girl my sister now?” The remnants of the aching fire danced across their heaving bodies. The avid churning of the olden wood dominated the wide room – two Targaryens singled each other, mirroring their counterpart in both elation and in stance. Aemond’s orb never once found itself leaving his face. Lilac clashed with spilling purple, until the latter of the two men moved.

“Yes.” Was all the Regent mustered to answer.

The oak floor creaked under the pressure of Daeron’s long and urgent steps. His hands sprawled over to the pine-wood table. His head lulled forward in a broken image.

In the nearing distance of the fertile fields of Oldtown, both Tessarion and Vhagar unleashed their frightening and unruly growls.

The Rushing Halls. The Half Calf’s Inn. Green Fork. Hag’s Mire.

Rushing Halls, Half Calf’s Inn, Green Fork, Hag’s Mire –

The North.

Words she whispered under her breath as she ran with a willingness unbent but strained. A ceaseless mantra of tied locations, that would hopefully bring forth her safety. Eventual peace within the Ream, to her family – and Gods be good, to the kindred spirits of all the souls she had selfishly left behind. She prayed and hung upon the last image that she got of Alys. Nought of what she said to her could be tested to be certain, and she might as well have sent her to an early and untimely death. She knew I wanted to march North, she'd ceaselessly remind herself, Could my own judgement be faulty?

Her legs had long been taken over by the blissful licks of numbness. And the soles of her silk shoes were long gnawed over by the pressure she had tirelessly put them under. Heaving breaths rattled her throat, and hot tears rolled off her cheeks. With a stupor which perturbed her greatly, the girl observed what had occurred.

She’d been crying. And for an awfully long time, at that.

Of exhaustion, of guilt, of desperation. Of feeling more caged than before, moving blindly like a pawn when bigger schemes were now at play – schemes that could have only been orchestrated by the Greens. Or the Blacks. Or the allies of those fractioned Houses. She could feel her heart emerge in the back-end of her throat. Her mouth dried up, although her tears quickened their flow into a heavy sheen of frightened spoil. The question in her mind remained – How long would it take until word reached the Blacks' most leal camps? Until Daemon or Rhaenyra found out about her bitter marriage, until her family – her real family – was used as bait to sway her heart?

They couldn’t know.

Would they believe it?

Would she be wrong to reach up North, in the hopes of peace and solace? Would she be caged and executed by the one Jace called his friend?

Her Jace. Her sweet and kind and perfect Jace.

His fingers threaded through her hair, as she sat across his lap. The padding of his calloused finger ran over her puffy cheek, prodding at her jaw affectionately as she read the book aloud. “Jace,” She hummed with contrary amusement laced within her tender voice, “However do you plan on learning all those words in High Valyrian if you can’t focus at all?” A boyish smirk spread on his face, which followed suit with a slight chuckle. Despite her chastising remark, the girl rose both eyebrows in wonder – she clicked her tongue in feigned dejection, but soon gave in to his strange joy. “Ah, but how can I be expected to concentrate on anything when you are so very beautiful,” Her Prince lowered his face to her, “And your lips look so inviting?” A myriad of little pecks descended on her face like rain, reaching wherever they could.

Three on her forehead, two on her brows, five on her nose and six on her lips.

A rather violent and aggressive turn stole the ground beneath her feet, and the woman found herself lying on the mudded earth.

Get up. Hurry and get up right now.

No matter how much she’d dare to try, she’d never be an avid runner. She’d never dare desert a post, but she’d never win a race.

Their giggles filled the blooming garden, as they both whispered their stale promises. “Avy jorrāelan,” He muttered right above her lips, “I swear that I’ll make you my Queen.” Her tiny gasps were soon all swallowed by the hunger of his mouth, “Avy jorrāelan–” She tentatively rolled the words in the back end of her throat, “That means ‘I love you’, doesn’t it?” The older boy let out a pur at her rightful and correct assumption, “My beautiful and smart betrothed,” He gently caressed her cheeks, “I love you,” He mustered up to say again, “I love you. I love you so, so much.”

“I love you more,” She strained herself to faintly exhale as she captured him again in an open-mouthed kiss.

She’d never seen love as a weakness, so she never felt the need to run. Although she’d never been the one to chase – always the last to eat her dinner, always the last to speak her mind. She was, in fact, a mere ground-holder. The one that always chose to stay.

“I’ll go with you,” Her weary eyes searched wide for his, “I won’t let you face the Triarchy alone.” Jace’s hands beckoned her hither, in a tight and chaste embrace. “You must stay here,” He softly uttered, “Your grandsire and brothers need you.”

“Not as much as you need me,” Her hands tightened their loose hold, “We’re a team. We’ve always been a team. I just–” Although the latter of her words were muttered, Jace still broke into a smile, “I just can’t let you go alone. I have a bad feeling about this.” He kissed the crown of her tied hair, and breathed in her daisy scent. “Stay,” He sighed in a low tone, “I did promise you, did I not?” His hawk-like orbs bore holes into her, “I swore to you that I’d return. I intend to keep my oath.”

Even when her shoes were laced, or when all her muscles tensed at the simple call of ready – she just wouldn’t move her legs. She was a stayer. Always the one to get up last.

“You shouldn’t be so taciturn,” Kermit’s voice rang through her ears. “Good things come to those who wait.” She dismissed him with a jab, and Oscar’s lips pulled to a smile. “In this world? In Westeros?” Her younger brother tightly questioned, “To a Tully? I don’t think so.”

Gods be good, her knees were bleeding from the sheer force of that fall. She blinked her eyes and panted loudly, trying to regain her vision. Dwellings on matters disclosed were the least bit of her worries. If she managed to escape her husband, then she could torment her soul.

The Rushing Halls. The Half Calf’s Inn.

Alys had at last been right.

“Hey, boy! You, from over there!” Her breathless callings were soon answered with a frail and slight refrain.

“Greetings, traveller!” The man instilled his horse to stop, whilst turning his face towards her. “You seem to be in a big rush.” Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her breathing came as short and laboured. “Aye, I am,” The girl agreed with a forced smile, whilst focusing to stop her pants. She glanced atop the horse’s rider, and merely nodded up ahead, “See, I was planning to go to High Heart – take the Gold Road back to Silverhill.” As she winced at her attempt to recall the map of Westeros, the nervous Lady of the Riverlands shrugged her shoulders in dismay. She swallowed deeply for a moment, and prayed to whatever God would listen for the man to be convinced. “But, uh,” She took in a shaky breath, as her lungs burned up her insides, “I didn’t realise the lands would be so muddy.” She chuckled as the boy relaxed, and aligned his horse to face her, “Not from these parts, are you, Lady?”

“I’m afraid I’m here in passing. My own family awaits in Appleton.”

If until then the lass had treated her with piercing and perusing distance, his facade had broken down, in the singular and stellar moment when her words mentioned the Reach – the modest castle of King’s Road where some lower lords resided. Immediately his shoulders slouched, as his eyes widened with joy. “You’re from Appleton, Lady?” Without awaiting for an answer, the boy shook his head and clarified, “My good mother comes from Appleton – she used to take me there in summers, since I was still in my cradle!” He dismounted his small horse with a feverished, good-willed felicity, and approached the waiting girl, “‘Tis good to see another lowborn of the Reach! My name is Dalron. Dalron Flowers.” As he proudly spoke his words, the Dalron bastard of the Reach leaned into a profound bow.

Another bastard of the Reach – this was starting to become a theme.

The amusing thought that reached her mind hindered the girl to suppress a laugh. Still, her eyes darted in focus to the side of the road, and she faltered a moment to plunge back into her words.

“I’m Sara Webber.” She lied without a single tick, and smiled crookedly when the man tripped over his better words, “M’lady!” He forthwith spat out his flattery, “Forgive me, m’lady, I hadn’t realised I was talking to a – well, uh, ah, a highborn lady.”

Relieved that her lie had worked and that her new identity had stuck so well – for she was painfully unaware if such a Webber even existed in the lands of Coldmoat Keep –, her hands came briskly in the air, as she waved them both good-heartedly. “It is I who should apologise, ser – I don’t reside exactly in Appleton. Though I share the enthusiasm: it is a rather beautiful place." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and her stare focused on the tiny horse; how very perfect it would suit her in the joncture of her little trip.

“I struck up a conversation to inquire about your horse. Would you ever think to sell her?"

“She's not truly a horse, my lady, but a half mule –”

Alys.

"Still, she's as good as any purebred! And she can last for a long distance."

“She must be quite valuable and dear, then!”

The lanky bastard nodded with a smile upon his lips. His eyebrows furrowed shortly after, as he patted the old yerdle on her boney and emblemished back, “Aye, m’lady, dear she is – but I must say with honesty that she can’t carry much weight.” A shy quirk befell his lips, and the boy dared to look away again. His black eyes ran over the hills she’d pointed – and he shook his head whilst thinking. “But with just you on her back, m’lady,” His yellow teeth showed for a moment, “I’d say she could take you to Appleton.”

Her dirtied hand dug through her breeches for the remaining coins from Alys. After but a hissed-out curse and a sheepish smile thrown at him, her unclenched palm revealed both silvers, and a carefully polished ring. “It’s not much, I must confess,” Her breath staggered with an inept swallow, “But it should be of enough value to at least make up for her.”

The way his face switched brash emotions made her squirm within her place. She filled her lungs with putrid air, and merely drove on ahead, “Of course, I’d deal you with these clothes, as well.” She humorously jabbed at Dalron, “If you could tell I was a lady, then my job wasn’t done right.”

The rags the bastard wore in daylight contrasted her shirt and braise. And Dalron looked at the two silvers, and at the stone caught in her ring.

In those unparalleled moments of quiet, the Lady smiled at him with patience, but prayed upon the Seven Heavens that the man accept her offer.

***

The mule’s strides were long and hearty – filled with more determination than the girl ever expected; swift and agile on her scrawny, although weirdly elongated feet.

The girl noticed, although dumbfounded, that her shoulders had relaxed. Her lips pressed into a tight line, as her back turned stiff again.

Such a fool’s role she was playing, disassociating from her nimble body, daydreaming with her eyes wide open, when she hadn't yet found shelter. She could not afford missteps – not another hurried movement, or another close miscall. Relaxation was a dreaded feeling.

Her, overcome with confidence in her own wit and reason, on her slim chance of escaping and her margin of enclosed direction could not have brought good news with it. And that bastard boy she’d left, wearing all of Aemond’s clothes…

She’d smiled at him in a faint manner, and fooled him to dress in her garments.

When quietness set in the fields, and all the birds ceased with their loud humming, the tired Lady of the Riverlands wondered if she’d killed the lass – if somehow, although unwilling, she’d condemned him to his death. Would he be found out by Aemond? Or by one of his unchanged supporters? Would any woman from his town recognise the three-faced dragon on the back-end of his shirt, and denounce him as a traitor, style him someone who plotted against the betterment of the Black flags? … Would he know her true identity? Had he figured it all out from the moment that he saw her, and only bargained with her money to suck her dry of all she had?

She was Elmo Tully's daughter. The granddaughter of mighty Grover. Kermit's sister–

Aemond's wife.

Both her brothers were well-liked, known and welcomed with great reverie on North to Kingsroad and South to Ashford. Surely then the boy won’t talk.

… But what if he were made to talk? Tortured on and on for hours, seemingly without an end? He’d seen her take to Wayfarer’s Rest, so if he’d give them those directions, then at least they would be wrong.

The mule was panting, hard but slow. Her feet had started giving out.

“Attagirl,” The girl encouraged, patting her on her slim neck, “Hold on for me. Hold on, sweet thing – we have to walk for a while longer.” The half-breed puffed through her pink nose, and merely grunted in her slight retreat. “I promise you, we’ll stop real soon.” Had she turned fully insane? Overcome by grief, fatigue, and so desperate to talk again?

Human company couldn't be traded with the one of a small horse. But conversing with the mare was better than not cackling at all.

A lousy crack of a felled branch unsettled both the mount and owner to the heights of deep hysteria – but only the former jolted and curdled out a high-pitched shriek.

“Shh, shh, attagirl – calm down, sweet thing, calm down.” The Bliss of Riverrun commanded gently. Her hands were shaking, still holding up the yearling’s bridle. She exhaled once through her straight nose, and tried to calm her aching nerves. “I got scared, too, but it was nothing.” Though darkness ate away the forest, her avid eyes searched through the shadows – and her own hand rested quite stiffly, palming at her thigh to ground her. “See, it was just a stupid bird. The breeze. A noise.” Her own breathlessness surprised her.

In olden days, she'd laugh at that. For she always teased the children that were still scared of the dark.

Droplets of sweat coated her forehead, tickling down her dirtied cheek. The girl didn't feel like laughing. The girl felt the need to scream.

Should Aemond venture out to find her, she’d be well aware of that. And no amount of greenery would mask Vhagar’s laid out shadow. The dragon’s roars had made her ears bleed – they would be louder than a measly crack.

As she looked up from the bushes, the girl's big eyes filled up with glee; for there it was, up on the hill – the unkept and deformed Hag’s Mire.

《"You'll go towards the Rushing Halls and buy yourself a mule from the Half Calf's Inn." As the younger Lady nodded feverishly at her late advice, Alys clasped her cheeks with her hands, and brought her head further towards her. "You'll keep a straight line to the Green Fork. You won't stop to eat or drink – you won't stop until you reach Hag's Mire.》

Alys told her she could stop there. And Alys had been right before; why would she be lying now?

Maybe she should stop about. Allow her mule the rest of night, eat something hot, starchy and fat.

She still possessed her golden pendant. And she could trade it for a meal, and a high stable for her tired mule. Her heart picked up with faith and hope, as her own lips parted with gratitude.

Thank the Gods for Alys Rivers, she compelled within her thoughts.

His eyes looked far into the distance, matching shadows to their forms. The grey within his tired iris faltered over with light languor – and a quaint sigh left his lips, as the man straightened his back.

“And so quietness enwrapped the Realm.” Her satin voice enveloped Cain, and whilst he turned his head around, he returned her smile with grace. His fatigued limbs chastised in protest, yet he still bowed in his reply. “Lady Arryn,” He echoed slightly, announcing the woman's presence. The night’s air flogged at his pale skin, leaving forth their angry marks at the apex of his hollow cheeks. “The hour’s grown quite late, my Lady.” Instead of an outright reply, the woman nodded in effervency, as she walked on by to sit near the stones he rested on. She turned her stare to the vast distance, and sucked a breath with a light tut. “When my ancestors built the Vale,” She began with a small hum, “They said it was impenetrable.” Her hands rested in her lap, playing with her golden rings.

“Why are you here alone?” The quaint recoil of her tone matched the weariness of his low stance. “Apologies, my lady. I hadn’t meant to abandon my post.” Though he tried his hardest to level out his prickled throat, the words he uttered maintained their shaky undertones. The subtle feel of her wool shawl surrounded Cain with love and warmth. Her hands had draped the silky felt over his unyielded back, and she rubbed long, soothing circles in the thick of the material. Twice she had patted his shoulders, before gently letting go.

A wordless colloquy was thus exchanged. “It’s really cold.” She hushed beside him.

“But I’ve always found their logic to be lacking in that sense.” Jayne transfixed Cain with her blue eyes, “No one's tried to break us in. But I'm certain that some could." She paused a while to maul her thoughts, before she carried on her speech, "Just because something looks to be untouchable, that doesn't make it rightly so.”

“It doesn’t quite inspire men to go to arms, either, my lady.”

“Yeah…” The knight chocked-out an affirm, “It is.” Her eyes pleaded silently with his, and the five and ten year old lowered her head over her knees. “You talked to him.” She merely sighed, as he quickly shook his head. “He reached out to me,” Cain muttered simply, “I was in the training yard when he showed up out of nowhere.” A wobbly hand came to wipe his tears away, and the lass scratched himself with the callous ends of his rough digits. “Said we needed to talk. I thought that… Gods, I never allowed myself to hope, my lady, but for once I–” The fever in his growing tone wantonly shredded his heart. The anguish in his gape was evident, but the girl lest found herself transfixed by his iron gaze – so close to being blue or green, so close to turning milky white. “Is he…?” She asked him with a reserved pitch. “His twin brother.” Cain huffed out, as a bitter laugh slipped past his lips. “Tyland was just there to make sure I wouldn’t yelp. His brother’s too much of a coward to address his son his questions.”

Lady Arryn forced a smirk, yet agreed with the tall knight. “Every coward seems courageous in the safety of the crowd.” She murmured through a marginal chuckle, “And bravery can be contagious when the band is playing loud.” Her tense gaze drowned him like a river – and the swirl beneath her eyes let the man know of her wide plan. “To be led by the force of example can be a very tricky thing.” Cain exhaled through his nose.

“Is that why you cannot find sleep?”

“Was he worried you would say something?” Her drawn voice laced with the cobwebs of uncertainty, “What would you have to gain from calling yourself a Lannister’s bastard?”

“A whole lot, Tyland thinks.” The corners of his mouth quirked upwards, “For one, Jason doesn’t have any sons.” Her eyebrows rose from perplexed to intrigued. “Even rumours of an illegitimate one could very well ruin their thread of succession.” As the two friends pressed on forth with their treasonous exaltion, the younger girl lowered her head. “But you don't want it. You don’t want Casterly Rock.”

“No.” His own body had become a vessel, a means to chain his most protruding thoughts. The corners of his mouth had watered, as his vision turned unclear. Gods forgive him, and Gods be good – but how he wanted it as his. He wanted to sit on that damned chair more than presidency would allow. He wanted to feel the weight of that ridiculous and pompous cape upon the broadness of his shoulders, he wanted to know what it would be like; For but a moment, he wanted to know their power. To know what it was like to be seen, quaint regarded as an equal, and not as a produce of lust. “No, I don’t want it.” His head surged clear with a response. The world was yet to make a man who lacked the much needed ambition to climb the ladder to the heights of power. The impulse he felt had made no difference – what he wanted and what he was owed were on the two sides of the same coin.

His shoulders tensed, much like that night. “I feel…” He strained himself to give an answer, “When I faced the Kinslayer in that dark, secluded cave," His diction halted for a moment, as he thought on what to say, "I felt more than prepared to die.”

“But you didn’t die.”

“No, I didn’t.” His shame slid down his throat with ease, “I survived; and in the process of that, I failed her.” His stare threaded with the winter’s sky. And when he dared to speak again, his voice hung low with deep uncertainty. “There’s nothing to say I won’t fail again.”

“Nothing makes a man so bold as a woman’s smile, and a hand to hold.”

The redness in his cheeks had deepened, and though his mouth opened in protest, quietness ensued a while – He would have avidly denied her musings, swearing on the Gods above that what he felt for his fair lady was nothing but a lasted friendship.

I owe my very life to her, he might have been endowed to say, When no one else believed in me, she was the one who gave me hope. And the right purpose to uphold.

Only when he turned her way, did the knight realise that he was tired. Tired – but tired up and far beyond the constrictions of the mind and flesh. The only sound that left his lips was a faint sigh of refrain. Everyone inside his life abandoned him or ran away. How cowardly it was of him to wish to do the very same.

His weary and incessive shoulders stiffened with the gentle breeze.

A single tear rolled off his cheek, and Cain swallowed back a curse. “I always lived under the impression that fathers grow to love their sons.” The silence that swaddled the gardens exceeded deafening amounts. Crickets nestled in the grass, opening their wings to fly to the delicate petals of flowers in the raptures of the night. A gust of wind prodded her vision, swaying forth her longer hair. The young girl’s eyes closed shut in focus, as her lips parted instead. “Jason Lannister is an idiot.” She ended up concluding then, “He doesn't deserve to call you that.”

A steadied breath escaped Cain’s throat, and her wide orbs softened in pain. Her gaze moved forth to the green bushes, and her smooth hands twitched in her lap. Suddenly and without thinking, her palm enwrapped his shaking fist. “I’m glad he’s not making you live with the shame of being his first male offspring, you know.” Although her moody tone of voice snapped right through the orchid garden in a patronising way, the Bliss of Riverrun made use of her free remaining hand; digging through her gown’s loose pockets, searching for a piece of cloth. They emerged not moments later, holding up the handkerchief – which she brought up to his face, to wipe away his trail of thought. “Fuck him.” She disclosed with a sure frown, “How something so defiled and ugly managed to mend such a good and patient boy should be studied by the Citadel.”

“You should go back to the feast, my Lady. Your grandsire will be very mad once he notices you left.” Though his gentle tone of voice tried to lead the girl away, his calloused thumb stroked tenderly at her palm’s inner soft flesh. She gave his hand a caring squeeze, and aligned her grasp with his. “I’m not going to leave you.” Her eyes spoke the honest truth, “Not when you’re hurting like that. What kind of friend would I be then?”

A small smile formed on his lips, pulling them upward in a comical but quite strained fashion. All his blood surged in his ears, and the tall and blonde young knight wished to tell her how he feels. He wanted to at least say ‘Thank you’, but the words escaped his clasp. His weary eyes were set upon her – upon the small curve of her nose and the wide curls of her soft hair. His tongue felt tied inside his mouth, and he was glad she’d smiled instead. “Besides,” The young girl spoke to fill the silence, “I don’t think I’ve ever attended a more dull and stale soiree.” Though his tears had long dried up, her hand stayed rested on his cheek. “The smallfolk starves so the Lannisters can stuff their faces, and congratulate each other for being so stupidly wealthy.” She threw her hands up in the air, peeking at her sole companion for one of his amused reactions. Sure enough, the boy was grinning – and that lone and simple notion made her all the more excited to upkeep cheering him up. “They must think we’re stupid,” She hummed in a degreeing voice, “I swear to you – they’re taught one dance, and one dance only. They just slightly change the music in the hopes that we won’t notice.”

By then his laughter echoed like pure crystal through the otherwise deserted grounds. Her own smile broadened with elation, as her curious and searching eyes reached up to his jolting shoulders. The youngest child of great House Tully crooked her head to the left side. “Hey,” She called out for his attention, “I just had the best idea.” Her dire lips pressed up together, before she went on with a smile. “Do you want to do something fun?”

If not for Jayne’s inessive stare, and the lethargy he felt throughout, Cain might have bothered to deny her brazen, yet affitely laid-out assumption. Orbs of forged steel fought to maintain the stare of ones tempered in frost – yet still the man shifted about, landing both his muted eyes on the ventured meadowed cliffs. Defeat swarded up his chest – sieging his brain and better reason, making him almost lose his temper. The greenery before his eyes coveted a single truth; more than six moons had passed between them. From the last time he’d seen his friend.

Alone at night he often questioned whether she’d at least survived. He prayed flaringly without a fault that she’d end up safe and about – protected and abstained from harm, and from the swandering of the Kinslayer.

“But all alone his blood runs thin.” He swallowed back his lost refrain, finally answering the waiting lady. “Then doubt comes – doubt comes in.”

He’d seen her Septas teach her Prayer. He listened to their wilted teachings, to the encouragements she’d be swarmed by. It was shameful and disruptive – his need to bite his tongue so hard, that he’d draw blood inside his mouth. Laughing would be crass and vile, he’d repeat inside his head, when her weekly call to “Grace” led them to the striking Sept. Faith can be encouraging, he’d reason, Not all of us are dealt bad hands.

There was no mercy to be had once fate fell into Their harsh hands. Bastard boys knew it too well, and so did every man and child who’d go to bed without their supper. Survival had to come by first – and faith would take the back-end stroll, until the former be assured. No, Cain had never prayed before. For there was no amount of prayer to be whispered by his lips that would possibly bring forth reclusion and relief to all he’d lost. It was the Gods who took his mother. It was the Gods who made him so. It was the Gods who made him feel like the sombrest in the world. But in a twisted and deformed way, it was the Gods that gave him comfort – for it was easiest to blame them so, for all the slights which he had faced.

Cain had never prayed before, but how he prayed for his friend now.

“Place your hand upon my waist, like so.” Her tender voice led with an instruction.

“I don’t think this is…”

“Whatever are you scared of, Cain? I’ve not seen you so tense before – not even in jousts or tourneys.” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, as her brows fixed in concentration, “And you faced knights there that were twice your age.” Defeated by her lack of presidence, the boy let out a shaky sigh, and focused on his burning stare on the forming trees ahead. His gape bore long and cutting daggers to the entrance of the gardens, and with each passing momentum, his back turned all the more stiff. Such an intimate position would have ruined any lady, were she caught with a high lord – and all the more vexing it’d be if she’d strayed with a sought bastard. His ears caught with a rosy tint, as his mouth parted with a forming protest. “My Lady–” The Waters boy had tried again.

Mayhaps sensing his mistrust, or simply carrying her own joke further, his lady rose her left hand up and swatted him with a slight grin, “See? You’re already a natural at it.” The music of the Great Hall carried to their small corner of the keep. And the Tully nodded once to encourage Cain to move. “Septa Harlow says it’s important to upkeep your stare,” She muttered as she twirled with him, “When dancing with a fellow lord, it is improper for a lady to look at anything below the brows.”

He could feel his hands get clammy, and his limbs turn firm and heavy. Though her words had eased him in, the boy remained brittle and set. “Boring, right?” She questioned with a tiny laugh, “As I told you – you didn’t miss much. That’s nothing else that people do there.”

As the music caught incentive, her feet stopped into their track. She mocked a deep bow at her partner, and slowly rose her gentle eyes. She turned around without a warning, and started running up ahead. “Keep up, Cain!” She yelled before her with a zeal that filled her heart, “I have a better idea than just staying here – but we’ll have to really hurry!”

The witty Lady of the Vale shifted on the cold, wet stones. She turned to fully face the bastard, and offered him a knowing nod. “The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid.” Her azure eyes looked at his hand, and at the bandages that covered it. “To lose two fingers at three and twenty, to be unable to move your arm, or to fight as you’ve been used to,” The older woman spoke to him, “It’s a misfortune that’s more than daunting.” Her slighter frame approached his crouching and recoiled in body, choosing to stand next to him. “You’ve managed to hang onto life when everything else seemed to be lost.” She muttered lowly, as if taken by surprise by the man’s pure strength of spirit.

“I failed her.” He whispered back in spat disgust.

“You didn’t fail anyone.” The lady interjected swiftly, “From the very beginning, you’ve been sent on a death mission.”

His loosened locks of golden hair fell upon his ample shoulders as he marginally shook his head. “Oscar was right,” Cain murmured plainly, “In between the two of us, she should have been the one to get here.” His body twisted towards the older woman, as his brows furrowed in pain, “I failed her.”

“If she knew you were alive, leading troops to save her homeland, I think she’d be ample proud.”

Despite the empathy she felt for him, the small brunette hardened her stare, “‘Tis not about what Oscar, or Grover, or Elmo think – ‘tis not about what your Lady thinks.” Her hand took hold of his good shoulder, giving it a toughened squeeze, “‘Tis about what you do now, with the resources that you were given.” The leal fire in her eyes caused the man to straighten up from the slouch that bent his back, “I expect you to be nervous. I expect you to be scared. I’m asking you to go back there, and risk your life all over again for the sake of something that we’re losing.” As her speech came to a halt, she gnawed harshly at her bottom lip, reddening her paling mouth. “If you go back there, you might die. Forget about holding your sword the right way, or about fighting with honour – you might face dragon fire, and dragon fire doesn’t spare even the most able of men.”

Though her words were scarce and prudent, Cain waited patiently for her to finish. Slithers of shame gathered in the low pits of his stomach. How could he have lost his nerve when his Lady hung onto him? With so many lives at stake, whom all readily lent to him?

“We’re counting on you, ser Waters.” Jayne continued her trail of speech, “We’re counting on you. But can we truly do that?”

If he chose to fight again, it wouldn’t be for wealth or glory. It wouldn’t be for great renown, or to prove something to others. Even if he lived it down, no applauses would be heard like at the end of a big tourney. He’d emerge a new man, changed, lacking of some of the scarce qualities that he felt he had that day. But what would happen to him – inside of him – mattered not to the young knight. Once again her kindred eyes came across his spinning view. And he knew, once and for all, that he’d throw his life away, if only to shelter her own.

His peer had mended to determined, and he swore upon his honour that he’d see his deed go through.

Allyn Swann. Lady Jayne Arryn. Four thousand men and (Y/N) Tully.

All the people that believed in him. All the souls that trusted him.

Just like on that autumn night, when he and (Y/N) ran away to see a circus in Flea Bottom, the heavy-lidded cavalier felt his words die right on his parted lips. But he came forth with a swift answer – one which he truly believed in.

Her gentle voice seeped in his ears. ‘You’re the only one who understands me, Cain.’

“I swear it, before the Old Gods and the New – upon Faithkeeper, upon my honour. I’ll return your trust tenfold.”

A true smile formed upon her lips, at the near end of his pledge. “Do come with me, Ser Cain,” She instructed with a leveled tone, “I have a gift prepared for you.”

Fuck the Gods. Fuck Alys Rivers. That lying, scheming, filthy whore.

To think she almost prayed for her, and thanked her feverishly inside her head. Her trip ensued without a hitch – and so she let herself believe in her, and nearly bumped into the Redwynes. The lousy troops that gathered up and swarmed the entrance of Hag’s Mire. Had she not spotted their banner, she might have set her foot inside. And that ostentative and golden dragon, which she despised with her whole being, served as her only decent cover against their clumpy eyes and ears. Her mule had come free of her bridle before she could hide any better, and advanced without her forth into the crowd of foul usurpers. ‘You fucking traitor…’ Her soul was screaming, as a Green soldier gripped her small saddle, ‘I give you that damned red apple, and you go to feed from them?!” Her jaw was clenched, as were her muscles. She couldn’t bolt. She couldn’t run.

“Where is that useless boy we paid for?!” The high-pitched scream of an old woman reached for her tense and prodded ears, “This is the last time I let you deal with the stupid boys of bloody Ramsford!”

Her eyes darted to the source of noise, and her mind surged with an idea. It would be risky. She could well die. If Darlon Flowers had found her out, then the haughty and sullen madame would see right through her flimsy scheme. But she had no other choice. Hurriedly and with great ardour, she dug her hands in the fresh mud, and scraped its contents on her face, smearing them wildly about. “A-Apologies for being late!” Her hoarse voice echoed through the clearing. She mildly coughed inside her hand, and tried her best to engross her timbre. “I never went further than Oldstones, ma’am–”

“I care not for your excuses, lad!” Her antsy wording cut her off, “You were to be here for a good five hours,” Her hand enclasped and tugged her wrist, “So take your mind off being paid today!” Her hazy irises bore daggers in and out the Lady’s heart, and her nose scrunched in daunting wonder at both her face and dirty garments. “Gods be good, they sent an animal. Are you clean of spreading warts?”

“I-I, uh–”

“What about catching diseases? Are you simple-minded, boy? Address me when I speak to you!”

Her wrinkled hand prodded above the laced-up waistline of her linen breeches. Were she not to open her mouth, the madame would have no shame to check and see her parts herself. “No – no, ma’am. I’ve no disorders left in sight. N-no warts, no yellow cough,” Her face contorted with abstained tension, as her hands rose into the air, “Nor any other spreading disease, I can assure you well of that.” With a loud snort and a dismissive hand, the aged madame turned to the wench, “You take this Ramsford boy inside and help clean up his grisly mug.” Her glacial tone waved with intent, “Then back to work, the both of you!” The younger girl nodded her head, shaking off her loosened braids, “Y-Yes, madam, of course! I’d be glad to help him out!”

“Well?” Her cutting question sucked all the air from the blonde girl’s arid lungs, “Don’t just stay there and look stupid – now!”

***

The lost blonde girl was called Mariah. A jumpy but dexterous cook, more used to the blazing heat provided by the kitchen fires than the cool air of the airy inn. She’d awkwardly handed the Lady the much-awaited handkerchief – and merely played with her plump fingers as the girl wiped off the mud that hadn’t yet fully dried up. And although her nose scrunched up at her resistance to a watered cloth, she failed to do anything wanting besides pushing her towards a closed door. “You-you’re going to be their attendee tonight. They don’t like women overhearing their stories or their spoils of war… so it’ll just be you in there.” Her green eyes widened to two round specs, “O-oh, of course, well – it won’t be just you in there, since you’re serving a table full of men, but – I-I meant that you’ll be the only servant there.” The words that followed her expansive ramble turned from stutters to incentive murmurs. And the Lady nodded weakly, whilst trying to decipher them. When her speech near loomed its end, the girl coughed loudly with insistence, and offered Mary a small smile. “Thank you, Mariah. I’ll handle it.”

Her burning eyes interwovened with alight uncertainty, “J-just be careful,” She confided through the notion of a fragile sniff, “They tend to scream when they get angry… A-And they got angry quite a lot.”

Ghastly and impending savages – that is what the soldiers were, as they laughed and drank and scarfed right into their mead and ale. The short remnants of her hair brushed across her cupid’s bow, falling straight over her view and narrowing it to the front. Her breathing turned to short and laboured, as she turned her back to them – and her hand enclasped the wine pouch with a faint but thrilling shudder. She’d seen men get drunk before, and she knew how they could talk. How the pints of liquid courage pulled the truth from their loose tongues, how their vision and their temper simmered them to gentle hearts.

Wine and ale made men more placid, but they also riled them up.

Her fingers brushed across the table, and she crouched close to the surface, seemingly inspecting it. Although her ears and head were pounding, she’d have to play her cards just right.

The well-known shrill of a low voice sent a shiver down her spine. “The Targaryens have all extended their lines,” Arlow Redwyne spat out bitterly, and all eyes turned back on him. Her own head jerked upwards in wonder, as she sucked in a harsh breath. “And now that summer’s over, the Blacks will have a harder time keeping their men and horses fed.”

“Summer or no, they can’t even call that an army,” A haughty voice echoed amused, “What was it – six hundred men from our dear Tullys, and a couple more from close to Sherrer?”

Now her eyes had been blown wide. Six hundred men. That was all they could afford. Were six hundred starving men all they had left of their home?

“Those searing leeches, along with the Freys, understand the woes of winter better than we ever will. The cold won’t beat them. As for the Northerners…”

Her guts hung lowly in her midriff. She’d recognised the last man speaking – the infamous “Bloody Mance” Pyke: a lesser lord under House Greyjoy, one of the few who’d known her brothers in an up, ‘personal’ manner. He’d visited their home in Riverrun, and saw the little Lady grow. How much of her he would remember was a query without answer.

“The Starks have no interest at play here.” A bitter voice shook through the room, “They haven’t been involved thus far. Cregan Stark won’t risk his forces for a war that never reached him.”

“Our spies,” Lord Pyke snapped tartly, “Report growing discontent among the northern and south-western lords. The latter wants to return home and gather the harvest before the crops turn. The former has sent word out to gather an army.” His amber eyes rose to Lord Redwyne, who merely let out a hum.

He licked his lips off the sweet ale, and whistled lowly at the Lady to refill his empty cup. She briskly moved to his direction, and poured him in a hefty cup. “And I’m sure if those same spies snuck into our own encampments, they’d report growing discontent amongst the southern lords.” His own flat tune disconcerted any worry from his sons’ long freckled faces, “This is war. No one’s content. And the northerners might take years to even gather half a regiment. The conditions make it such that any message travels slowly; before the Boltons and the Banfields, and House Mormont from the West manage to defrost their troops…” His heavy hand dismissed the girl, “The battles will be long well-ended.” A cutting silence reigned the room, as Lord Mance Pyke drowned his tall cup. He shifted lowly in his wooden seat, and signed for (Y/N) to grant him a refill.

She approached with her chin down, chewing on her bottom lip.

Gods be good, let him not notice me. Gods be good, let him not see me.

“We’ve underestimated the Tully boy for far too long.” One of the soldiers dared to mutter, “He has a good mind for warfare, his men worship him.”

'The Tully boy,’ She exhaled slowly, Would that be Oscar or our elder brother?

“As long as he keeps winning battles, they’ll keep abstaining for Rhaenyra.” His voice had come to shake with fervour, “We’ve been waiting for him to fail, he is not going to fail. Not without our help.”

“Then think, Ser Wylde, exactly what would make the lass break.” Arlow Redwyne interrupted when his fist landed on cutlery. “What is the one thing a Tully cares for more than anything?” Lord Pyke surged forward with the burning but evasive question.

The blood had run from her slim face, making her seem pale and sickly. Though the mud masked her quite well, the Lady arched her shoulders forward, trying to appear unbothered. A rattle of contented laughter turned the men’s whole disposition. “Family, honour and duty.” A black-eyed boy mocked the lords’ distinctive dictum.

“You stupid fuck,” Another wheezed right next to him, “It’s ‘Family, duty, honour’ – at least say their calling right.”

“The point still stands,” Mance ushered with ascendence, “There is nothing a Tully cares for more than family.”

It was as if a punch had been directed at her carved-out chest. The air immediately left her lungs, and her fingers gripped the pouch. She’d take a knife to all their throats before she’d let them harm her brothers. In his seat, Arlow deflated. “Of course,” He puffed through his broken nose, “And how, exactly, do you plan to reach such an impressive feat?” His callous digits jerked a march over the corners of the wooden table, “You forget mayhaps, good ser, how both Grover and that Oscar rest somewhere in Baelish Keep. The girl disappeared near Hayford–”

So Kermit was still fighting out there… and they thought that she was dead.

“‘Heard our Prince made her his wife.” The searing words befell the chamber. Ser Wylde had captured their attention, and even the men drunk out their minds rose their heads to listen better.

The unhealed flesh of her soft palm stung her over the long cut.

"If he had, he never would have left without her. And more than enough rivermen thanked the Gods when they saw Vhagar heading towards nought else but Oldtown.”

He left…?

She had lived the past three days in excruciating paranoia. And her ‘husband’ simply left her? Confusion, anger and relief all surged into her pulsing heart. He’d given up on finding her. She’d finally see both her brothers. And with any ounce of luck, their paths would never cross together. She should have felt elated. She should have felt relieved. She should have tried to mask her happiness, the smile that pulled at her fair lips – yet all she felt within her soul was a plentifully bitter feeling.

May he rot in the darkest pits of the Seven Hells, she exhaled briefly, Both him and his damned witch.

A lousy snort bounced off the walls that sealed the chamber of their council. And Lord Redwyne's youngest son shook his head with a deep frown, “Don’t you find it rather strange,” he asked, “How he left in such a hurry?”

“‘Tis not for us to safely say.”

“Yet even so!” His youthful face churned with suspicion, “He kept us wholly in the dark.”

The only thing that truly mattered was that Aemond had abandoned Harrenhal.

“And what are we to do now? Daemon lurks with that strange lassie – that’s two dragons against none!”

“Aemond won’t abandon us.”

“Open up your eyes, ser Wylde!” Bowen Redwyne rose his voice, “He might just as well have done that. He left with Daeron to hide in Oldtown, and burnt Harrenhal to the ground.”

Her breathing hitched inside her throat. Not only were they aware of the stronghold’s current state – but they thought Aemond had burnt it with the aid of trusty Vhagar. It had been three days of running – the word surely traveled fast.

“He left us with no defence–”

“Enough!” The mighty roar let out by Mance silenced the forfeiting room. “We’ve gathered here to speak of war. Not gossip like fishermen’s wives.”

Where did Aemond’s army head to? Oldtown was a place secured. So had he left because of Daemon?

《"Going out to face two dragons is a death sentence." His deep voice rumbled through the silence of the chamber, "I can't afford that risk anymore with you involved. We'll have to move from Harrenhal. You'll get to meet Daeron in Oldtown."》

The plan was to leave for Oldtown – why was she acting so surprised? Why did she care whether or not he’d made it safe? Whether or not his wounds had healed? Why was she somehow weirdly hurt by the fact that he just left her? Her trailing thoughts and inner conflict came to a halt as Mance addressed her. “Drain that pouch of any wine, boy.” He commanded with a rumble to his stern and cutting timbre, “And bring out water. We’ll be here for quite some time.” As she turned her back whilst nodding, the lanky Lord heaved out a sigh. “Can you read, Lord Edmure Rosby?”

“I-I beg your pardon?”

“Can. You. Read.”

The Lord of Cornhill met his stare with a blacked-out and confused expression. “Y-... Yes, my Lord, I can.”

Just as Edmure answered his question, the Lord of Pyke let out a chuckle. He wiped his hands off the cooked supper, and reached his breeches for some paper. “This letter,” He clarified to the slow lordling, “detailing our infantry movements was meant for Lord Quentyn of House Marbrand.” After a slight egregious pause, his droopy eyes fell on the man, “It was sent to Lord Marlin of House Qallister.” The young Lord Rosby sucked in a breath, and allowed his orbs to trail to the stones of the hedged floor, “My apologies, my Lord, I must’ve–”

“Boy?” Mance called out to the working Lady Tully. “Fetch me The History of the Greater and the Lesser Houses.” He pointed forward with his finger, “It’s the second one on the side.”

Her feet might have given up on her, were it not for his stale order. She’d never been addressed before, and that alone made her breath hitch. Her eyes shut close in concentration, and a small curse beleft her lips. She could feel the break of sweat crown her forehead in round droplets, but she calmed her rabid breathing with a small roll of her shoulders. Her hands rose to grab the book, but wavered on for just a moment – touching up the edges of another heavy leaflet, before picking up the right one, and carrying it to her chest.

“Even this cupbearer can execute commands better than you,” Mance scolded the sitting lord, as the girl laid out the tome. “To whom does House Qallister owe allegiance?” He questioned with a honeyed tone. The frail lass rose up timidly, pointing forward to the laid-out scriptures, “My Lord, I…”

“To the Tullys of Riverrun!” His enraged scream and cutting look arose the silence of the whole commandment. “And who, pray tell, do the Tullys of Riverrun owe allegiance?” His fist came into contact with the freshly laid out table, “To the Blacks, to the Usurpers, to the Whore of Dragonstone and her bunch of bastard cunts!”

The Bliss of Riverrun remained hammered in her weary spot – somehow still holding her breath, in spite of being overlooked.

“I judged you might be good for something more than brutalizing peasants.” He exhaled slowly through his flared-up nose, “I see I overestimated you–”

A timid knock at the locked door caused the girl to jolt upfront. She caught her lip into her teeth, and chewed with tremor at its bottom, as the loud gates opened wide, to reveal a pale Mariah. “M-My lords…” She began with a light pause, “M-My mistress would like to ask you… when you’ll… p-pay… the charging fee.”

Bowen Redwyne smiled politely, bowing his head in return, “We must have overstayed our welcome.” He whispered mirthly to his brother.

Lord Redwyne glanced at the girl, mirroring his son’s refrain. “You can go announce your mistress that we will be done here shortly. Tell her to bring the written tax for the food and for the shelter.” As Mariah curtsied deeply, shutting the door in her departure, the old man turned to his sons, and to the lesser lords at present. “All of you except Lord Pyke – leave. Boy, clear this table.” Runceford’s even and dispersive voice rang right through her nimble body. She offered him a brisk ‘M’lord’, and hastily got up to work. As tiny Edmure rose as well, the lord of Old Wyk grabbed his arm. “We are not done with our talk.” He hissed in his petulant ear.

***

“We cannot allow this impunity to go on.” Mance spat out in a rough tone as the door closed in on them, “No matter what has been discussed today – the Tully boy remains a problem.”

Her dirty hands wavered a moment, ‘till they resumed their hurried task.

“His clever move near Redglass Field nearly cost us all the Capitol. We will not fall for that again – we look like fools and they look like heroes. That’s how Kings fall.” Runceford agreed with a small frown.

For a while, the only sound that thus emerged in their secret and concisive council was the clank of all their plates. “I want him dead. I want every last one of them dead.”

Her small, albeit stiffened fingers clasped over a sharpened stake knife.

“Killing them isn’t the problem. It’s finding them.”

If you kill them both right now, no one will know how to alert your brothers. The word will spread that they had butchered you – and then they’ll both come for revenge.

Her focused eyes softened at once, as her steel grip loosened the blade.

“Have you gone soft, Lord Pyke? I always thought you had a talent for violence – and an eye for weaknesses, as you so put it at this dinner table.” The iris of his tired eyes clashed with his protruding amber, “Burn the villages, burn the farms. Aemond might have left the Reach, but that doesn’t mean that the smallfolk will get a break. Let them know what it means to choose the wrong side.” With one last nod and a small bow, Mance and Runceford left the room.

In less than a moment’s notice, her upstrained feet gave out before her.

***

Not a single nearby lord cared enough to look at her. Not a single drunken soldier gripped her shoulders or her arm. She had slipped by unobserved, written off as less than cattle. In her time spent in that stiff room, she found of Aemond’s long departure. She knew now the North was angry, that the Rogue Prince beckoned hither – that her brothers and her grandsire were still on the loose. Alive. No matter her conflicted feelings. No matter all the new-found worry that she had for the Kinslayer. She was still breathing and living – her shortened breaths and anxious tears felt like proof enough of that. She found herself growing with purpose – to relive her climb up North. To alert both of her brothers of the Greens’ most jarring thoughts. To find what happened to her father, since his mention had been scarce and worn.

As she turned to leave the alcove, her eyes caught her in a nearby mirror. Her silky locks, darkened by mud and chopped inaptly by that dreadful shard. The black-rimmed circles underneath her foggy globes, the lone dictator of her sleepless ventures. Darlon’s garments were made to fit loosely – but even she could may well tell that she’d lost a lot of weight. Her sodden cheeks that cracked with dirt, and the way she stood preleened… it was of no immersive wonder that she hadn’t been spotted or seen.

A gust of hope picked at her skin – at her left leg, her forming scars. She trailed her palm with a smooth digit, and felt the ridges closing in. The dragon glass had cut her smoothly, and it was feasible the war did, too. Time heals all. Time mends scars well. Perhaps she could hope again.

What if this war could still be won – by the Blacks, by her, by them? Would she cling enough to life to see such a far-out feat?

And if she managed to live…when the slight girl watched herself be so changed by it already, could she ever tell herself to go back to how she was? The laws of men made it as such that she would never dare forget – any or all that had transpired in those years of grief and anguish. Her abatement would be short and minimal. She’d never dare forget her Jace, or sweet Cain, or loyal Beesbury. The almond eyes of baby Luke, or the laughs she’d shared with friends. Friends she’d never see again. Friends who all died long ago.

Desolation and resentment were not new to the young Lady. And she swore it to herself, as she glanced into the mirror, that she’d never ache again. For the betterment of her brothers. For their mother. For either father or their grandsire – she would make it so she’s useful. Strong. Contented. And reliable. No Hightower would make her kneel. Their time was spent and since ran out.

Fuck the Gods. Fuck Alys Rivers.

She would leave that inn at dawn.

***

At dawn she said, and dawn it was.

“Enjoyed your pats from those Green scum?” She asked the mule with a raised brow, as she untied her from the stable’s pole. “I hope you rested well last night. The real journey has just begun.”

Almost as if she understood her words, the half-bred mare shook her black mane, huffing through her tinted nose. “I don’t like how that sounds, either.” The girl sighed in a spent tone, “I never thought I’d get to say this, but the more distance I put in between me and my home…”

The road was quiet. All too quiet. The Redwyne company left way before her, as the hooves that trailed towards south indicated half as much. It was bold and quite peculiar – that those pompous Green supporters were so close to their Green Fork. For both The Twins and Castle Seagard were unwavering, leal to Daemon. To the one true heir and Queen.

It had been too long for her – since she felt the rays of sunlight. And if those treacherous and shifty lords felt so at home existing North, then both strongholds must have been emptied. The Trident’s lords were scattered somewhere, fighting in some vacant halls. Even so, it was too quiet. Not a single man in sight.

Perhaps allowing herself to glance behind was the girl’s biggest mistake. Or mayhaps it was stagnating, as she let her mule rest up.

“Haaaalt! Halt right there, lassie, don’t move!” A faraway, salacious scream deterred her to jolt straight up. The tenseness of her stiffened muscles ceased as her eyes prodded onward, setting on the crest above them – made of a bird, and of a seahorse, and two dragons. An even more attentive glance let her know of their bronze armour – of their brown hair and mousy faces.

Freys, she laughed inside her head with glee, An actual Frey company – marching South from the Twins’ gates.

“Good day to you, soldier. It seems we serve the same leal camp.” She greeted him with a bright smile, but as she tried to move up forward, the sharpened edge of six steel blades pointed at her nape and neck. She swallowed thickly, but kept her temper, and rose both hands up in surrender. “I yield,” She tried to jest with the tall men, before speaking up toward them, “I’m (Y/N) Tully. I believe I have a right to be here.”

“(Y/N) Tully’s dead,” One of the more suspicious knights ushered at her from the back, “She perished near Hayford’s lone bridge – every man, woman and child heard the story a thousand times.”

“Oh, you better be joking,” She hissed through an acrid breath, as she let out a small curse, “I know I may not look the part, but I am (Y/N) Tully.” Her wanton orbs searched for the soldier’s, who only weighed her with conceit. “‘Course you are,” He answered crassly, “And I’m the Lord of Bastion Keep.”

She offered him a blithted smile, although not one that reached her eyes. “I can’t catch a single break, now can I?” The Lady murmured to herself, “Very well,” She spoke out clearly, “I suppose you are commanded by your good lord, Forrest Frey?” Whilst her tone was domineering, a subtle smirk graced her pink lips, “Call him over, see for yourselves. He will tell you who I am.”

“Look, girl, it’s gettin’ cold and we’re quite busy. So, you know.” One of the men shrugged his broad shoulders, “Best fuck off. Either that or stop your lying.”

“Tell your lord his niece is home.” She betted onward once again, “You wish to know who it is I am, and I wish to wash my hair. So call for your lord. And be done with all this bother.”

“Lord Frey’s too busy to waste his breath on you. Just like us.” His short patience had been running thin, as for his hand – awfully cold, “So for the last time – fuck right off, and state your business.”

“Maybe we should just detain her.” One of the more lithe men suggested, “Tie ‘er up, resume our marching.”

“Should you value your good hands, you won’t touch a hair of mine.”

“Careful now,” The fourth boy muttered, “We’re enjoying you here, lassie, but don’t think you’ll make demands.”

“You would harm an innocent, because you’re too lazy and stupid to call for your own lord?” Her latter comment set him off, and he jumped off his starving horse to come to grip her by her loosened shirt. “Now listen here, you dirty fuck–”

“What appears to be the matter here?” A hardened voice commanded swiftly. Slowly and without much heart, the younger boys broke off the circle, as they readied their report. “My Lord, as you can see–” The one who seemed to be best-spoken tried to give out his account.

But no more words ever escaped him. For the wide and gentle Frey spurted out with a burst of solid laughter. He made great haste to debark his stallion – to reach with fervour for the small girl’s shoulders and to ruffle her short matted hair. “Well, I’ll be damned,” He exhaled shortly, “I would recognise those shrew eyes everywhere.”

“Uncle,” She greeted him with forming tears, “It’s good to see a well-known face.

Aemond had been right, he thought. In spite of their pleasant small talk, Evelynn had latched onto him. Laughing at his every word, even if he wasn’t joking – gripping down onto his thighs when the odd pair had sat down. He had been courteous and kind to dance with her two tamer waltzes, but even the boldest one of the confined Targaryens couldn’t possibly stomach another. When his deep stare started avoiding her, boring holes throughout the hall, the man noticed his escape, and thanked the Gods before his fall. Seated not one yard away, in a dress that matched her hair, rested Elmo Tully’s only daughter – a quiet child, not five and ten, which appeared fully engrossed as she talked with her tall friend.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” Daeron’s voice shook the whole room. As he turned his head around, his incessant stare bore daggers right into his brother’s throat, “What this decision makes of our political agreements?” His body was steadied and tense, taut and rigid, at attention – the implications brought on over by Aemond’s ill and thought-out match made his pulse readily quicken, and his whole soul seethe in anger. When he glanced over at him, not a single trail of shame registered on his sharp face. “We gain nothing from an alliance with the Riverlords,” Daeron desperately tried to tell him. “She's a comely girl, I'll give you that, but we’re at war, and she’s ill-favoured!” Finally, his dire words seemed to spark up a response – for Aemond took in a sharp inhale, and readily rose from his chair. “You will speak no more of her.” He deterred out in a deep growl, “Whom I marry is my business. I will not have you rebuke me.”

“I should not have questioned you,” The lone boy had swallowed thickly, as he met his brother’s eye, “Evelynn is… nice, ‘tis true. However…” His comforting and handsome face shifted with bitter intent, “I don’t know how to discourage her.”

Aemond smirked in deep amusement, drumming his fingers on the pine wood table. “Have you lost her in the crowd?”

“Momentarily,” Daeron surged forward, “But there are only so many men with short white hair inside this room.”

“I will question your decisions if they put us all at risk.” The youth spat out in a quick warning, “And your wrong choice to marry her will ruin every deal we had with Borros.” Daeron had fought to keep his voice down to a levelled plane of field, but even he cracked underneath Aemond’s lack of mournful interest. “I heard from mother of your obsession,” He breathed in a staggered breath, “But I never thought you foolish enough to marry a lowborn riverlander–”

The circumstances were not ideal, and he’d acted like a little boy – but he managed to desert the Frey and acquaint himself with the Riverrun girl. “I’m afraid I’ve two left feet, my Prince,” She granted him a small apology, as she ducked his offered hand, “There hasn’t been any time for me to practice my dancing whilst confined to the Red Keep.”

“Truly?” The corners of his hawk-like eyes glimmered with jocund distraction, and the young man tried once more, though his hand had then been lowered. “But the Red Keep swarms with banquets. Have none of my elder brothers taken you to dance before?” The Tully girl let out a laugh, and a faint pink caught her plump cheeks – and whether that was from frustration, of being irked by Daeron’s presence, or flattered by his light attention, the boy would find out soon enough. “As I said,” She smiled at him, “I’m afraid I’m a poor dancer.” Her almond eyes swirled with deep mischief, and she bit her lower lip to stifle down a roaring laugh. “If you wanted to escape my cousin, you should have checked in on the further right.” If his face hadn't been red, then it surely caught in pigment when she uttered her last words. “I assure you, my dear Lady, I had no such ill intent.” He clarified with a bent smile, but shook his head in grave embarrassment when she quirked up her shapely brow. “I shadn’t pressure you to dance with me.” He bit over his lip, defeated, “But I beg you to give me a chance.”

Her eyes softened at his request, and she gave her knight a nod. She mouthed him something intangible, and turned to face Daeron’s advances. “I will step on your feet, you know.” A loud laugh rattled his insides, “You may not believe it, my lady, but Tessarion once placed her entire weight on them.” She tutted lightly in reply, and merely entwined their hands, “My Prince…” She let out a tiny snort, as she gingerly laughed by herself. “You don’t believe me,” He feigned offence, as he spun her twice around. “You should know then, Lady Tully, that I scarcely ever lie.”

“Oh, I would never even dream of styling your good Grace a liar.” Her voice softened to a murmur, lowering in false sobriety. Almost as if they’d been conspiring, her youthful face leaned near his shoulder. “But you can’t be cross with me when I say I don’t believe you.”

Before either one of them could register Daeron’s last words, the lithe Targaryen grabbed his green collar and pushed him up against the wall. “You and I are family.” He rumbled out in a low tone, “Speak one more word of the one I have with her, and you’ll regret not dying sooner, during that raid of the Three Towers.” Daeron’s head shook with uncertainty, pounding in his ears from pain, and the young lass pressured him onward, as the blood tickled his tongue. “Did you go through with it, then?” He asked him through a gasping wheeze, “Did you bed her?”

The quietness that washed them both forced the boy to curse again.

“I take it that your charms have failed you.” Aemond hummed inside his goblet, as he looked at the small girl. “She’s talking with her brute again.”

“If only Evelynn wasn’t her cousin.” The boy laughed in miscontempt, “The Lady may have two left feet, but even then it was exaggerated how many times she stepped on me.” Their purple eyes set back on her – and Aemond was the first to stop. “I wouldn’t be distraught, dear brother.” His upturned mouth broke to a smirk, when Jace’s laughter seeped with hers – drawing long stares from the room and pulling whispers from lax mouths, “She seems to have an affinity towards bastards.” His good eye focused in on him, “The odds were truly set against you.”

Daeron’s face mirrored his brother’s, though the former tried to hide it. “Careful, Aemond. The Blacks are listening.” He pointed forward with a simper, to where their half-sister was sitting with her pompous and elusive smile. “I don’t think there’ll be a problem,” The One-Eyed Prince addressed his sibling, “She is quite taken with our father.”

His smaller hand scratched up at Aemond’s, endeavouring to put an end to his strong, unyielding grasp. “Brother…” He tried to word out in a plea. His tightened hold loosened a moment, and Aemond let his brother breathe. “I have lain with her before.” He asserted with a levelled timber, “The marriage was consummated.”

“Gods be good.” Daeron exhaled, as his hand ran through his hair, “What did you do?” He asked once more, as he pressed his back again right onto the jagged wall. “This doesn’t just put us in danger. Your wife’s a target – now more than ever.” He concluded after a while. “Lord Borros is too involved to annul our misalliance. But if word reaches the Blacks –”

“Which is why I must go find her.” Aemond gritted through his teeth. “So take me to that damned witch, and send word to the dragon keepers to fetch some bulls to cater Vhagar.” Daeron’s brows twisted in bafflement, creasing his face and his ravishing features. “You cannot mean this. She could be anywhere. Your shoulder hasn’t even healed.”

“I will tear down every castle, and every town, and every home that she could ever hide within.” Aemond’s eye was blazed with anger. The noble lines of his fair countenance bore the marks of his pursuit – disentangled to his face, his hands, found in every forming scar and in every galling crease. A bitter longing and a hopelessness interwoven in the need to find her – to hold her to his chest again, to feel her breathing hitch against him, to feel the pulse of her warm heat. The raw intensity of her brazen and uncaring kisses, the delicious and erotic sting of the one slap she had given him.

“Whether she wants that or not, I will have her by my side.”

All of this to feel her near. To own her essence. To drink her screams. To wake up and see her body lying consciously with his, to feel her eyes follow his movements and her warm, plump lips on his.

She must have hoped for this arrangement when she was betrothed to Jace – a life of comfort and of safety; a life where she would be The Queen. And for her, Aemond would do it. He’d subside his sister’s children and he’d sit the Iron Throne. He would place his crown atop her and bend to her every whim. “And she can try to break her chains a thousand times – over and over. There is not a single corner of this world that she can run to. I will always find a way to reclaim that which is mine.”

“Well then,”

In spite of the relief she felt to be parted from the Redwynes, Lady Tully’s restless mind seemed to be somewhat estranged.

"Which one of these fat ugly cunts tried to lay their hand on you?" Forrest’s voice plummeted through the small camp they had laid out. Strenuous licks of fair amusements pulled the corners of her lips, and the woman smiled contently, as she shook her head in earnest, “Please, uncle, there should be no need for that.”

“There should and there will!” His silk smooth baritone came out definitive, “No man will hurt a niece of mine and get to live to tell the tale.” Although his words were rough and final, the gentle furrow of his brow revealed the lord’s attempt to bluff. She laughed once more, in lifted spirits, and took a stance alongside his. Her eyes glossed over with incertitude, and the girl hummed, lost in her thoughts. “It would be quite a shame, you know,” She muttered lowly to her uncle, “For this fine army to be slain before they even set off to war.” Though he laughed at her poor joke, the Lord of Green Fork sighed in exhaustion, “Sometimes I think it’d be a kindness.” A bitter pause cut his lungs’ air, until he deterred out a breath, “None of these boys are ready for war.”

“I don’t think anyone is.” She muttered slowly by his side, “We think we are… we train for it – with jousts and tourneys and in combat yards.” Her latter thoughts had turned to Aemond, and how he’d train each daunting morning whilst she lived in the Red Keep. It was a somehow sacred ritual – a clash of swords, of wit, of power. It was a way for men to ease their stress, and wash away their stale frustrations with breakages of blood and sweat. It was a way to prove themselves, an easy way to become envied by the gossiping and gathered masses. Throughout their short acquaintanceship, she’d never once figured it out; whether or not Aemond was training for other people to admire him.

His mornings were moments of solitude – for scarcely anyone would gather hither. The nights and eves were for the lordlings – who slithered forward as he sparred Ser Criston. As proud as he ever was, she thought, everyone yearns for approval. And who else would need it more than the crippled second son.

Her cheeks reddened with slight colour, as her lips jolted a tremor – she could no longer think of him and remain listless and passive. With each and every chance she’d get, her trailing thoughts would reach for him – to the bump of his big nose, to the sharpness of his eye.

Had he reached his brother yet? Did he take Alys with him? Was his shoulder blade still healing?

Stop it.

Morbid curiosity is what killed the restless cat. What she now felt towards her captor was nought else but forced attachment.

But was he safe? And did he miss her–

She knead her hands in one another; both hidden by a pair of gloves. Realising that she’d been too quiet, she blurted out the next of her words. “... But no one is truly ready for the horrors that it brings.” Her chest felt hot. Her breathing ragged. Had she grown to care for him?

“Has your father ever told you how you sound just like your mother?” He breathed out through a soft exhale, “She hated war. Thought it was dumb.”

“‘Tis good, then, that she’s not here to witness it.” Though both of them had started walking, neither one let out their thoughts. Her clothes were clean, her hair was dried – she told him with a staggered breath what she’d gathered of the Redwynes, of the Targaryens and of the Greens. In return, Forrest confided her with her grandsire’s location – telling her Oscar was fine, that Kermit oft’ communicated by sending them concisive letters. “Thank the Gods,” She breathed out, with a hand upon her chest, "So my father is alive."

… But what of Cain? And what of Jace? What of Lord Beesbury and her dear cousins?

Suddenly she felt ashamed that she ever thought of Aemond.

“Where will you be heading now?” She asked her uncle with a shaky but consistent voice. “To meet your brother at Lakehore, of course.” Forrest responded with a growing smirk, “We won’t allow those mudded fuckers any further Crownland passage.”

“He’s near the God’s Eye?!” She stopped abruptly, whilst widening her tired eyes. A passing shadow of a smile lit the girl’s quivering lips, and she fixed the nearby stones as she tottered out a laugh. “To think that if I hadn’t ran, I might’ve met up with my brother.”

To think if Aemond hadn’t left, he would have met his in-law brother.

“But Harrenhal has been cleared out,” She turned abruptly to her uncle, “There’ll be no battle to be fought. The Pykes and Wyldes and Redwynes think that the stronghold is a waste – my fire has made sure of that.”

“Kitchen fires can’t melt stone.”

“... But the Greens would know that, too.” She gnawed at her bottom lip. Her eyes closed in concentration, trying to recall Hag’s Mire. She had been too scared to listen – truly listen to their tales. But a slight echo surged forward, as she rummaged through her brains.

《“He left with Daeron to wait in Oldtown, and burnt Harrenhal to the ground!”》

“They were arguing that Aemond had left them defenceless. That he took off to Oldtown and burnt Harrenhal to nothing.”

“But that was you.” Forrest Frey regarded her with an awfully twisted look.

“Not necessarily.” She mauled it slowly, “With age, dragon fire grows stronger. I’ve seen both Vermax and Vhagar burn open fields to ash and smoke.” Her orbs came into clash with his, and the man swallowed intently, gesturing her to go on, “There is a vast difference between those acres. The aftermath of Vermax was… closer to searings caused by people, than the inferno of a dragon.” As she pressed her lips together, she exhaled a deeper sigh, “But Vhagar…”

“I’ve seen that fatted lizard go to work.” Forrest agreed with a light hum, “Over at Mummer’s Ford; Gods, if I hadn’t grown up in the region, I wouldn’t have known there was a town at all.”

“So what if Aemond did burn Harrenhal?”

“He definitely had the time.”

“It doesn’t take long to yell out ‘Dracarys’.”

Their simmered dialogue had turned to whispers – and their small council reached an agreement. “Lakehore remains a strong location,” Forrest offered up his hand to her, as they passed the flowing river, “Even if Harrenhal should be no more. We’ll meet up there and ride towards East.”

“Will you meet up with the Arryns, then?” Her last refrain dumbfounded him, and the man stopped on the small path. “The plan is to take you there. Reunite you with your family.” His searching stare mended with hers, and the girl’s uncle quirked a brow. His mouth pressed to a thin line – a hereditary trait, it seemed –, and he shook his head again. “... You seem conflicted and obscured.” He muttered, whilst awaiting her reply.

“I am closer to the North than East.”

“No. I cannot let you go alone. Your father would strangle me for it.”

“So don’t,” The self-assured and poised young Lady now agreed with him wholeheartedly, “I’ll give you my mule if you give me a horse.” Her eyebrows rose in confirmation, “That way I won’t go alone.”

Although his face rattled conflicted, the older Frey gave her a nod. He paused to look at her thick gloves, and faltered on his mouthed reply. “You’ll need warmer clothes to survive their ever-winter.”

“And ink and paper before I go, so I may send out some letters.”

As he laid his preparations, Forrest Frey turned to his niece. The wide corners of his lips had twisted to an outline of a subtle grin. “I suppose you’d need an envoy for your grandsire and brothers.” He agreed before she could, as he rummaged through his vest and breeches for his House’s patterned seal.

***

“I cannot possibly accept this.”

“Given that it’s yours, ser Cain, I must urge you to reconsider.”

And so it was – sturdy Faithkeeper. His oldest and most trusted sword, and the one gift he got from Allyn as he departed all those years ago – to the grounds of the Red Keep, to the new home of his fair Lady. The blade remained as he had known it – with its intricate design of leaves and tender words carved on red iron. Though his mentor told him nothing when he handed him the gift, there was no avid denying of the nature of the shiv; A family heirloom with unmeasured value, and a kindness he could never repay.

“I cannot take it.” The boy had uttered, looking at the greying white-cloak.

“You can and you will.” The older man pointed a finger at his vest and heavy armour, “I am not having a conversation, boy, I am stating an order.” Though his eyes were rough and rigid, a coil of softness interwovened in the creases of his face. His wrinkled hand reached for his back, to give it a small squeeze of farewell. “You do good now.” The man instructed, furrowing his bushy brows, “I want no report to come through from any raven of King’s Landing telling me you’ve gotten lazy.”

“I swear to you that I’ll protect her.”

“Of that, I have no doubt, my boy.”

Upon throwing it a better look, the man remained engraved with shock. Both the handle and the hilt of it had been replaced to suit his needs. Sculpted by acquitted silver with a slight hole for his hand, and a velvety but silk-like ribbon to enwrap around his arm. “We thought the minor adjustments would prove useful when in battle.”

Almost too preoccupied to inspect its sharpened edges, Cain’s eyes snapped away from it at the inkling of Jayne’s voice. “We?” He repeated her words slowly, whilst raising his brows in stupor. His bewilderment would not live long, as the Lady of the Vale keenly offered him an answer. “The sketch for its newer hilt does come from the youngest Tully.” Upon his silence, she continued, as she spared a patent look, “I have reason to believe it’s his way of saying sorry.”

“Lord Oscar has no reason to apologise to me.” Though his words pondered definitive, a content arch pulled at his lips. His stare soon turned back to serious and his back awfully stiff. “I… wouldn’t know how to thank him.” Seemingly losing his face, the Tully’s sworn shield bowed to Jayne deeply, “Or you, my lady.”

“There is hardly any need for you to thank me, Ser Cain. It is us who should bow to you for your willingness to keep us safe.”

When her hand beckoned him onward to return to his wide stance, the woman faltered for a moment as she looked at his grey eyes. A look of startled but conclusive shock spread across her older face.

“Have you no shame, you stupid boy?” Tyland’s low hiss was followed suit by his stinging and petulant words, “You have a lot of nerve to show up here.”

“Ironborn?” She asked her question, as her features smoothed over.

“I wouldn’t be able to say, my lady. My mother died after my birth.” By all accounts, he’d been quite truthful – he knew who his father was, as it had been awfully clear when he glanced at his twin brother. He’d find lost remnants of himself as such, and questions of his build or hair had been answered with a single look. His mother was a simple woman – a merchant’s daughter, as he was told, once very beautiful and fair and honest. He didn’t know the way she looked, though he assumed that his eye colour came from her, and not the Lannisters.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sure you are, you foolish bastard.” The words that tumbled from his lips reddened the tips of Cain’s big ears.

The sheer aversion in the man’s slim face sent a shiver down his back. Confusion laced with grave recoil, as a small curse beleft his lips – Gods, let this not be how he finally got to meet his dad.

When the boy stayed lost in silence, the younger Lannister pushed him again. “Doesn’t loyalty mean anything to you?”

He did desperately hope that he looked like his good mother; and sometimes, during the night, he would pray that she would guide him – prayed, but prayed not to a faceless God, but to the memory of her lost image. He would pray that she should guide him through his avid quests for glory; through his cluttered and entangled life path, through his hardest and most straining choices. There was something rather comforting in imagining his eyes were hers – that they looked like hers so much, that she’d still somehow live through him. He hoped that the Gods left an homage to the sole fact she existed. A silent proof that she’d not gone without leaving her own mark behind. That she had made him in her image, that he somehow held her inside. That men would glance right at Cain Waters and know that he was Wynne’s son.

“Loyalty means everything to me.” He spat out in a lowly tone, despite his evident confusion.

“Yet you show up here, threatening to ruin everything we’ve set in place.”

“You?” Cain’s face contorted to a deepened scowl. He shook his head in half-regret, and merely swatted Tyland’s hands away. “I haven’t shown up here for you.” His light-grey eyes shone forth with grief, “Don’t worry. I’ve no desire to be recognised.” The colour from the old man’s cheeks drained itself from his stiff face, “Not that anyone would believe you.” He muttered fast and quietly, “You cannot threaten us with this.”

“Of course not,” Cain interjected with a rattled and bemused expression, “I am just another bastard. I’d sooner die than see myself legitimized as one of you.”

“I am truly sorry to hear that.”

He leaned his head in a swift bow, as he spared her a small grin, “It is quite possible she was from Orkmont.”

Her expression shifted upward to a placid but elusive smile. Nodding once at his picked words, the lady shifted in her place, quirking up a thin blonde brow. “If you ought to be in search of Oscar, he should be near Longbow Hall.”

***

Angry, reckless, non-deserving; with an unquenchable desire just to prove himself as worthy – Oscar had been a wild child, and remained so as an adult. Always quick to take offence, always ready for a brawl and always willing to show off; despite the fact that he’d never won a joust or tourney in his life, and most lordlings of the Riverlands failed to give him credit’s due.

Restless, loyal and headstrong. Those were words that well-described him. Even in the crack of dawn, he was spotted in the training yard, walking miles in aching circles, practising with his great sword.

Family. Duty. Honour.

For the better part of his young life, Oscar had lived pledged to oath, to upkeep his House's words.

He’d go to war with his brother, he’d avenge his sister’s honour and take every man who ever helped tarnish his homeland through the judgement of his bitter steel.

Oscar Tully loved his family. Even when it was much smaller – when it was just him, and Kermit, and their loving and ambitious Mother. He swore to himself to always enact as a pillar to them – to turn responsible, reliable and trustworthy. And when his mother died, leaving behind his only sister, he promised himself to always protect her. When they were but small, lithe children, very rarely did they not bicker and argue like a bunch of wildings – yet when push came to shove, and either one of them stole one too many jam tarts to not go unseen, it was always one or the other who jumped to the rescue of their misbegotten sibling.

Oscar Tully was certain that he’d always fulfil his promise. He was the fair image of a future lord of the Trident – honour drove him to oblige his duty, and his one duty was to take care of his family. He was a second son, and as such, he served as a spare to his brother. Taught in the same way that he was, although with less vigour and effort by the thousand swarming maesters that took rest in Riverrun. He was only four and ten when he watched his whole world crumble; and his closest blood relations scatter through the lands of Westeros. He helplessly obeyed his grandsire, when he was sent away to squire under the greying Lord Tyrell – perhaps in the hopes that the Reach would temper him, or that he’d fall madly in love with his slight and sickly daughter. He watched as his sister was taken, away from the comforts of home – sent to the Capitol as a ward to elderly Lord Beesbury. All alone in shitty King’s Landing, to learn the mannerisms of a proper Lady, and to find a husband that would be competent enough to keep her and her offspring safe.

Dreadful, he thought it then, and awfully unfair deal now. For years he’d been unable to see his siblings, his father, and his grandfather – and when the war finally started, and alliances were formed, he lost his sister to the wrath of that sick freak.

The One-Eyed Kinslayer. The One-Eyed Prince.

《The boy scoffed at the knight’s attempt to pardon and explain himself. He nodded affirmatively, and scrutinized Cain with his piercing gaze. "You returned with an empty hand, Ser Cain. You failed: miserably." His back straightened in an attempt to appear bigger, and the hot-headed lass rose from his chair in a hurling daze. "Because of you, my sister is in the hands of that cycloptic freak. Because of you, we don't know anything about her whereabouts. She could be tortured, enslaved, sullied – worse!"》

He’d lost his temper. In his attempts to ground himself, he himself had failed his grandsire – who not only had to worry for his own son and House’s future, but for his two grandkids, as well. His blue eyes closed in concentration, as his lips parted in an exhale. He wondered if he had done right, to alter Faithkeeper like that.

Cain Waters was akin more to a beast than to a man. Seemingly fearless and focused, big as a mountain and wide as a bear. His pride had stung him when his grandsire chose him to rescue his sister, but even he had to agree that Cain had been their only choice. He just made sense, the lass agreed, as he watched him lead and point over Jayne’s numerous troops. Still, his mind remained unchanged – if only he had been allowed to, he would have seen his sister home. But he was the second son. The son whom nobody had wanted, the one who wasn’t even needed. Elmo and Kermit were thousands of miles away to fight; and he had begged them both to join them, but to no righteous avail. He just wasn’t skilled enough. His duty bound him to the Arryns. To taking care of his grandfather.

“Do you not feel forced to fight?”

“Forced?” Grover Tully’s husky voice echoed through the marbled walls.

“Pushed by your free will to do it.” Oscar sucked in a big breath, “I’m one and twenty. It is expected that I go out there.”

“It is expected that we do… all it should take to survive.” The older man hummed in admission. His piercing gaze cut through the boy, before his head turned to the sky, “Your lousy father and reckless brother are away to fight for a cause we don’t believe in. In the best case for your sister, she’s been taken forth as prisoner.”

“Which is why I should fight, instead of hiding like a coward behind these stupid walls.”

“Which is why it is imperative that you should stay here to remain alive.”

His face contorted to a painful scowl, as his legs carried him to the edge of his viewpoint.

“I’m afraid I do not follow.”

“I will not let those damned Targaryens put an end to my own House.”

“So you would let your own son perish? You’d let his heir go down with him?” By then their voices rose to screaming. “People die at war, my boy – good people, bad people, people who only did their part. Should I not word the possibility that your own brother might be killed?”

“You should not say it with such ease – you should not see your only family as some fucked pieces on a board!”

“I am trying to protect our family! Preserve our House, our heritage! By keeping one male heir alive – even if it brings the scorn of others!”

Oscar was the second son. The spare. The one who had to sit behind and watch how his remaining siblings struggled on their own to make it.

“My lord,” The gruff echo of Cain’s voice deterred him to turn his head. Tempered eyes were met with grey, and the young man nodded deeply in a stiff but poignant greeting.

“... Ser Cain.”

A small nod was shared between them, followed by an ushered silence.

"I believe we need to talk."

╒══════╕

Translations:

“Sīkudi nopāzmi, skori ao umbagon va bē hen issa…” = “Seven Hells, when you stay on top of me…”;

“Qrimbrōzagon, jorrāelagon, nyke jāhor tepagon ao nykeā gār trēsi.” = “Fuck, my love, I would give you a hundred sons.”;

“Se nyke jāhor jorrāelagon hen se tolvie mēn hen zirȳ.” = “And I would love each and every one of them.”;

╘══════╛

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fairysluna · 1 year

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tw - smut (oral f!receiving, an*l sex), targcest.

Your mouth was hanging open as your eyes were clenching shut. Your nails gripping at the carved table in front of you as multiple gasps and whines escaped your swollen lips. The pair of hands of your twin brother were spreading your arse cheeks as his tongue wandered around your soaked folds making your legs tremble and your hips twitch.

Two of his fingers were buried in your puckered hole, stretching you open to receive him once again. His fat tongue sucking and licking on your swollen clit while you couldn't stop pressing yourself against his face; his mouth would make the most obscene sounds as it collected your juices, slurping and drinking from your arousal until your eyes would roll to the back of your head. You were able to hear him whimper; tasting you was enough to make him impossibly needy and hard, he would simply lose his mind whenever his tongue lapped over your sweet cunt. His cock was already pressing against his pants, causing a slight pain on him that, for some reason, would only increase the arousal on him.

You came undone on his tongue, moaning his name in such an erotic way that he felt his cock twitch with excitement because he knew what was next to come. He stood up, standing behind you and he was quick to remove his fingers from your tight hole and take them to his pants, quickly and impatiently unbuckling them to free his pulsing erection, desperate to fill you. He grabbed your hips with a soft touch that, somehow, managed to feel rough at the same time; you whimpered once you felt his fat head teasing your folds, pressing against your swollen clit which was still throbbing for the previous orgasm. You heard him spit, and then you felt how it fell right on top of your arse. His long fingers managed to spread it around your hole.

It took him a few seconds to replace his digits with the tip of his aching cock, pushing inside you slowly, trying not to hurt you. Your eyes widened and your legs shook, his thickness stretching you open in a delicious but painful way that made you cry and moan at the same time. His lips let a low groan escape, reaching your ears and making you squeeze around him. With one push you felt his sack against your skin, you were completely full of him, your cunt drenching and your skin gleaming with a coat of sweat; proof of the burning desire that grew within those four walls. He moved, and you almost screamed, overwhelmed by the pleasure.

His hand covered your mouth. "Sh…" he whispered against your ear, his voice and breathing shaky and unsteady, "be quiet for me, angel, you don't want them to find us here, do you?" You could only shake your head, tears filled with lust already soaking your flushed cheeks.

"N-no, Jace…" You mumbled under his hand, barely able to form coherent words as he resumed his movements, going slowly but slightly harder. You were receiving him so well, taking him and making him feel so good that he soon had to bite his lip to silence his lustful sounds. His free hand soon reached for your clit at the same time he sped up his thrusts, pounding against you with a new strength that almost made you faint. The stimulation was too much, your poor pearl being abused by his fingers as he became harsher with each movement, with each sound you would make. He soon lost his self control, and let the dragon come out.

You let him use you, you let him take whatever he wanted from you, because in a few more weeks you both will be married, and because it wasn't a sin as long as he didn't take your maidenhead.

At least that is what he told you.

BOLD MEANS I COULDN’T TAG YOU

GENERAL TAG LIST - @borikenlove @aemondsversion @jvpit3rs @watercolorskyy @kravitzwhore @valeskafics @clairacassidy @aemondx @randomdragonfires @theminesofmoria @gothtargaryen @melsunshine

JACE TAG LIST - @ganymede-princess

#drabbles #dark!jacaerys #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys fic #jacaerys x you #jacaerys x twin!reader #targcest #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys valaryon x reader #jacaerys smut #jace velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys strong #hotd smut #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #hotd x reader

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polluxxxart · 8 months

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King Jacaerys and Queen Baela

#blackfyre and dark sister #i was robbed of this #fanart #my art #prince jacaerys #house of the dragon #asoiaf #fire and blood #baela targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #my babies #hotd #a song of ice and fire #f&b

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saltywritings · 1 year

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Petals of the Dragon | Aemond Targaryen x Reader | Part Two

summary: a multipart beauty and the beast au.

part three

series warnings: suggestive commentary, foul language, violence, etc.

in the days that followed you slowly felt comfortable leaving your chambers each day. the time you spent with the beast, aemond as he was referred to often by the furniture that has become your companions, was minimal. something that you were genuinely grateful for. yet, as you strolled across the castle you were unable to keep your curiosity at bay. you wondered what could possibly be hidden away in the west wing of the castle? your feet danced along the stairs quietly, making sure to not pull any attention as you ventured into forbidden territory. once reaching the top of the staircase your eyes were pulled to an open door. there was a part of you that was telling you to flee- to stay away from it. to go before you were caught. for you still had been uncertain what this beast was fully capable of, and yet? you pulled your feet to the open door, head poking in first to assure that he had not been nearby. however, the room was empty. a mess, but empty. the room was warm, perhaps the warmest part in the castle with roaring fire emerging from its fireplace. blankets were torn to shreds and scattered across the room, tossed over furniture, and the remnant of a bed frame was before you in the room. a torn tapestry rested against the wall, clinging onto one another by mere threads. you walked over to threads that clung together, you fingers nimbly held the fabric up to get a better look at what had been torn- and it resembled the beast you had seen in some light. the features were different, but the structure seemed the same. though, your attention was only brought to the tapestry momentarily.

it was only a mater of moments before a glow came upon the room. you turned to see what had been causing this sudden glow in the room and to the side of the bed near the balcony stood a rose on a table, under a glass dome. there had been something unexplainable that allured you to it. a natural pull. a part of you that was unable to resist. for it was only a matter of seconds before your hands were pulling up the glass dome that sheltered the rose; for your eyes looked to its glowing red petals with wonder. you managed to pluck the dome from the table, your eyes full of wonder, and blissfully unaware of the petals that had long wilted from the rose. one of your hands slowly moved to the rose, your fingers almost touching a petal when you felt a hand grab onto your arm. a harsh pull that caused you to stumble back on to the ground. you landed on your bum, looking up as the beast quickly placed the cover back over the rose.

“do you have any idea what you could have done!” the beast snapped turning to face you, towering over you as you attempted to stumble to your feet.

“i-i’m sorry-“ is all you could stutter out.

“i told you to never go to this wing of the castle!” he continued to scream, his face coming closer to yours as you continued to flinch in his presences. before you, aemond had begun wildling flipping over furniture, throwing things from the ground- a black crown tumbling down after.

“stop, please. stop.” you spluttered, beginning to beg now.

“get out!” he hissed, you were frozen for a moment but he repeated himself. “get out!” this time he was screaming and you did not hesitate again. quickly, you left the room. sprinting out of it and down the stairs. you were booking it for the door when you heard the clock, otto as he referred to himself, shout after you. you were rushing past him, knocking him over in your pass.

“where are you going?!” otto shouted, you had reached the door.

“i’m leaving- oath or not, its not worth being locked in here.” you confessed your hand pulling at the handle for the door.

“you can’t leave-“ the candlestick, aegon as he so proudly called himself, called out almost helplessly.

“i’m sorry.” is all you were able to mutter before you went racing from the castle, the cold winter air ate at your skin through your dress.

your fingertips were nearly numb from the cold by the time you manage to pull your horse from the stable. you climbed on the back and attempted to ride far from the castle. in the dark of the night and in the blizzarding snow you attempted to race through the woods. your horse was quickly confused in the night and while you attempted to pull the reigns your horse listened to not commands. this time was short, however. for the growling of the wolves quickly rung in your ear. surrounding your horse had been the pack of wolves. your father once told you that the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. the thought came to your head only to realize how outnumbered you were. as the growling continued your horse took off. wildly thrashing through the woods. you were grasping on for your life. however, there had only been so long you were able to hold onto her before you were sent flying back- and your horse continued on without you.

panic spread across your soft features as the sound of growling grew louder and louder. it was in the pale moon light that you could see the dark wolves closing in on you. quickly, you stood to your feet hands grabbing on a near by branch as you attempted to keep the wolves from you. arms swinging violently as you the wolves nipped the air by your clothing. just missing you as you attempted to keep them away. however, the branch snapped and soon you were face to face with what would likely be your fate. you only hoped that the mother would give you a merciful death if this was the end. if this was how you met the stranger. you covered your face, expecting the worst. however, a loud grunt came from behind you as a yelp came from the wolves. behind you had been the very beast who had entrapped you. his claws coming down to pull the wolves, they bit at him and scratched him as he fought them. you stood in shock as aemond fought off the wolves- watching as they went scurrying away. aemond, however, only looked to you for a moment before he collapsed to the ground. covered in his own blood you rushed to him. there was a part of you telling yourself to leave. but you couldn’t. not after he had saved your life. therefore, you stood beside aemond as you manage to get him back to the castle.

you had aemond resting in a chair by the fireplace, alicent brought you warm water with a rag to help clean aemond’s wounds. the bowl rested in front of you and your hands dipped the cloth into the warm water before you brought it to the wound on aemond’s arm.

“hold still!” you insisted through gritted teeth, finally managing to place it down on the wound once you had a grip of his arm.

“i don’t need your help, you’re just trying to hurt me-” aemond spoke back to you attempting to pull his arm away from your grasp.

“it wouldn’t hurt so much if you would just hold still, i’m only trying to help-“ you were attempting to plead with him but aemond finally sat up in his chair. an ounce of energy overcoming him as he sat up to look at you with a powerful scold.

“i wouldn’t even be in such situation if you had not run away,” aemond attempted to gain the upper hand.

“i wouldn’t have run away if you hadn’t frightened me, if you would have controlled your tempter.” you fought with him, cloth still in hand.

“i forbid you from going to the west wing of the castle,” aemond reminded you.

“you still did not need react that way, aemond.” you scolded, however, the attention shifted.

“what did you say?” the silver haired beast continued to question, you did not answer. “where did you hear that?” he questioned you.

“the furniture, they call you aemond.” you explained, your eyes meeting his. there was a silence that followed as your eyes remained locked to his. “may i call you aemond?” you questioned, aware it had been his name and had begun quite tired of referring to him as a beast.

“you may-“ aemond granted the permission, breaking eye contact with you. carefully, he gave up handing his arm back over to you as you carefully pulled the warm cloth back to his wound.

“thank you, aemond.” you called his name softly. it felt foreign to him. his name coming off of your lips. there was a part of him that softened as you continued. “thank you for saving my life,” you expressed your tender hands continuing to clean his wound.

“you’re welcome, y/n” aemond called to you slumping into the chair slightly as his body relaxed.

you weren’t leaving here anytime soon.

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missglaskin · 1 year

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Burn Them All Down

Note- I apologize for whatever cringe writing this is

Characters: Jacaerys, Aemond, Aegon II

You are cruel and vain, but you’re still their sister and their greatest love.

Tags: SMUT/EXPLICIT, toxic/unhealthy relationship, slapping, choking, dark!reader

Jacaerys

Your brother always gave in to your desires. To your whims and wishes. But this was too far. “Kill him?” Your brother couldn’t hide the surprise evident in his features. Almost pulling your mouth away that wrapped itself around his cock.

A sigh escapes your lips as you pull away. You thought you had him. And maybe you did. Your words had him in a trance and your mouth further engulfed him under the spell. Perhaps you should have used your words with more care, but it’s far too late now.

“Yes dear brother,” you are to play along now. His eyes shine with doubt. And you resist the urge to roll your eyes when Jace declares he is a good man. The ‘good man’ is referred to the foolish lord your mother plans to marry you off to. All under the guise of bringing more allies to her side.

You move to be face to face with Jace, a hand stroking his cock. He groans as the pleasure overtakes him once more. “He will take me away from you,” you whisper. Feeling his hips thrust into the grip you have on him. “Do you want me to be his, have him fuck me every night, make me carry his children,” his eyes darken the second those words sunk in.

And you know you have him once again under your spell.

Aemond

I killed him.

Were the first words that greeted you when your brother arrived from storm’s end. His face smeared with utter guilt as he sat on your mattress. Your brows raise at the mention of the name of your nephew. You couldn’t help the scoff that you let out. Is that what got him looking like a kicked puppy. Aemond wasn’t the slightest amused.

His fury was stoked even further by your words. That this shouldn't bother him as such. That the brat would have died regardless. What proved to be the final nail in his coffin was the word spilled from your mouth, thrown at him; weak. And before you know it, a hand is wrapped around your throat. You only smile even when finding yourself struggling to breathe.

“Truly brother Luke took out your eye, were your balls taken along with it,” the only response you received was a tightening grip. Your hand reaches for his, nail pressed to the skin but not clawing at it. “You’re a cruel woman,” Aemond spat out, “Why did the gods make me want a cruel woman like you”. In your struggle for air, you are able to utter the words.

“Because no one will ever love you like I do,” his grip is still tight, but you can see his lips pressed into a thin line. He knows it’s true. Any woman would have shamed him, called him the worst of names, but you never did, never could. You opened your arms to his everlasting fire, accepted every part of him, the bad and the evil. As you expected, your mercy was given when he let go. The sound of the door opening and closing echoes. He will come back. He always did.

Aegon II

Convince him, your mother told you. It was the early morning right before your brother is to be crowned. Though you know for certain this wasn’t what she had in mind. Moans surrounding the chambers as you slowly feel his length fill you up. Aegon clutches your body close to his, eyes looking up at yours.

The both of you are on the floor as you raise yourself up and down on his cock. All while your brother is currently underneath you, wearing his supposed king attire that’s now all wrinkled along with his hair being such a mess. The same could be said for you, sweat covering both of your bodies. “I don’t want it,” your brother told you for the numerous time.

Your fingers tightly gripped his jaw, “You have to,” you demanded. There’s no other choice. Rhaenyra will kill the lot of you. Still, your brother wasn’t convinced and you stopped moving your hips. A whine of surprise escapes your brother when your hand collides with his cheek. It stings, but you also feel his cock twitch inside you. Your hands move to grab his cheeks causing his lips to pout. “Do you wish for your death? For me to be killed?” Aegon doesn’t respond.

And you just sigh. Feeling like you are slowly losing hope. He may have been a lost cause. But then you find yourself knowing the words to say. “Do you not want me to be your wife?” And Aegon shakingly nods. You resist smiling to yourself in the face of triumph. Hips moving again, noises once more start to leave him. Your hand left his face to his hair, yanking his head back. You utter the words before your lips capture his.

“Then you must wear the crown”.

#aemond targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #yandere house of the dragon #yandere hotd #hotd x reader #hotd smut #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon smut #dark!reader

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venus-maneater · 1 year

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targaryen reader being in an arranged marriage with her eldest brother aegon, but her children keep coming out with dark hair and brown eyes. the whole family (esp the ones who treated Rhaenyra’s strong boys so badly) pulling a Viserys because they’re all too obsessed with the reader to acknowledge that she may have been disloyal to Aegon.

[fic coming soon lmao] I’m unsure whether or not I should make it multiple parts or just a really long one

#dark! hotd #yandere hotd #hotd x reader #jace velaryon x reader #yandere jace velaryon #jacaerys x reader #yandere got #got x reader #jacaerys imagine #yandere aegon targaryen #yandere alicent hightower

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mrsdarkandyandere7 · 1 year

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Dark HOTD - You allow them to visit brothels

Dark Daemon, Aegon, Aemond and Jace.

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

(female reader)

WARNINGS: Mentions of Non-con; Breeding kink.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

Daemon

Daemon is actually amused when you bring this up. He’ll smirk as you lie that you only want him to be fully pleased with the touch of professional women instead of you, but he can see right through your facade.

You clearly want him to leave you alone. Okay, so maybe he is relentless, compelling you to have sex multiple times a day but how is he supposed to resist to your magnificent body?

Daemon will twist your words, instead. If you’re “concerned” about not being able to fully satisfy his carnal needs then don’t worry, he’ll teach you.

He’ll take on every opportunity to teach you and it becomes a kink for him. To give you lesson on how to give and take pleasure, educating his pure wife how to properly fuck.

You’ll end up being caught by servants one too many times on your knees, head between Daemon’s legs as his hand envelops your hair, guiding you to suck him off.

"Do not worry, my love. I understand how afraid you are of the possibility of not being able to give me pleasure but I assure you that from now on I'll take upon myself the task of teaching you the depths of pleasure."

Aegon

Now, why would Aegon still visit brothels when he finally has a wife that can take care of him?

Not to mention that you’re now the only source of pleasure and lust for Aegon, you’re all he can think about. Not a moment goes by without him trying to allure you back into your private chambers for a quick release.

It’s clear that you don’t like it but he doesn’t care. It’s your duty as wife, you’re there to please him, whether you like it or not.

And even if you outrightly try to refuse him, Aegon will just force you to do his bidding. Nice try but Aegon isn’t gonna give up on his favorite plaything.

"Did you truly believe that I'd still visit those filthy whores when I finally have you? My pretty wife whose duty is to please me? If you wish to apologize to your husband, then get on your knees."

Aemond

Aemond will remain silent as you speak, analyzing you as you stutter words out. The only answer you get from him is a cryptic hmm and then he dives back into the book, so unbothered that you feel like he didn’t even listen to any of your words.

And yet night after night, Aemond still comes to share a marital bed with you. If you really thought that he’d visit brothels instead of you, then you don’t know enough of Aemond. He doesn’t enjoy brothels, they’re filthy and gross.

He can’t cum to anyone else other than you, his beautiful wife. It’s a mix between lust and possessive, that you’re his, fully his.

It’s his cock that stretches you every night, it’s his cum that sticks inside of you and soon it will be his child to grow in your belly. You’re the only one that should bear his children, the true Targaryen blood.

You’re the only one that he’ll bed, independently of how you feel about that.

"I have no interest in seeking pleasure outside of our marital bed so you may forget about that topic. Or did you sincerely hope that I’d accept that offer? Either way, that won’t be happening."

Jace

Jace isn’t going to be much pleased when you mention this. You’re married to each other and he wants both of you to be completely and entirely faithful to each other.

He dotes on you so much, trying to be a good husband and here you come, throwing shameful suggestions onto him.

Jace is going to be so mad that he won’t talk to you for a whole day as he cools down. Afterwards, he’s going to have an honest conversation on how he wants your marriage to work and for both of you to be fully devoted to each other.

He’ll let you know that he wants you, in every possible way and that isn’t going to change. He’ll make a clear point of informing you that you will be sharing chambers and a bed every night and that won’t change, no matter what.

If you don’t feel inclined to make love on some night when you’re feeling unwell, then you should inform him and nothing needs to happen, but Jace makes it crystal clear that he won’t be seeking pleasure in anyone but you.

"Do not insult me with this vile proposal, my wife. My body and soul belong entirely to you, so do not fear me. Our union will simply be the proof of my burning love for you."

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vhagars-dementia · 11 months

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Aemond: what has two legs, two wings, and one arm?

Jacaerys: what? :)

Aemond: A happy Vhagar!

Jacaerys: :(

#that was dark #aemond targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #hotd meme #incorrect hotd #aemond targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jace velaryon

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floatyflowers · 2 years

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Fairest of Them All | Aegon II, Aemond, and Jacaerys x Reader

You are the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and his first wife, Rhea Royce.

People claim that you are the most beautiful girl in all of the seven kingdoms, and your Targaryen appearance played a role in that title.

Unlike your parents, you are shy and would burst into tears if someone speaks to you in a bad way.

So, when many high lords asked for your hand in marriage, all of which Daemon turned down because he saw them all unfitting.

Even though, you wanted to marry Cregan Stark, but Daemon thought him to be ruthless.

But, when Rhaenyra suggested that Jace weds you, that's when he agreed.

After all, Jacaerys is brave and gentle, he is the perfect match for a fragile kind-hearted girl like yourself.

When you and Jacaerys get betrothed to each other, things were going smooth at first, until Jace started to set his own rules.

Like how you are not allowed to speak to anyone except to him and your family, and that you are not allowed to ride your dragon without his permission or him escorting you.

Not only that, but Jace dismissed all of your handmaids and replaced them with new ones.

All your old handmaids were your friends, the new ones are strangers.

You wanted to break off the engagement, but then again you felt like you would sadden Rhaenyra if you do that, she is like a second mother to you.

You put up with his behavior until you and his family decided to go to Kingslanding to put an end to Vaemond's vile accusation about the Velaryon boys legitimacy.

That's where you met up with your other male cousins, Aemond and Aegon, both in which give you unreadable stares.

Helaena is the only one you got along with.

You also met them at Laena's funeral, you remember that Aemond acted more mature then Aegon, and that Aegon teased and mocked you which resulted in you hiding behind your father the whole funeral with tear stained cheeks.

Honestly, you also felt uneasy by Aemond who claimed Vhagar, you felt that he is an intimidating person.

At the feast held by the king in the honor of him regaining his good health, Aegon disturbed you with his flirting, and his sexual offer.

Jace was about to hit him, but restrained himself and comforted you when he saw you shaking.

Aemond stared at you the whole feast, putting you under more pressure, not knowing that you have caught Aemond's interest the moment you stepped a foot in Kingslanding.

Luke chuckled when the pig was placed in front of Aemond, causing a fight to erupt after the younger Targaryen prince makes an offensive toast towards Luke and Jace.

But, the root of the fight wasn't about the 'strong' name, it was about how Aemond also added the phrase...

"And to my beautiful cousin, Lady (Y/n), who is yet to find a man who is able to protect her...like me"

Clearly, he is not even considering Jace to be your fiance, and that you are still searching for a true man.

Daemon was able to calm everything down, your family left next day, but you stay in Kingslanding with Rhaenys, after getting sick out of nowhere.

Unaware, that Aegon had someone poison your drink to have you stay

This made the Queen suggest you stay until get better.

Jace wanted to stay with you, and even tried to convince his mother, but you assured him that you will return to Dragonstone on your dragon once you get better.

Yet, the following events of the king's death and Aegon's coronation turned you from a guest to a hostage.

A hostage held captive by the king and his brother, to become their bride.

#tw: toxic relationships #aemond targaryen x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #yandere house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon x reader #dark #possessive

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del-thetiredwriter · 1 year

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Saintess of dragons part 2

Part 1

Warnings: major character death,not really dark themes , my bad writing

English is my second language

Gif is not mine

"What are you doing?" Helaena asked . The two of you were sitting outside the training ground. It was one of the rare times you didn't spend your time in your study room. The boys had insisted that you watch them during their sword practice.

"I'm checking my notes" You answered. You've been restless since you saw Laena at the celebrations. She was going to die soon—which she didn't even know about. You had to make a decision until Laena's funeral, a decision you hadn't been able to make for 11 years. You were either going to save everyone and change the future , or you were going to choose the original future, the future where everyone died.

“Why do you always take notes or check your notes?” Helaena asked innocently. You lifted your eyes from your notes and looked at Helaena. You swallowed. "Because I don't want to forget." You answered. You didn't want to forget: your past, your family, your friends, your life 11 years ago.

You looked into Helaena's lilac eyes, innocent but equally frightening eyes, those eyes that seemed to understanding what you were saying.

Helaena was about to ask another question but Aegon and the others came running up to you.

“I won Y/n. I won the fight." said Aegon excitedly. He was looking at you with eyes waiting for you to praise him. Jace sighed, unable to accept his loss. Aemond and Luke were waiting for you to take care of them. You smiled and congratulated Aegon.

“You're just going to congratulate me. As a winner, I deserve an award.” Aegon said .

“A reward? What do you want?” you said.

"to be my wife," said Aegon. Aemond and Helaena waited for your reaction as Jace and Luke objected to Aegon's offer.

“Unfortunately, I must say that this will not be possible, my prince. I don't want marriage or anything like that, neither now nor in the future.”

You thought, 'If I get married, I can't return '.

Aegon seemed to protest, but could not insist any longer. He didn't want to make you angry.

⁎

You're back in your study room. You knew that Aegon loved you, but you didn't think it was enough to propose. You thought, 'It must be because he is still young, it's not serious'.

You looked at the notes on the table. You thought, 'I have to make a decision’. It was like a dream to open your eyes in the series you love 11 years ago. Seeing and talking to your favorite characters live. It looked great at first, because you knew the future, you could change the future and give everyone a happy ending and stop the war.

You tried and you paid the price. The slightest change was causing you to gradually forget your past. You were afraid of forgetting your family, your life, what you knew, so you withdrew. As time passed, you realized that you were not getting old. This scared you even more.

The whole room was covered with charts, notes and paintings you had drawn. Everything was to remember and to return. If it weren't for these paintings and notes, you'd have forgotten your past. You looked at the picture in which you drew a happy moment with your family in your most recent work. You thought, 'Everything will be fine'.

⁎

There were screams. When you looked around, everything was on fire. Kingslanding was on fire. A silhouette was coming towards you through the fires, Laena. She was wearing a blue bloody dress.

“Laena. I- you- why? “You said hesitantly.

Laena just looked at you sadly and smiled.

She said "You could save me but you didn't"

“Laena I-” you swallowed.

"You were afraid. But you are the reason why everything is covered with fire and blood right now,” she said, pointing around.

“You didn't save me, you didn't save them, you couldn't save us. You left us to our fate,” Laena continued.

“Us?” You said

“Yes, us.” Said Laena

Then came the screams from below. Voices of familiar people. Rhaenyra, Helaena, Lucerys… others. They were all bleeding under your feet, begging you, pulling you towards them.

“Laena I-!”

“Make your decision before it's too late! Please,” Laena said. While you're being pulled down.

⁎

“Laena!” You Looked around. You were in your room. It was just a dream, a nightmare. The door knocked .

"Come"

A maid hurried in.

“Forgive me my lady, but I have news”

Your eyes widened with fear when you heard the news. Laena has died .

#yandere hotd #dark hotd #hotd fanfic #yandere house of the dragon #yandere house of the dragon x reader #yandere house targaryen #house of dragon fanfiction #aegon x y/n #yandere aegon targaryen #dark jacaerys velaryon #helaena x reader #lucerys x reader #dark aemond #yandere aemond

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its-actually-minicika · 1 year

Text

The Harshest Winters (18+!)

Part 4;;

Pairing(s): Jacaerys x Reader x bookcanon Aemond;

Warnings: all of them lmao - dubious consent, canon typical violence, lack of Jacaerys, death, blood and gore, Aemond - who forces the reader into holy matrimony in this one (oh yes it's happening), and of course engages in petty masturbation (it's not THW without him going ham on his own hand ♡)

Word Count: 15k+ (wowza i know)

Author's Note: Low and behold, part 4 is here!! Originally, this was supposed to be a 4 parts series, but that obviously isn't the case anymore. THIS TOOK SO LONG AND I'M SO SORRY - I had major issues with the tag list, and at some point, tumblr wouldn’t let me post this; I unfortunately couldn't solve those problems, no matter how hard I tried, so most of you haven't been properly tagged :") This update is a hot mess, and I haven't actually had the time to read through all the paragraphs that I wrote. I SHALL BE BACK TO EDIT

A huge thank you to everyone who's still following the story, though, and I hope you enjoy!

A war is in its midst.

When everyone else is readying themselves for the following decisive battles, you and Aemond are busy playing house.

Things get heated in Harrenhal, and one must decide when and where to pick their side.

The contact of the hot water upon Aemond’s ivory skin made the man shudder in naught but blinding pain. Achingly slow movements, followed by slow grunts echoed throughout the room – and Lady Tully stilled upon the silken sheets, moving her eyes over the book’s page for the thousandth time since he returned; thus driving all her peace away.

The baths Aemond determinedly took in the raptures of the late-night hours never failed to make her uncomfortable, and keep her on edge. Even so, being forced to hear the pained man move with such little stability and lack of confidence almost teetered the girl to the brink of madness.

Harrenhal had been in shambles since its proud conqueror beckoned his return on dragon back that very eve. Two young maids shouted for maesters, and Alys Rivers nearly caused a scene. As he got off his leather saddle, the Prince all but collapsed from tiredness and blood loss.

'He commanded his features to turn brave and taciturn,' his paramour had told her, 'as to not let a single hint of his condition spread throughout the Keep. My poor Aemond.'

The fool had been reached by an arrow.

An impressive feat, one had to agree – and wonder further on the identity of the courageous shot.

‘Struck right between his shoulder blade and chest,’ she had heard some lost girl utter, ‘It is a miracle he’s still alive.’

… Or the Gods’ cruelest punishment, the Lady compelled within her thoughts.

“Mmhh…” Aemond’s rugged breath deterred the girl to raise her glassy orbs from the confinement of the wilting pages. She schooled her eyes to stay above any level of indiscretion, and gingerly followed the trail of blood mixed with dirt, that seeped into and dirtied the once clear water.

Now that her curiosity was quenched, she could freely look away again.

Half a heartbeat later, she relented and surrendered in the face of his quarrelsome state. The Prince bit the inside of his cheek again, and raised his hand up to allow droplets of liquid to trail past his wounded shoulder… but to no avail.

“You could call in a maid, you know.” Her raspy voice descended upon his struggling body. Sooner than she may have liked, the Bliss of Riverrun closed her eyes, and concentrated on the languid noises that the Prince was making.

Seconds felt like pending minutes, until Aemond One-Eye graced her with a reply.

“I don’t need a maid to help me.”

Then that was that, the young woman soon concluded, returning her attention to the opened book.

'The Philosophies of the Riverlands', however, provided little to no aid to the situation at hand – and her overall station.

For she knew, perhaps far too well, that she had to play a different game than the one they'd engaged in, months prior to her imprisonment in that cursed place.

Insufferable man… she vexed him cruelly inside her head, I hoped by now you would be dead.

She raised one leg from the mattress that embedded her, and shifted it, so as to allow her limbs to hang lowly by the edge of the bed. Her thoughts formed and went as they pleased, but the girl settled on one final reach.

He hadn't even allowed Alys to help him undress. Suggesting her now was a deliberate waste of her time.

Not only that, but she still had to win his trust. Somehow, she promised herself, no matter what it takes, she'd do it.

Forcibly she rose from the bed, and made her way slowly towards his wide basin, fixating her eyes on the stone floor ahead. Her throat closed in on itself, and the girl pursed her lips into a tight line, whilst exhaling through her nose. It took a while for her to calm herself.

"... What about me?" She asked in a leveled tone.

Her gaze met his piercing orb, and the Lady nearly took a small step back. His face long washed the wave of shock from his sharp, Targaryen features – Aemond awaited her next words with a quirked up brow and a slight bite o'r his inner cheek. He seemed more than interested in her meek suggestion.

His wordless approval had left her speechless and, for a while, only her heartbeat emerged in her ears.

The Prince Regent trailed his eye hungrily over her extended arm. He took in a sharp breath as she grasped the rough sponge from his hand, and drained it of the putrid smell. She confidently brought it up to him – and teasingly trailed it over his hard chest, down to his lower abdomen, up again to his slouching shoulder.

"This… will hurt you a little bit." She whispered to him, skillfully averting her face from the man in question.

He gritted his teeth harshly, and almost let out a groan from his parted lips – with his dexterous and long fingers, he gripped the edge of the wooden basin, but dared not to look away from the kneeling Lady – choosing, instead, to focus on singling out her every soft and hard feature.

On her end, (Y/N) dabbed the piece of cloth over his wound gently, chanting inside her head to remain small and taciturn.

He shan't get more of a reaction from me, she promised herself through the span of an agonized huff, as she focused in on the task at hand.

Aemond's white skin revealed itself from the washed patches of dirt, and the Prince sighed a deep breath of contentment, as he felt his body be unintentionally caressed by her. His eye fluttered close, and a slight furrow of his tantalizing brow indicated the uncommon pleasure he took from their sporadic intimacy.

The two remain in awkward silence - the only noise that reached the girl's ears being the rattle of water and the occasional hiss from Aemond.

"... I'm sorry." She strained herself to whisper, whilst her hair fell seemingly out of place. "This looks as if it's painful."

The Prince Protector mirrored her stance, and glanced at her through the thick curtain of long, silver hair – the lilac in his eye complimenting the heatwaves of fire that danced across his marred skin.

"It's not painful." His gruff voice echoed in reply.

"... You –" The Lady began, but stopped on her tracks to level her voice again, by the aid of coughing in the back of her hand.

"You don't have to pretend in my company, you know."

She graced him with a forced smile, one she hoped seemed light enough to fool him. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't make fun of you."

Her eyes trailed over to the harsh stone floor, wrinkling at their sharpened ends – "When I was three and ten," she began, "My youngest brother betted against one of the stable boys: that he could ride faster than anyone on his horse, Middle." Her eyes spasmed close at the memory, and the girl wistfully smiled to herself, "The fool scraped his knees in that dreadful race. Middle threw him right out of his expensive saddle."

As she spoke, she brought the rough cloth over Aemond's shoulder blade, right above his wound, and began scrubbing the dirt that adorned over his skin.

"He didn’t want anyone to know what had happened, so he made me clean it, in the stead of a maester." The Lady let out an airy laugh, as her nose scrunched up with a pang of fondness. "I have never seen a boy get so worked up over a simple scratch before."

Aemond hummed in admission – half relieved by the distraction she was offering, and half worried by the impending pain he would soon feel. He shifted from inside the basin, as if to reach for the sponge in her hand himself, but the girl simply laid her hand away.

Her musings came to an abrupt end. She retreated on her steps lightly, and offered the Crown Prince a quirked-up brow.

"You need to stay put, Prince Aemond. Otherwise, I risk causing you more harm than good." She swallowed thickly, and only shook her head, "Your wound needs thorough cleaning, Your Grace. And it is too far in the back for you to clean it by yourself."

She glanced at his face anew, and let out a tumbling sigh as he nodded his head again, trying his hardest to relax into her touch once more.

Part of him remained put up – the bulk of his chest and shoulders still gloriously hunched over, ready to bolt up at any given moment.

"... I hate to admit it. I thought he was exaggerating then – with the discomfort which he feigned was feeling."

Her lips pursed into a tight line, as she glanced quickly at the laying man, "But how can one make fun of another's state of pain?"

A sympathetic look was shared between them.

Her eyes softened in admission to his furrowed brows and descended features. In that exact light, she couldn’t help but notice how much he resembled her Jace.

"Pain makes us human. And it's a reminder for us: to really cherish our times of incandescent joy."

The break of a cold sweat kissed over Aemond's forehead; droplets of which gathered at the base of his left eye, where his leather eyepatch stayed secured.

The girl pushed down a disdainful puff, as her eyes trailed him over, from the rosy blotch of skin, back to his hawk-like eye.

"Leather retains heat." She murmured before she could catch herself.

The Targaryen Prince expelled a deep breath, and, as her hand came to rest over the buckle that secured his patch into place, he primed his lips into a downturned arch.

"It can't be good for you to always keep it on."

"The sight of it frightens others. I don't want it to frighten you."

"I've seen you without your eyepatch before."

"That was different. This time… is different."

The latter of his words sent a shiver down her bent spine. Nothing is different, she was aching to say. Her lips pressed anxiously together, and the girl offered Aemond a curt nod. Just as she was about to pull her hand away from the nape of his neck, the Prince's wet palm came up to stop her.

His fingers shakily entwined with hers. The deep callouses of his hand scratched the softness of her open palm.

For a while, Time herself froze before them.

(Y/N) came to avert her gaze, but Aemond's eye feverishly searched for the relieving clash of hers. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and the Lady of Riverrun nearly choked onto the clogged-up air.

His silver locks curled slightly at their ends – the dampness of the room striking its claim over his perfectly straight strands of hair. In his own right, Aemond could be called beautiful. His striking Targaryen features might have ensured the favor of many young maidens, were it not for his rash and impetuous attitude, the bite that rested in his character – which no doubt spread like a disease over his life at Court.

"Look at me." Against his better judgment, and his innermost turmoil, Aemond allowed her small fingers to trail over the buckle of his blinder again. He drew out a comforting sigh, and, with her hand still in his, gently slid the leather off.

He sucked in a quiet breath, as the coldness of the air enveloped his throbbing eyelids.

The poise in his composure was cracking at the seams, with the passing of each second, during which she settled to remain silent.

Eventually, her hand came to rest over his face again. Her dexterous fingers began to leisurely wipe the sweat from his brow, his eye, by submerging them into the lukewarm water, and bringing them over and over to his clenched face.

"I'm sorry." She settled on to say instead, once the breaching of kind words failed to meet her. "No one deserves to be left without an eye. No one deserves such appalling cruelty."

"You appear to be sorry an awful lot this evening, My Lady." Aemond choked under his breath, taken aback by her gentle movements and sainty utter.

"I spend the better part of my days in the company of my own thoughts." She huskily reminded him, "... It's been increasingly easier for me to reflect on my past mistakes."

Wordless from her hoax admission, and desperate to feel her hands explore him further, the Targaryen Prince rose heavily from the dirtied water – his chest coming directly to her field of vision.

The girl let out a cutting gasp, as she turned swiftly on her heel, refusing to glance at his modesty, not any longer than she'd already had.

Her eyelids fluttered close, and she shifted from one foot to the other, but to no avail. For in spite of her desire to run away, the Lady found herself hammered in place.

The proximity between them laid out to be a problem – Aemond let out a frustrated sigh, and turned her head around with the clasping of his untouched arm. Two of his fingers came to rest at the base of her cheek and chin; the Prince let out a satisfied hum, as her body trembled in slight shock at their change of position.

"Gevie…" He muttered to no one but himself.

His cock stood proudly at attention, kissing over his prominent abdomen, trailing long past his belly button. Every now and then, white pearls pooled to the base of his length, weeping from his angry tip, trailing past his stones in the reach of the water below him.

"Look at me." He breathed again, and his sweet Lady obeyed.

She threw him a dejected look: half harsh and cold, half hardened and scorned. The tips of her ears matched the redness of her pale cheeks. Her eyes cast their curious glow throughout every corner of the room, yet stayed away from the scorn of indiscretion that called out to her, only centimeters below her swollen lips.

Aemond's thumb flicked once over her crimson labium, but the man sighed, seemingly discouraged, and settled upon gripping her dainty wrist instead.

"Gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon, issa dōna jorrāelagon. Nyke kivio ao naejot sagon gīda."

The gentleness that oozed from his voice could have had anyone fooled. But not her. The translations of the words he muttered against the skin of her wrist were lost on her, but the Lady of Riverrun still singled out a most protruding word.

He had never failed to call her 'his tormenting love'.

The girl's breath rose and fell with each agonizing word that befell over her face.

"Mēre tubis ao jāhor jaelagon issa." Aemond sighed against her wrist.

'I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin. I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin. I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin.'

Her words rang harsh and true inside her head – and, much like it was back then, her heart harbored no honorable intent towards the Trident's Terror.

He burnt your entire homeland, she chastised herself harshly, He killed thousands. Every day, even more find their end by the breath of his dragon. By the way of his wrath.

The ache in her heartbeat rang loudly inside her ears – her every pore aligned with her wish to run away, and her mind was screaming at her to retreat to a corner.

Comparing him to Jacaerys was a laughable feat.

"Let's… just finish getting you cleaned up, Your Grace" She struggled to finally suggest out loud, through the timid inflection of her outwardly calm voice.

She slithered her face away from his grasp, and began draining the sponge of the dark mud again.

Aemond sighed, and lowered himself back into the cold water – his lone eye never leaving the mould of her smaller frame.

"I heard that conversation… sometimes distracts the ill from the discomfort of the cleaning process, Your Grace."

Now turned to his exposed back, the girl's hand wavered over his punctured shoulder. She waited three, perhaps four seconds, before her arm finally breached contact with the wounded flesh.

Aemond took in a sharp breath, but remained otherwise silent, until she prompted him to speak again.

"How… how did such a thing even come to happen?"

Aemond's chest rose and fell with each labored pant. His eye remained tightly closed, his jaw awfully set. Her question registered into his mind, and a reply formed at the former base of his thoughts.

For a while, however, the One-Eyed Prince remained quiet – weighing the option of telling her the truth rather carefully.

"A Frey company was marching South." He hissed as her light hand came over his flesh, applying soft pressure in its wake. "The fog of the morning masked them from me – but Vhagar's shadow still went right above their heads."

The woman brought her free hand to rest over his lower back, and her fingers rubbed soothing circles into the dampness of his skin. "It was… very lucky that you didn't get more hurt."

She scorned herself inwardly, but kept her curiosity at bay. She wouldn’t ask him whether the company had risen victorious, or if he burnt all those men to the ground.

The latter option, in any case, seemed more than likely.

The Crown Prince tensed visibly, but didn’t scoot away from her soothing touch. A deep sigh parted from his cracked lips, and the man revelled at their sudden closeness.

He ached to talk to her, to plead with her to welcome him inside her heart – and into her bed. He could feel his own beat loudly, and his body trembled in unquenched lust and rage.

Still, he knew it was too soon for that.

Not once during their rash acquaintance, did the girl before he talk with so much interest about his day with him.

His thoughts trailed to Alys, and Aemond wondered if half her new admission was owed to her – if indeed the two women secured a friendship within the last two weeks, if his whore became her confidant, if she breathed in her trust in him.

He would have to talk to her later. Thank her, if he was feeling apt and generous.

(Y/N)'s breath caught in the shell of his ear, and the Targaryen Prince nibbled at his lower lip. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down; the coldness of the water gave him the strength to concentrate, by the sliding of small ripples down his exposed chest and abdomen. The ache of his wound was a small price to pay, if only to feel her knuckles working against his back.

"There we are. All done, Your Grace."

She rose up from her kneeling stance, wincing at the sudden change of perspective, and at the throb of her tired knees. She gingerly presented the clean set of clothes and bathing robes to him. Her head remained turned to the side, and her hand instantly let go of the heavy clothes, the moment his palm came into contact with them.

In the stead of returning to sit idly by their resting place, the woman graced him with a final look, and let out a faint mutter. "I'll leave you to it."

She wavered but a moment, and turned her stare to the ruined clothes; the ones that Aemond had so carelessly discarded on the floor, as he prepared for his undeserved nightly soak.

The shadow of a long-laid plan gleamed beneath her silent gaze.

"I can wash them for you tomorrow – after my bath. It might be wiser to keep the nature of your wounds hidden. The maids needn't worry over how much blood you lost."

Aemond's brows furrowed in slight shock, and the Prince remained wordless in the face of her sensible suggestion.

And yet her eyes spoke with so much sincerity, that he gleefully allowed the pang of hope to warm his unforgiving features.

"As you wish." He rumbled out, while forcing himself to move his stare to the folded clothes before him.

His eye trailed back to his hands' agile ministrations, and Aemond soon began to roll over his linen breeches, covering his half-hard cock with the help of the rough material.

A throaty groan etched from deep within his throat, however, as he reached for the pristine shirt.

The girl stopped in her tracks, and a deep scowl settled over her fair features.

The struggle he was undergoing would have been music to her ears – were it not for the solidarity of her position. For the millionth time that night, she reminded herself of her plan and her desperation to escape.

Thus, unbeknownst to her own better judgment, the Lady compelled herself to seek him further.

Although her words failed to assist her, the way she gingerly reached, with her hand wide and outstretched, made Aemond aware of her pending intent.

Their bodies were inches apart. The girl sucked in a hurried breath, and neglected to exhale it as the oxygen hit her lungs.

Aemond was burning up – and whether that was from the lack of fresh air within the confining room, or the first telltale sign of fever, or her – he was lost on saying anymore. His weakened arm slithered into the sleeve of his shirt, though the pain was long forgotten.

And instead of focusing on his poised movements, his glassy eye ran hungrily over her face and hypnotic features.

(Y/N)'s fingertips grazed over the light material. Her tired eyes softened at the familiar feeling. The threat of tears beckoned at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them all away in a hasty movement. Melancholy ate away at her, far more often than she knew was wise to allow.

Still she remembered, if only for a moment, the raptures of Jacaerys' warm embrace. And how, in the heat of summer, that very same cloth felt against her heated cheek.

They must have had the same seamstress, the same tailor. Of course, she thought to herself in a bitter manner, after all, they are both Princes.

… Were.

But if she closed her eyes, she could pretend – No, she chastised herself fully, such a thing just cannot be. And you'd be a fool to attempt to it.

The magnetic pull between them trebly pried the two souls together. And it would be yet another minute, until (Y/N) finally took a step back, opening her mouth to announce the end of her intimate task.

Her eyes fell on the stone hard floor, and she carefully turned her back around him.

The long waves of her hair shifted over her modest nightgown, covering her mounds of flesh with a slight shift to the left.

"I'm going to sleep." She pathetically uttered, as the warmth that emanated from Aemond's form not moments prior, still fell heavily over her slight frame.

Mechanically she gripped the satin sheets and engulfed herself with them – a slight comfort came over her, as the coldness of the unused bedding fanned gently over her scorched limbs.

Aemond remained stuck in place, and a heaved breath rumbled from within his chest. The red in his cheeks would have put both their Houses' seals to shame – For once, he was glad she wasn't looking his way.

***

The rest of the night was spent in washed quietness.

And his Lady might have made it up: the dip at the edge of the bed, the smell of fresh pine and wildfire that caressed her in her sleepy state, and the slight "Thank you" that dabbled from her captor's lips.

“You plan to ride on dragon-back again? So soon?” The echo of Alys' voice carried her worry throughout the silent clearing.

The first rays of sunlight caught flame into her raven hair, lighting her features in such a way, that it accentuated her every perpetual scar and wrinkle. The fire inside her eyes could rival the one of a trueborn Targaryen, were it not for her strong outer appearance.

Aemond moved his body at a leisurely pace, not even bothering to throw the woman one of his usual vexing looks.

"Do you think dear nuncle will put a stop to the siege of the Twins, should the word spread about my condition?"

His cutting words rendered the woman speechless, and the Rivers witch simply clicked her tongue, whilst glancing at the green grass below her.

"War awaits no one, my dear." He asserted definitively, as he gripped onto Vhagar's long bridles.

The mighty beast let out a shaken roar, as Aemond winced once his wounded shoulder made light contact with her dark-green scales.

"Gīda ilagon, Vhagar. Sagon nykeēdrosa... Sȳz hāedar." He instinctively reached for her, and caressed her lower belly with one of his gloved hands.

At their calm exchange, Alys bit over her lower lip, harshly enough to draw her own blood. "You should stay." She managed to draw out, "At least a while – going in search of your uncle today, instead of tomorrow, won't make a difference to your brother's cause."

But her voice of reason reached deafened ears. For Aemond Targaryen was set on paying the debt he owed. The debt he agreed to take on, the moment his dragon clasped onto Lucaerys, swallowing the bastard whole.

"Everything matters at war, Alys." He hummed impatiently, while snapping his head in her general direction. "What do you think will happen to you, should Daemon reach Harrenhal? Your pretty head will rest near mine, impaled on a sharpened spike."

But if she told you to stay put, you would do just that, wouldn’t you? Her bitter thoughts chewed her conscious away.

Alys spat out a lowly curse, as she shifted uncomfortably in place. "Daemon Targaryen was here once, not long before you. He didn’t kill me then."

"Because you didn't matter back then." The Prince Protector of the Realm hissed through painfully gritted teeth, "You were no one to him. You were a wet nurse who merely spread her legs for him."

The man turned his back to her, as he wordlessly bound Vhagar's bridle over his wrist again and again.

"And last I checked, your cunt failed to inspire him."

Her mouth parted in a silent protest, and her green eyes widened in partial distress. "Still I should remain in luck," She choked out through a breathless laugh, "for it has never failed to inspire you."

"You are perfectly right," Aemond's laughter was humorless and brash, "And it is because of this loose cunt that Aegon nearly lost the support of Storm's End."

The Prince spun around on his heel's end, and trapped the woman in between his hard chest and restless dragon. "Sometimes I think you cost me more than you're worth." He whispered calmly into her ear, while trailing his index finger over the sharp edge of her jaw. "For speaking back to me, I could have you executed."

The finality of his words drew her body closer to the ancient beast, and Vhagar let out a displeased grunt. Amusement pulled at the corners of his downturned mouth.

"Still you should remain in luck," He mocked her with an airy laugh, "I find myself in an exceedingly good mood today."

The back of his hand came to play with a loose lock of her messy braid, and the Prince smiled at her stance and her bewildered look. "But you've been a most useful asset, haven't you, my dear?" He obliged her with a teasing smirk, "Lady Tully responded well to you, hasn't she? Tell me," He paused momentarily, as he trailed his hands to the narrow middle of her waist, and back up again. "Have you kept up your training with her?"

Alys' face fell into a frown, as she staggered a frustrated look. Aemond was toying with her.

"That dull book she pretends to read at night has the maps of three secret passages hidden amongst the latter pages. Two of them lead to that cell into the West Wing – but of course, she doesn't know that. The third one leads to the stables of Harrenhal."

Aemond hummed pleasedly, and the man soon took a wide step back, allowing his paramour enough space for proper breathing. "You did well." He smiled wistfully, "I should reward you well tonight. You may think of something you desire. I will see to it once I return."

"I would very much like you to stay and heal today." She urged him not a heartbeat later, surprising even herself with the intensity of her tone.

Aemond's composure broke with the licks of roaring laughter – one that was empty, and fell devoid of any feelings of fondness or grief.

"Think of something else." He urged her coolly, and dismissively pushed past her, to reach for his dragon's saddle.

"'Tis a good thing you shall never be a wife, Alys. The role of the worried wench doesn't suit you one bit."

"Keep feeding her half-truths and lies." He encouraged the woman with a final reach over her hand. He squeezed once over her balled-up fist – acting as both a promise, and a taciturn warning on what should happen, should she let him down again. "Regarding whatever else she may have to say… you'll report it back immediately."

With that, the Kinslayer of the Trident took off, leaving the promise of bone and ash behind his dragon's menacing ascend.

The Eyrie was, on all accounts, smaller even than Maegor's Holdfast. Inside the stronghold nestled the Arryns, hidden deep beneath the illusion of the smallest stronghold of the main seven Kingdoms. Despite its intermediate size, the Keep of the Giant's Lance deemed itself one of the safest places to be – Hardly a lie, especially now, Cain Waters ineptly hummed, once his wobbly feet carried him over the stoney threshold.

Despite its less-than-imposing size, and lack of sheer volume, (Y/N)'s sworn shield felt himself smaller than ever before.

How would he dare account for his whereabouts? Reason his shortcomings?

How could he hope to explain to his Lord that not only did he return empty-handed, without his beloved granddaughter on horseback – he returned without the notion of a hand at all?

Between the two strange figures with whom he traveled, it was Mira Florent who rested loyally by his side – her strength and stability allowing the Waters bastard to lean into her, if only for a fleeting moment, during the ascend of the narrow stairs.

"Take heart," She whispered, "Your Lord is a kind and understanding one. You won't be facing trial for this."

His mere reply was a solitary grunt, and a quick smile, dejectedly thrown her way.

Between the two strange figures with whom he traveled, Albar had remained behind. The mute man shrugged his head decidedly when Cain gestured towards the waiting castle, and Mira explained to him that the Vale scarcely left him feeling safe and wanted.

And he understood, perhaps far too well – the feeling of dejection a bastard boy felt, as he stepped foot into the land of his birth.

***

He'd been granted the comfort of a Maester and a hot soak, almost immediately after his appearance at the Arryns' Great Door.

The Lady of the Vale proved to be a kindred spirit, capable of great nurture, despite her lack of heirs to her family's ancestral throne. She gasped loudly at the sight of him. Her eyebrows furrowed in grave distraught, and her lower lip trembled as the healers informed her of the state of his right hand.

Her searching eyes reminded him of the ones of his own mother – neither particularly warm nor cold towards him, but fair and just in their own accord.

She almost decided against calling upon him to the Trouts' Black Council, but the young Oscar Tully had entirely different plans.

His eyes, as they were, were socketed by a deep, but elusive brown. They spoke and reminded him of a whole different tale than the one of his fair, poor Lady.

And it was Oscar's eyes, so similar in shape to hers, who bore ghastly holes into the back of Ser Cain's skull. His arm rose up, as if to cut off the man's retelling – his nostrils flared up in disgust, and his face twisted into a painful scowl.

"So what you're telling me… is that you failed to bring her back."

Cain's eyes hardened at her brother's words, and the knight nibbled on his lower lip, in an attempt to calm himself.

Although a brave and honest man, he dared not look in the eyes of Lord Grover Tully – he dared not see what lay beneath his wilted face. Thus, all his attention focused in on the chirping lass.

"Aye, my Lord." He mustered up to tell him, "I lost her to the One-Eyed Prince. We escaped Harrenhal, and managed to get as far as the Saltpans, but –"

The boy scoffed at his attempt to pardon and explain himself. He nodded affirmatively, and scrutinized Cain with his piercing gaze.

"You returned with an empty hand, Ser Cain. You failed: miserably."

His back straightened in an attempt to appear bigger, and the hot-headed lass rose from his chair in a hurling daze.

"Because of you, my sister is in the hands of that cycloptic freak. Because of you, we don't know anything about her whereabouts. She could be tortured, enslaved, sullied – worse!"

Lady Jane Arryn clicked her tongue in disbelief, and beckoned her guard to guide the boy back into a sitting stance.

"That is quite enough, Oscar." She asserted calmly, "We have no evidence of such a feat."

"Of course we don't!" The young Lordling huffed annoyedly, jolting on the brink of madness, "The deranged cripple wouldn't reply to any of our ravens!"

His face contorted animalistically, the freckles on his face being taken by the deep shade of crimson that coloured in his plumper cheeks. "And with you here, Waters, we don't even have the certainty that (Y/N) is still alive!"

"Oscar." Grover's deep voice echoed a warning through the quietness of the tiny Keep.

As if struck in the face, the youngest of the Tully brothers shifted in his seat again. "My sister's fate is breached unknown," He cried out in a collapsing tune, "She's our family, grandfather, my only sister! Pray tell, why does it look as if I'm the only one who gives a damn?"

The graying Lord and the narrow Lady both leaned towards a perplexing look. But before any of them could reply to his laid-out challenge, (Y/N)'s brother urged them further, as he hissed through his gritted teeth. "It would have been better for you not to return at all, Ser Cain. It would have been better for all parties involved to have sent me in his stead, Grandfather!"

His shoulders slouched forward, and the brazen boy fought with Grover's intense stare. "Had I failed, I wouldn’t have even returned at all." Oscar roared over the silent council, proclaiming his intent with a defying raise. "I would sooner have died, than see her be taken by that monster again."

"What would you have had me do, boy?!" Grover Tully raised his voice in turn, "You fool. Would you have had me send you away for her? Do you think your death would have made you a martyr?!"

Cain's lips pursed into a tight line, as the Riverlords before him bickered further. Even Lady Jane Arryn seemed to be left speechless, unsure of when or how to stop their arguing.

Family feuds were neither one's strongest suit.

"Do you think," His Grandfather uttered, "that if you were to die, anyone would remember you fondly?!" The red in his cheeks matched the one on his grandson's face, and the elder Lord broke out into a coughing fit. "Your sacrifice would mean nothing. And when the dust settled over Westeros, and the war was done, you would just be another casualty. Another body to burn in a communal."

Almost immediately, his eyes softened, and their deep creases faltered on his face.

The Lord of Riverrun grunted in fatigue, but still rose himself securely on his two able feet. He marched towards the huffing boy, and placed a wrinkled hand over his sweaty forehead, urging him to quiet down.

"It's not about glory, Grandfather." He spat out lowly, as his ears began to match his fiery locks of curly hair. "It's about family. Our family. It's about ensuring its survival."

The older man gave the lass a curt nod. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, and turned to the knight with a downturned smile.

"There wasn't a knight more fit for the task than Ser Cain." He confirmed his judgment with a tired gesture in his direction. "He was knighted at five and ten. You are over your seven and tenth birthday, boy, and haven’t been even mirthed a squire."

Oscar sucked in a protesting breath, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room fall before him. His brows furrowed in a dangerous quarrel, and his blood ran hot. "Yet even with all the skill in the world, he still failed."

Lord Grover was losing his patience, "Yes, grandson, that he did! He failed, despite all the signs that pointedly told us otherwise – do you think you'd do an equitable job? When you haven't even once crossed swords in a Joust or Tourney?"

Nearby the aching knight, Lady Arryn renowed her position.

She whispered to her waiting guard, and the man took a step ahead, hitting over the chantry with the hilt of his sword.

The noise that erupted grabbed the attention of both grandson and grandfather.

"The turn of events marked by Ser Cain's departure means we need to readjust our plans." She commanded their heed calmly, "It is… unfortunate; that Lady Tully's sworn shield failed to protect her. Yet here we all stand, warming our bottoms on a mine of gold."

Cain should have been grateful for the distraction she was offering. All the displeasure surged upon him evaporated within the click of her tongue, and less conventional language – still, even he had to remain weary on the subject he opened.

"On a mine of gold?" Oscar spat out sharply, feeling his self-control disperse by failing him again. "My Lady, do you think my sister's condition is a situation of great rejoice?"

The Lady's blue eyes cut through the boy deeply, and the young man closed his mouth in embarrassment, before sitting down again.

She reached for the goblet of wine, and wet her lips with it, "Our strategical situation couldn't be better. Not once have we had a spy of Harrenhal successfully return. In truth, we didn’t even think it possible." Her lithe hand pointed towards the bloodied knight, and her eyes glimmered in mischief, "Yet here stands our living proof."

She elegantly rose from her ivory throne, and signaled the man to take a seat at the bent table. As he gingerly followed her lead, the woman spared him with a kind glance, and met his glance with her deep azul gaze.

"From what I gather, you spent the better part of a month undetected in the Strongs' Keep. Is that true?"

Cain nodded stiffly, and rested his bulky hands over his tired knees. "Yes, my lady. That I have."

"And you were knighted at fifteen?" She alluded to what was early spoken.

"Yes, my lady."

"By Lord Hunter Redwyne." She urged him to clarify, through the edge of a quirked-up brow, and the callings of a small smile pulling at her dusted lips.

"Yes, my lady. The very one."

Lady Jane hummed, seemingly satisfied by his short answers. She turned her attention to Lord Grover and his tiresome grandson, and merely asked Ser Cain again.

"And you faced the Kinslayer in combat, cut by a Valyrian blade, and lived to tell the tale?"

"... Aye, my lady."

Oscar's eyes remained unyielding. But Grover Tully glanced at the man before him, and offered him a wordless bow.

"Tell me, Ser, how would you like to command your own battalion?"

"You have to be patient." Alys chastised her deeply, as her luring features turned from flaccid to sharp. "Hardly enough time has passed since your last attempted escape – Aemond is still very much on edge."

The Lady's eyes turned to her. With the bridge of her nose scrunched up, and her fair features molded into a desperate plea, the girl looked more like a lost child, than an able and resourceful Lady.

Alys regarded her as such, and sighed deeply as she grasped onto her shoulders carefully.

"If I wait any longer, it'll be too late. I've already wasted three moon turns in this cursed Keep. I have to return to my family." The Tully spoke decidedly, leaving behind no room for arguing. She took a seat before the tiny mirror, that breached her modest vanity – a recent gift from Aemond, deduced by him to make her feel more like a proper lady.

The image that reflected within it looked at her like a dire stranger. The green silks she was dressed into, the pristine, braided hair that framed her pale cheeks perfectly; She was the vision of a flawless royal, a soft and polite maiden, untouched yet by the spoils of death and war.

'Would this be enough?' She asked herself desperately, whilst gripping the edge of her chair painfully.

Was this what Aemond had always wanted? The proof of her lack of autonomy, finally presented to him on a silver platter, as he returned from war every night?

Was he, perhaps, congratulating himself, every time he glanced at her, thinking himself master of the universe for making her arch and kneel?

Alys shook her head once more, and rested a hand over her bouncing knee.

"Patience is a virtue, Lady Tully. You needn't put yourself through any more unnecessary risks."

The Lady of Riverrun shook her head vigorously, finally snapping herself back to reality; Her actions were defying, and devoid of any capacity. Alys felt herself more confounded by the second. "I'll help you plan this thoroughly." The wood witch adverted. Her head quirked to the side in an encouraging gesture, and the girl nodded feverishly in reply.

Her green eyes widened in fair delight, and Aemond's lover lowered her gaze over the girl's book. "You memorized the passages well enough. Very soon, you shall put your knowledge to practice."

(Y/N) let out a tired sigh, and graced the older woman with a pleasant smile. "I'm lucky to have you, Alys" She played with her rings as she spoke, "Thank you. For everything."

As the elder woman finally left her Quarters in favor of bringing out the order for dinner, (Y/N) let out an aggravated groan.

Her long pretense would surely make her nauseous. But she would be a simpleton indeed, to place all her trust in Alys.

The walls preleened with the doom of silence. A cold breeze dug its way deeply into her spine, and the silent taste of passing and demise left a sour taste in her parted mouth.

***

Aemond began dinner as he wontedly did every day – praying to the Warrior to grant him strength in battle, to the Smith, to mend all that was left broken, to the Father, "to shine his light", and lead their souls out of the brink of darkness.

Each and every time, without fail, the girl would bring the pristine napkin to her mouth, masking the obvious way her lips would quirk into a most unyielding smile. His pious speech, and the way his hands painfully clasped together, begging for the blessing of resolve, made her scoff in blinding wonder.

Was he even aware of the words he mostly muttered? Did he ever stop to assess himself throughout the day, and realize the sin in which he debaucherously bathed in?

As his speech came to an end, the Lady preleened forward, grabbing a hold of the boiled-up stork.

How lovely it was to sit between comfort and chaos.

"You've never been one to speak much during our time spent together." Aemond remarked through the rumble of a solitary hum. "Yet I had hoped this last week softened your resolve, My Lady."

Her eyebrows rose in slight discomfort, as her eyes focused on the leisure movements of his bigger hands.

So he was softening up.

She opened her mouth almost immediately, but her hesitant eyes danced around his blinding stare. Her plump lips pressed into a hard line, and she exhaled loudly through her nose, in an attempt to ground herself.

"Not at all, Your Grace, I assure you." The cluttering of her fork came to a hoisted end, as Lady Tully aligned her head to focus directly on the One-Eyed Prince. "I should love nothing more than to talk to you… Please, do advise me on what you would like most to hear."

She fidgeted nervously with her silver rings – a quirk she developed whilst imprisoned in the Strong's Keep – and gingerly awaited his reply.

Your Grace. Your Grace. Your Grace.

The stillness in her speech and eyes drove the man effectively wild.

"Aemond." He stilled her faction through the reign of a distorted sigh.

She regarded him with a petrified stance. Her hands fell heavy over her legs in the wake of anticipation.

"... I-I beg your pardon?"

"Aemond." He repeated his name again, "We already break bread and sleep in the same bed." His lilac eye rose from his plate, and singled out her reddened cheeks. The man paused a while, as if to weigh his words carefully, and his cold, glassy orb, hungrily ran over her form. "It seems inevitable that we'd call each other by our given names. Yet you never once said mine throughout."

The girl could feel her throat dry up. While still maintaining his awkward stare, she reached for the glass of wine that rested by her left side. She wrapped her hand around its stem, and brought it to her paling lips.

The liquid courage slid down her throat in a quick, though burning manner, and (Y/N) had to swallow down an erratic cough. Her brows furrowed amidst, as she picked her words out slowly.

"I have called your name before, Prince Aemond. Many times throughout the moons, in fact."

He smiled at her perturbed reply, and shook his head in coy distraught.

"Not without the honorifics." The man clarified in a pleading tone, his voice growing hotter now. "... Just say my name." He sighed defeatedly. His hand gripped the edge of the table, silently, as the Targaryen Prince could feel his mind running with a thousand thoughts per passing minute.

The silence ate at him alive. She drowned the wine in a swift swing, and slouched forward to pour herself another glass.

She was too sober for this.

Lucaerys, Jacaerys, Cain.

Part of her wanted to pluck his eye out. Part of her wished nothing more than to make fun of him. Laugh, perhaps, at his desperate indiscretion. Do something – anything – to gauge a reaction out of him.

Any sort of reaction, that would make her pestering feelings for him leave her heavy soul.

Surprising even herself, adamantly going against her own wishes, the woman caught herself breathing out.

"... Aemond."

Unexpectedly he moved, by jumping to his ready feet, fully disregarding the oak chair as it hit the floor in a most perused manner.

The pang of noise alerted her, and seemingly, the guards outside. A while they remained in silence, listening in to the clash of metal that announced their unsure shifting.

But they wouldn’t come inside. The girl was lest aware of that.

As time pressed on, Aemond remained hammered in place, heaving out his weighty breaths and clasping his hands in aching fists.

Her eyes momentarily left his shadow – to turn again towards the poach of wine, and empty another glass in rapid gulps.

The heavy atmosphere inside the room hung lowly over their tired heads. (Y/N) resumed her mellow eating, wincing at the shakiness within her hands. She grabbed another piece of the boiled meat, though Aemond's stare soon made her drop it, and the girl clicked her tongue in disbelief; grabbing it instead with a piece of cloth, and securing it into a tight knot.

This time, it was her actions that had failed her. And perhaps it'd be her ready words that would prevail.

"Aemond." She spoke again, this time more confidently than before. The bitter liquor was burning her throat, her chest, her heart. She felt her limbs heavy – with both anticipation and frustration - borne out of lack of relief. She wanted to slap him, to hit him, to crush him beneath her feet.

She wanted to run away, to stay confined, forever inside this room, forever astute to what was going on in the outside world.

She wanted to feel something.

She wanted…

"Yes." Aemond encouraged her softly, and her attention came back to the raptures of the present tense. "There we go." He worded out, keeping his tone barely above a whisper.

Neither could tell when or how it happened – but Aemond's body was inches away from touching hers. The heat emanating from his beating heart washed over the meek form of the tipsy Lady. His Lady.

She gulped painfully, and the Prince could feel how his hands started spasming with the need to feel her. His nails bit the inside of his calloused palm, leaving deep and angry marks inside them.

His prominent veins shifted with his every faction. His face morphed into hopeful disarray.

"There we go." He repeated gently, "I want to hear your laughter. You never once laughed with me."

Her stare was hard to decipher. And yet confliction danced across her face. Aemond turned serious, and the stammering of his hands came to an untimely end. His eye bared holes into her reddened face; and the Lady humorously thought, if only for a moment, that it was a lucky thing he didn’t still have both his eyes. For such a stare would be embedded in her subconscious, bringing forth her swift undoing.

The corners of her mouth felt painful to bend and break. Shakily she smiled at him, and opened her mouth in shocked reclusion.

A shy laughter erupted from her unquenched throat, and the woman shuddered, surrendering the reins of reason to the drunken thoughts that sieged her.

Her laughter wasn't her own. The languid movements of her hands, that trailed over Aemond's chest, were not her own.

His finger came to caress her cheek. Her nose. Her brow. Her lips. Her mouth. The Crown Prince sucked in a dangerous breath, and secured his left arm loosely around her waist.

"Good girl," He spoke tenderly, his voice going from gruff to rough, "Such a good girl for me." His fingers combed through her messy braids, marking their swift undoing – taking a step back, he could feel the heat leave his head, in the favor of traveling lower, to meet the almost flaccid cock confined in the tightness of his pants. "Say my name again. Laugh again." He commanded in a pleading meowl. His lips twitched in anticipation, and his eyes trailed lower, lower still, from up her face, down to her soaring bosom.

"Aemond."

"(Y/N)."

A solitary look of shame was shared between them. Perhaps pushed forward by the only remaining faction of rationale, the two placed a step in between each other, but even that proved to be too fickle of a barrier to keep them whole apart.

Aemond reached to cup her face with his own trembling hand – on her end, the girl's digits trailed over from his high cheekbones, down to his prominent cupid's bow, in an all but gentle caress.

"Avy jorrāelan." He hissed through painfully gritted teeth, allowing his head to rest in the crook made of her shoulder blade and neck. "Avy jorrāelan." He repeated, the vulnerability in his voice making him lose the hold he had over himself.

"Se Jaes emagon qrimbrōstan issa naejot jorrāelagon ao." His feathered breath came into contact with her dainty neck. (Y/N) gasped lightly, as she felt the first of his many kisses being tenderly placed over her jaw and neck.

Her head was pounding, and her eyes were screwed shut, as the coldness of the wall hit her in perused waves. The impropriety of the soft moans and sighs that filled her ears to the brim left her confused and wanting.

The worst of it was that she didn’t know whether they came from her or him.

She felt as though her head was being harshly held below the water, and the girl clawed at her dress to loosen her tight bodice, which seemed to constrict even her erratic breathing.

Aemond's attention moved from her earlobe back to her lips. He felt how her hands contorted sporadically, and he placed his own palm over hers, to put an end to her hasty movements, and give her a sense of calmness. His fingers suddenly entwined with hers, as his form hovered above her. His throat etched with a lousy moan, and his mouth finally crashed with hers.

(Y/N)'s eyes opened at the shocking scene, and her lips suddenly parted, either to beg or to protest against him, but Aemond's hot tongue found entrance into her warm cave – deciding instead to deepen the kiss, and press himself further against her smaller form.

The outline of his throbbing cock molded against the shape of the woman's thigh, and the Prince Protector of the Realm let out a pleasured hiss, once her insistent writhing ended up brushing up his weeping tip. "Jaes, ao istan vēttan syt issa." He mumbled against her swollen lips, "Sepār jurnegon skorkydoso īlon kostagon fāelor hēnkirī."

She let out a fatigued whimper, and swiftly turned her head around, putting an abrupt end to their meek and vicious pecks.

"What's wrong, hmm? Dōna hāedar… ȳdra daor hakogon qrīdrughagon hen issa sir."

Aemond's lips were soft and tender, leaving behind an almost vivacious bite over her exposed parts. His pace had been filled with an animalistic hunger; the longing inside his eye caught her unprepared, and her lips parted with the desire to feel something – anything – that his palpable mouth would keenly offer.

(Y/N) shuddered with her eyes closed, and grabbed a hold of his long, white hair, leading the man closer yet to her swelling heat.

The way in which he held her should have felt so very wrong. But at that moment, the only thing she could do was extend her arm back up to him, and guide him with an insistent pull over his silky locks: encouraging him to bring forth his descent upon her lips.

She disregarded the way a figment of her psyche screamed at her. To stop her ministrations, to slap his calloused hands away from her. For if she kept her eyes closed, and focused solely on the shape of him, then she could almost pretend that the man before her had nothing to do with her beloved Jace.

She could almost pretend that he was Jace.

Aemond's pupil was left blown wide – so much so, that the lilac of his iris could almost be left neglected. He wrapped his hands around the lady's thighs, and hoisted her up to meet him by his narrow hips. Both moaned into the other's mouth, and the Prince soon found his way into the raptures of the silken bed.

His heated cock kissed the outlines of her soaked cunny. Aemond sighed deeply over the arch of her neck, and pawed away at her untouched bodice.

(Y/N)'s hands rested still upon his eyepatch, and, with a swift and hasty movement, she yanked it off his sculpted face.

"We need to stop…" She moaned, defeated, and felt how Aemond's body stiffened up below her, as the harsh realization finally hit them both.

She had uttered the words aloud.

Half expecting him to blow out fuming, the woman tried to pry herself off his fevered body, but his hands reigned like iron shackles over the inside of her spreading thighs.

"Do we?" He whispered lowly, whilst leaning in to steal another kiss from her again.

"We shouldn’t." She strained herself to say once more, and Aemond nodded, still chasing her lips with his.

She melted into his reluctant touch, and hummed against his beating heart. His hands dug deeply into her resting sides; his fingertips scattered over her translucent spine, leaving their possessive mark. "This isn’t right."

"I know, I know," He gasped, "Seven Hells, I know…"

"Yn nyke istan zarvīzis," He pressed a finger over her swollen lips, "Nyke emagon issare sīr sȳz se… sīr, sīr zarvīzis."

With the last ounce of her strength, she bit over his lower lip, dragging a wanton moan from out of his rosy lips.

"Ao aehron raqagon ao ȳdra daor jaelagon bisa..." He chanted, while latched onto her burning sear, "Yn ao jaelagon issa sepār hae olvie. Ao mazilībagon syt issa – sepār hae qosaevaerī."

His High Valyrian had made her dizzy. And at first, she tried to pay his words her mind, she tried to grapple and understand what he was saying.

A starved meowl left her panting lips.

"You can tell me to stop," The words that poured out of his mouth washed upon her like a rippled tide, "You can tell me to stop… and I will..."

Her body quickly arched against him; her shaky hands came to rest over his hips. She laced her mouth again with his, expecting rough, dominant kisses – but Aemond's hands propped themselves loosely against her cheeks, his thumbs pliantly stroking her with untoward devotion. His single eye drank her in with reverence.

"Please…" He whimpered into her mouth, "Avy jorrāelan." He confessed to her, again and again, trying his hardest not to take her against the cold floor – and not fuck her straight into the messy mattress.

Her limbs felt heavy. Lacking their autonomy. The body she was nestled in still wasn't her own.

"... Why?" She asked him disdainfully, sporadically, as his index finger came to pry open her haughty entrance.

His eye widened in perplexed ruin, but the Prince soon stumbled over his words again.

That bastard Jace must have taught her the gist of that.

"... I wish I knew." Came his sole and sincere reply.

Just like that, her eyes welled with the threat of tears.

His hands, his hold, his voice, his mouth. It was all wrong. In truth none could ever hope to feel right.

Flashes of her old lover, of his baby brother – who was so small the last she'd seen him –, of her sworn shield came into view. All of them, gone as if they never were. All of them, with their memories trampled deep beneath her sprawled-out form.

She wasn't a woman of the Faith. Not after what had happened. Not after the spoils of war that she, herself, felt like angry whips upon her skin. But her eyes fluttered close, and she begged the Mother for forgiveness, whilst a tear rolled off her ticking cheek.

She brought a hand to her wobbly lips, and began to violently rub away any remaining trace of Aemond's presence.

She was disgusted. With him, with herself, with the world, with the image of her Jace – that surged in her mind the second she blinked, the moment that she jolted awake in her misery.

On his end, (Y/N)'s display of pure abhorrence failed to falter Aemond's lustful grief. Why, if she did not desire him, did she fall into his arms again and again?

Love was the death of duty. And longing was the doom of all.

"Fucking cock tease…" The Prince growled, grief-stricken, "How much longer are you going to give into me, just to push me away?"

His patience had been running thin. The ache in his breeches was long forgotten. In its stead, the urgent sting in his heart dragged the man into the pits of madness. "What is it this time?" He groveled over her closed legs again.

Her recuperation had been jovial and quick. Adrenaline replaced the pain and shame, and the woman tried to get off the bed, put as much distance as she knew how in between her and the ravished Prince.

For the first time since he came to be, Aemond would not let her escape his clutches. As she moved backwards, he persisted forward – following her wobbly feet throughout the room with the spare of his predatory eye.

"Y-You said –" She tried ceaselessly to accuse him. "You said you wouldn't –"

"And you're right. I meant every. Single. Thing. I told you." He growled into her frightened ear, as his hands came to cage her, trap her under the seclusion of the hard, stone wall.

"You're mine." He hissed desperately, as he clasped her jaw to face him. "You've always been mine, you fucking harlot. From the moment you stepped foot into Harrenhal, your life belonged to me."

Perhaps Aemond was right, and she was nothing but a harlot. A treacherous swine that hung onto whatever he could give her - so starved and devoid of love and warmth, that she'd dare to stoop so lowly with him.

Aemond descended his unquenched rage over her exposed neck, and began leaving tender love bites all over, in spite of her lackluster pleas.

(Y/N)'s head felt like it was about to explode. She felt sick to her stomach – the wine and the distraught both built up inside of her. All she wanted now was to be left alone. For Aemond's touch felt oddly comforting, and her tired eyes began to close. "You drive me insane." She heard him choke.

She wanted to open her mouth. To urge the Prince to stop; but her word hole was sewn shut, taken over by the grip of feared confusion. While his hand hoisted her up by the waist again, her hand went around him, to grab onto whatever she could find. Finally, she stopped at the dragon-glass dagger, that securely latched onto Aemond's waist. Effectively, she wrapped her fingers around its silver hilt, and sheathed it out of its confinements.

"I swear on whatever God you want me to, I'll slit your throat if you don't stop touching me –" She wailed into Aemond's form, as she felt him stiffen up in tumultation.

His nostrils flared up at her attempt to intimidate him, and yet… his face looked most serene, as the cutting edge of the dagger reached close to his ivory skin. She raised her brows at him in utter surprise; for she expected him to surrender. His arms snaked away from her, and Aemond watched her intensely with his piercing gaze.

She could kill him, consequences be damned. And if she faced trial for this, then at least she'd have taken out a Green and Vhagar.

Her hand was shaking. Her breathing became erratic. She'd held a blade on multiple occasions; she'd fantasized about cutting Aemond's throat more times than she could bring herself to count. And yet…

His lack of movement – of worry – rattled her endlessly. She wanted to scream at him, to push him, to cut him. But for some reason couldn't bring herself to do it.

The realization that she just couldn’t do it made her almost drop the knife from the tight hold she'd kept it under.

"Why aren't you the least bit worried?" She spat out lowly, with her body trembling and her jaw set tight.

Aemond remained quiet and taciturn. His eye fixed her face carefully, and his hand gently wrapped around her quivering wrist. "Come on now…" He whispered to her, and watched how her eyes filled with the endless tears of frustration, how the hot droplets rolled down her reddened cheeks.

It would take another moment for her to drop the blade.

A moment she would forever grow to resent.

"I fucking hate you." She hissed through a breathless sob.

Oh, how she wished to hate him. Hate him as she did when they first clashed swords. Hate him as she did when she heard Jace talk about Lucaerys' death.

"Liar." Aemond rasped in acknowledgment.

And, just like that, the damage had been done. The blade rested back into his hand within an instant, and Aemond hit the wall behind her with murderous intent. "Fucking liar." He whispered again, breathing less and less sporadically, trying to wash his nerves away.

"I have been so good to you. But no matter what I do, it'll never be enough for you. Hmm?" He shook his head adamantly, and dug his fingers into the cold tiles of the cursed stronghold. "I am a patient man. But I will not wait a minute longer."

Her face twisted into a painful scowl, and the girl pushed over his chest roughly, but Aemond was quick to deny her exit. "This is not ideal," He muttered lowly to himself, "Yet you need to be taught a lesson."

"What are you d–"

Her words died upon her lips. Aemond hummed in dissatisfaction, and immediately brought the blade into her view.

She let out a scream of pure horror, but his pliant mouth silenced her with a scorching kiss. Her whole body was shaking, and the Prince Regent let out a frustrated sigh.

"Cease your crying, you hateful woman." He chastised her cruelly, "The fucking Gods sent you to ruin me."

At that moment, she wasn't above pleading. Her knees wobbled in place, and her orbs frantically searched for a way out. For something to grip and swing at the man before her.

Aemond's eye softened at the sight of her. Despite the pang of guilt he felt, a teasing and self-assuring smirk formed at the corners of his upturned lips.

So Jacaerys hadn't told her. He never mentioned their Valyrian way to her.

His triumphant feat soon washed away, as her trembling hands came into contact with his. "Ÿdra daor dīnagon, issa gevie Dāria. Nyke jāhor dōrī jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon." He told her adherently, truthfully, despite the obvious language barrier.

He took a moment to regain his composure. Grab a hold of her balled-up fists and remember the ancient words he'd only ever read about in his history books.

"Hen lantoti ānogar. Va sỹndroti vāedroma."

He ripped the sleeve from his linen shirt, and placed it over their entwined fingers.

"Mēro perzot gīhoti. Elēdroma iārza sĩr. Izuli ampā perzī."

The blade finally pressed down, over the softness of his left palm. Aemond winced at the sudden pain, and made a mental note to only nick the frightened girl with it, when the time came for that.

"Prūmĩ lanti sēteksi. Hen jenỹ māzīlarion. Qēlossa ozündesi."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened to a comical amount. Somewhere along the way, it seemed, she grew aware of Aemond's intent. She refused to show her hand to him, placing them both behind her back, and holding on for her dear life.

He let out a disapproving grunt, and reached his bloodied hands to her, yanking her right hand from underneath her strong grasp.

"No! No –!" She kept on screaming, and the guards outside shifted in place, before they fell under their oath of silence once again.

The cold and slick edge of the dragon glass pressed lightly against her writhing palm. Aemond made a smaller cut, and carried on with his rapid mumbling.

"Sỹndroro öñö jēdo. Rỹ kīvia mazvestraksi."

His very fist came to cut over his lower lip. His gory hand then reached for her jaw, hammering her in her place, and a sharp sting reflected on her weary stance. Aemond profited off the moment, to ease the dagger into her waiting mouth.

The metallic taste flooded her senses – the girl saw red before her eyes, and failed to register how his fingers came upon his and her forehead, painting them over with a ghastly symbol.

The Targaryen Prince reached for her hand again, and pressed her wounded palm cohesively with his.

"Following the tradition of my House from before the Doom of Old Valyria, I, Aemond of House Targaryen, bind myself to (Y/N) of House Tully, by blood, by soul, by life –"

"NO!"

" – And I pledge to her: that we are now one flesh, one heart, one body. Now and forever."

As he finally pried his limbs away from her trapped body, Aemond allowed his lips to feathery trace over her twisted mouth. She glanced at him, with wide-set and teary eyes.

"Fuck your fucking pledge."

Some grand venue she received.

A single question hung loosely into the air.

"Are you going to rape me now?"

She scarcely registered her own words as they left her mouth.

Aemond's eye widened at her query, and the Targaryen bit over his lower lip, as a deep grimace morphed the fairness of his features. He looked almost dumbfounded by her made assumption.

As soon as it came, the look of utter betrayal left his face.

"You would slit my throat with the knife." Was his mere reply.

***

Sometime along the night, he left.

The mighty roars of Vhagar registered themselves in the far-away distance.

That night, and only that night, she allowed herself the sacrilege of prayer. And she did so, again and again, pleading to the Seven for a blind arrow to reach his neck.

On the back of Vhagar, Aemond shuddered away from the impossible waves of heat, that licked deliciously at his stiffened cock; whenever her breathing would reach his ears, he felt tortured, trapped beneath the swell of lust and wanton desire.

Despite his abhorrent decision, he knew what their marriage meant. He knew all too well what his cruel bind had done, and yet… he felt no plausible remorse for the situation at hand.

The support of Storm's End, Floris Baratheon, Alys – mere casualties compared to the brink of having her, to knowing that she was finally his, as he was wholly hers.

Eventually, she'd have to love him. Eventually, she'd learn to do so.

A marriage wasn't a marriage until it was consummated. But he would give her, as he had promised, the illusion of choice, if nothing else.

As the cold night's air whipped his face again and again, and as Vhagar's thundering resounded over the burnt trees of the Riverlands, Aemond sighed, and brought a shaky hand to the strings of his breeches.

Scared as she was, his Lady made for a beautiful bride. It was such a shame that he didn’t get to see her wear the traditional Targaryen gown.

The pad of his thumb trailed over the cut he'd made – the same cut that now rested over her extended palm.

The flesh would scar, he thought, well pleased; whenever he looked at her, he'd get to see how she was undeniably his.

A possessive growl etched from his parted lips. Images of her paling skin, of her laugh. Her smile. The way her eyes bore into him, as if she always knew something he didn’t.

Leisurely, he began to pump his cock. Below him, Vhagar let out an anguished roar.

"Nyke gīmigon, Vhagar. Gīmigon."

Droplets of precum rolled over his clenching digits, coating his knuckles and the base of his shaft in a translucent, but thick ropes.

He groaned desperately, aching to relieve his frustration deep within her, but alas…

His gruff moans filled the air around him; and Aemond could feel his climax building up, as visions of her flooded his thoughts.

How she would feel underneath him. How she would writhe on the edge of bliss, begging, pleading for him to finally take her.

He could feel her legs wrapping around him, and feel himself sliding inside her with ease, praising her for being so good to him.

He wrapped Vhagar's bridle tight over his arm, and secured himself better in his leather saddle. His grip tightened around his dripping cock, but it was just not good enough.

The pace with which he fucked his hand picked up in a wilding speed. Aemond sighed in pleasure, and felt his hips move to their own accord. His breathing became rugged. His very mind was not his own.

He wondered what other scars her body bore. What the story behind them was, and how many of them came by his swift undoing.

Would she lie down and let him take care of everything? Or would she want to stay on top, jumping up and down on him, each time with a harsher thrust?

His hips rose and fell with his less than gentle pace, and the man pushed his length deeper into his steadfast grip.

He knew that if she let him touch her, he wouldn't be leaving her bed for weeks. He would pull countless orgasms from her, time and time again, until she begged for him to stop. He would have her so full of his seed, so the Gods' help him, that she would swell with his child – his trueborn child – before the rise of the first rays of sun.

Feeling his release beckon, the Prince set on a final rhythm, one that left his loins more in need than ever. With a loud hiss, he pushed himself inside his fist one final time, spilling his seed onto the saddle beneath him.

He panted wildly into the night, and suddenly opened his lustful eye, allowing a tear of ecstasy to roll off his scarred cheek.

"Se Jaes daoriot rȳbagon naejot nykeā vala raqagon issa. Yn nyke jāhor jikagon va issa knees se kostilus zirȳla naejot ivestragī issa emagon ao. Ao issi issa rōva botagon se se olvie rivaestra lambraes aohvra."

He couldn't keep up the charade with her. He would tell her all about it, once things finally settled down.

Word in Harrenhal traveled fast.

First it was her brash arrival. Then her impromptu marriage.

No one dared to talk to her. Yet she was never without the indiscreet eyes that followed her about.

Her situation wasn't without its ups and falls: Aemond felt no need to guard her as stiffly anymore – For where would the former Tully go, now that she bared his Targaryen name?

She was allowed to breach into some castle corners, always in the company of hefty guards, of course, and basked herself in some new acquired perks of freedom.

On the same account, whilst Alys remained loyal to her role as her lady-in-waiting, the tension between them couldn't have been more pain-strikingly high.

"I never asked for this. You must believe me."

She gave the younger woman a domineering stare, and only shook her head, obliged.

"And yet here you stand, inside his bed."

Word in Harrenhal spread fast – like a fire left unattended, like the so-called "Targaryen madness".

But a new, particular rumor gobbled the attention of everyone present.

Daemon Targaryen was to return to the Riverlands. And with him and Caraxes, he'd bring forth the formerly wild dragon, Sheepstealer, mounted by none other than Nettles.

The Lady had been acquainted with the bastard girl before – when the Sowing of the Dragon Seeds reveled in their first borne crops.

Another troubling report came forth. King's Landing had been secured by Rhaenyra.

When (Y/N) heard the news be whispered, she almost collapsed on her knees in glee. This must have marked the end of it. Surely, the usurpers would be put through the sword, leaving all to be well, and right again.

The Greens would die. They would face trial.

The Greens.

Indeed, word in Harrenhal spread fast. And she'd just been made the wife of the cruelest of them all.

Dread filled her insides. Her eyes cast their darkened shadow over the walls of the cursed Keep. A single, fundamental truth raised strongly from her anxious wallowing.

If Daemon Targaryen should find out about her marriage to his nephew, and get to her first… naught of the loyalty of the Riverlords would have a single say in her decided fate. And she would meet her end by the way of his blade, Dark Sister.

Now, more so than ever, it was pivotal for her to escape.

The clock was ticking.

And she was running out of time.

***

Her last day in Harrenhal was spent making plans. She'd rubbed her temples a myriad times, and paced about the room in a dizzying trot.

It wasn’t enough for her to disappear – she had to ensure everyone else thought she was gone.

When Aemond returned, she beckoned his call by jumping to her ready feet. The girl took him in, in his devillished state, and merely raised her brows at him. Whenever she saw him, the nick on her palm and lip itched at her relentlessly.

Neither was willing to recognize aloud what had transpired two moons ago, but both knew the inevitable punishment that would come with Aemond's actions.

He took a seat by the edge of their bed, and took his dagger out to play with it.

In vain he had asked Alys to share with him what she could see. She laid in broken, cradling her forming bump – the one she so desperately tried to hide away from him. The one thing that once meant her protection and raise in rank, now could very well heed out her doom.

Her green eyes raised from the floor below them, and Alys merely shook her head.

"There is fire, my Prince. Fire, and blood, and death."

"Going out to face two dragons is a death sentence." His deep voice rumbled through the silent chamber, "I can't afford that risk anymore with you involved."

And there it was. The silent admission of what he had done.

"We'll have to move from Harrenhal. You'll get to meet Daeron in Oldtown."

Was he sorry for what he did?

"It was about time you got acquainted with the rest of the family."

Aegon's cause was lucky that Storm's End was already too involved. They couldn't turn in their banners to the other front. Not now.

"It's a wonderful idea." She uttered in a glacial tone, barely above a whisper. "When will we depart?"

Sharpened orbs came in contact with the loneness of a purple eye.

The man took in a sparring breath, and hummed at her obedient retreat. The Prince's fist clenched over his cutting wound, and he nodded his head firmly.

"Should we be graced with the Gods' favor, issa jorrāelagon, then on the morrow," He explained, "but no sooner than that."

The girl's brows furrowed in discontent, as Aemond faltered in pressing the matter further. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the aid of two long fingers, and heavily rose from his seat.

"Don't wait for me tonight. I shall return to you in the morning. I have unfinished business to attend to."

Lack of air. And crippling fear.

Her tiny world had been thrown into the arms of chaos. But everything fell so perfectly into place.

As soon as Aemond had mounted Vhagar, as soon as her father of wings died upon the night's first watch, the woman sprung to her feet, and began her soul's ascent into the pits of the Seven Hells.

She started off by breaking in her tiny mirror, placing a goose feather pillow below and over it, to somehow mask the clefty noise.

Her long hair was the first to go. She began cutting it swiftly, using big and brisk movements to chop off as many of her luscious locks as she possibly could.

She ripped the mattress of the bed open with one of the bigger shards, and revealed Aemond's dried-up shirt, that she had tucked well under after washing it, long preparing it for that occasion.

Her stomach churned as her hand went to her chamber pot. Risking her own deniability, she submerged her digits deep within it, letting out a victorious huff as she brushed across a piece of cold felt.

The insides of the sack revealed fermented meat – putrid, more like. She scattered the final remains of it over the stone floor like a mad-woman, and ripped the latter pages of the book Alys had gifted her.

She would take the passage to the stables, and simply hope for the best.

Her eyes searched feverishly about the cluttered room, but the hammering in her heart stilled only as she gaped upon the lower left corner of the wall full of banners.

There it was. Exactly where Alys told her it was going to be.

She tore into the mattress further, spreading the wool around, and grabbed a hold of a piece of wood from the crackling fire.

May she be forgiven for what she was about to do.

Her shaky hands grasped the lumber strongly, and she let it roll in the middle of the room, allowing it to fall with a loud bang.

***

The sound of wailing screams echoed inside her head, scratching at her ears, to the point of making them almost bleed. The heat of the fire she caused fell over her skimpily clothed back, and the disgust she felt with herself was palpable against her tongue.

With every turn she took, she made herself another promise. She would not rest until the war would see its end. She'd never sleep warmly again, and forever remind herself of the sacrifice she had to make – of all the lives that she undoubtedly ended, if only to meet her selfish ends.

For once, this was not just Aemond's doing. This was her fault all alone.

Blinded by rage, and seething with fury, her feet carried her down the crooked set of stairs. The woman brought a hand up to her face, and coughed wildly in the back of it. She'd have to make a bold turn soon. Then the outside world would heed, and she would be free again.

With just a twinge of luck, the guards should think that whatever was left of her room collapsed upon herself inside. Her burnt hair and clothes would create the wanted look – the meat would add the unmistakable smell of rot and death, and the lack of an actual body would take days to figure out.

And she prayed. She prayed, she prayed, she prayed: that no one else knew of the passages that she was threading through below.

Her eyes could barely see in front of her. Smoke rose to unforgiving levels, and the Lady swore it could be cut even by the dullest knife. As she reached the crossroads of the secret tunnel, her hands came to grapple at the breeches' pockets, turning them inside out – trying to find the torn pages of the book she'd just previously carried.

A sigh of relief rumbled from within her throat, as the pads of her shaking digits stroked across the withered, olden pages.

Her relief would be short lived.

Boney hands snaked around her, and the girl nearly screamed – until the familiar scent of mint and wild berries floored her senses.

"Alys?!" Her voice let out in an exasperated high. "Alys, we need to hurry!"

But her able hands still hesitantly clung to the soft material of her shirt, digging so deeply into it, that she could rip it in a downward pull.

"You –" She began to say, but cut herself short as she momentarily closed her eyes.

No matter what, she couldn’t tell the Lady before her that she'd have sent her upon her death.

"You took a wrong turn. This isn't the right way towards the South Gates."

The adrenaline flooded her veins. Her heart was pumping wildly against her ears. Lady Tully only nodded, failing to process that Alys had, in fact, never given her access to such an option on the crudely drawn map.

"This way, (Y/N) – came quickly!"

Two sets of legs descended further into the murky passages of Harrenhal. At one point, the smoke had gotten so very thick, that both women had to feel their way out, by touching the corners of every tunnel that they surpassed.

When all seemed lost, Alys finally spoke, "Over here!" She yelled out to her, and latched onto Aemond's dampened shirt.

They stumble into each other, as the small opening of the stifling cellar reaches the South Gates. The witch stops hastily on her heel, and the young Lady nearly busts their cover.

A raid of soldiers came flocking out, with what then looked like tens of thousands of squealing maids. So frightened by their own demise, they bumped into the oak doors and onto each other – choosing to, instead of unlocking the main Gates, reach and pull at the other's hairs, cursing loud and wildly.

Alys let out a bemused huff at their perused antics, but her reglament was short lived; as one of the smarter lassies reached for the illustrious piece of wood, and opened the doors with the loudest of creak.

"Now's our chance," The Lady of Riverrun whispered to her fellow escapee, grabbing onto her wrist harshly, and dragging her out and into the light. "Mingle in the crowd, Alys –"

"My Lady, do not stray far –"

The older woman let out a staggering breath, as she raised her skirts to follow suit on the trail left by the hot-headed girl.

She is Elmo's daughter alright, she disarmingly told herself, Just as hopeless and reckless as he once was.

Alys almost tackled her to the ground, as Lady Tully succumbed herself deeper into the burnt out forest. She gripped onto her hands with hers, so harshly, that she'd definitely leave her mark. "I thought I had told you not to stray far."

The breathless form of the lost child before her appeared to be enough to soften a tad of her resolve. "When I tell you something, I expect you to do it."

Whilst chastising her deeply for her foolhardy behavior, the woman searched her pockets, and pushed out two quarter silvers into her trembling hands.

"You'll go towards the Rushing Halls and buy yourself a mule from the Half Calf's Inn."

As the younger Lady nodded feverishly at her late advice, Alys clasped her cheeks with her hands, and brought her head further towards her. "You'll keep a straight line to the Green Fork. You won't stop to eat or drink – you won't stop until you reach Hag's Mire. Make sure to cover the cut on your hand with this." As she spoke, Alys pushed a black glove into her resting hands.

The Bliss of Riverrun threw the witch a bewildered look. Her eyes searched adamantly for hers, and the woman panted out in pure wonder. "How did you know I intended on migrating North?

"I've already seen you do it." She shook her shoulders promptly, "I've already seen you succeed."

Her green eyes softened, if only for a blazing moment; but the crackling of the trees behind them snapped her out of her inward trance. "Don't waste anymore time. Your diversion was smart, but he will try to find you."

The girl reached down, to squeeze her hands, perhaps, in a wordless display of gratitude and affection. Her soft fingers interlaced over her boney knuckles, and Alys muttered a faint blessing over the twisted arch of her furrowed brow.

The Lady turned around, but not before pausing and shooting the witch one last fiery look. "Come with me." She offered determinedly, and shook her head strongly as Alys took a step back. "He'll try to punish someone for it. You're his next available girl." She begged her to see to reason.

"My place remains here. By his side."

(Y/N)'s eyes hardened at her thorough admission, but she strained herself to shoot the wet nurse back with a curt nod.

"I shan't forget what you did for me." She promised her elder with a minute smile.

"A heads-up when you next decide to set the whole stronghold on fire would be most appreciated…!" She lightheartedly told her, despite the obvious wabbling of her lower lip.

(Y/N) nodded, but remained hammered in place for another while. Alys' hand reached to cup over her face, but a brisk moment of clarity was quick to change her mind.

"Go, you foolish girl…!" She snapped, "Make good use of that promise you made."

Her feet began moving on their own accord. Her mind was blazing with all of the unfinished tasks at hand.

She would run towards the Rushing Halls. Buy a mule. Retreat towards Green Fork. Reach the Twins.

Her road shall lead to Winterfell. If Forrest Fray remained the same kind fool that he once was, she should have no trouble sending Cregan Stark a raven.

And if she could reason with Jacaerys' friend, take in his testimony of protection, perhaps her life wasn't lost just yet.

The gusts of wind ran through her shortened and unkempt hair. Aemond's clothes hung loosely over her, and the stench of fire and ash filled her nostrils with something else other than hopeless dread.

Never before in her life, did the girl run so fast.

Taglist:

Translations:

Gevie… = Beautiful;

Gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon, issa dōna jorrāelagon. Nyke kivio ao naejot sagon gīda. = Do not worry, my sweet love. I promised you I would be patient;

Mēre tubis ao jāhor jaelagon issa. = One day you will desire me;

Se Jaes emagon qrimbrōstan issa naejot jorrāelagon ao. = The Gods have cursed me to love you;

Gīda ilagon, Vhagar. Sagon nykeēdrosa... Sȳz hāedar. = Calm down, Vagar. Be still. Good girl;

Jaes, ao istan vēttan syt issa. = Gods, you were made for me;

Sepār jurnegon skorkydoso īlon kostagon fāelor hēnkirī. = Just look how perfectly we fit together;

Dōna hāedar… ȳdra daor hakogon qrīdrughagon hen issa sir = Sweet girl… don't pull away from me now;

Yn nyke istan zarvīzis. Nyke emagon issare sīr sȳz se… sīr, sīr zarvīzis. = But I've been patient. I've been so good and… so, so patient;

Ao aehron raqagon ao ȳdra daor jaelagon bisa... = You act like you don't want this…;

Yn ao jaelagon issa sepār hae olvie. Ao mazilībagon syt issa – sepār hae qosaevaerī. = But you want me just as much. You ache for me – just as badly.

Ÿdra daor dīnagon, issa gevie Dāria. Nyke jāhor dōrī jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon. = Don't cry, my beautiful Princess. I would sooner die than hurt you;

Valyrian Wedding Vows: Blood of two, joined as one, ghostly flame, and song of shadows, two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires, a future promised in glass – the stars stand witness, of the vow spoken through time, of darkness and light;

Nyke gīmigon, Vhagar. Gīmigon. = I know Vhagar, I know;

Se Jaes daoriot rȳbagon naejot nykeā vala raqagon issa. Yn nyke jāhor jikagon va issa knees se kostilus zirȳla naejot ivestragī issa emagon ao. Ao issi issa rōva botagon se se olvie rivaestra lambraes aohvra. = The Gods don't listen to men like me. But I would go on my knees and beg them to let me keep you. You were once the bane of my existence… and now, you find yourself the center of it.

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #the harshest winters #aemond imagine #aemond fanfiction #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys strong #house of the dragon #jacaerys valaryon #jacaerys imagine #jacaerys angst #aemond smut #bookcanon aemond targaryen #dark aemond x reader #dark aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #yandere aegon targaryen #unhinged aemond yep yep

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unusual-raccoon · 1 month

Text

Silver Son (Ch. 2) | by Unusual_Raccoon (JaceLuke)

@livinginafantasysposts, @andromaxeoftroy, @saintbehemoth, @mondstaub1, @the-heartlines, @the-white-w0lf, @potatochips-15, @arkah-archive, @lunar-19, @bimyself06

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Jacaerys Velaryon, Blonde Jacaerys Velaryon, Jace is Daemon's Biological Son, Complicated Relationships, Political Alliances, Canon-Typical Violence, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Jacaerys Velaryon, Omega Lucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra), Episode: s01e08 The Lord of the Tides (House of the Dragon), Viserys I Targaryen Lives, Daemyra Have Disney Parent-itis = they died, Brother/Brother Incest, POV Alternating, Political Alliances, Arranged Marriage, Valyrian Culture & Customs (A Song of Ice and Fire), Valyrian Wedding, Loss of Virginity, Explicit Sexual Content, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Knotting Summary: With few options left, Lucerys travels to Dragonstone to marry his mother's eldest son and heir, Jacaerys Targaryen. WC: 8,9K+ Ao3 Link

It began with a proposal. The promise of marriage in exchange for protection.

A marriage…to the prince of Dragonstone.

Their breakneck pace had consumed two weeks' worth of time in an instant, and before Lucerys had a true moment to recuperate, he was standing upon blue-veined white marble within the Eyrie’s High Hall.

“Prince Lucerys,” The lady of the Vale welcomed him, eyes as blue as the sky creased at the corners in a small sign of fondness.

“My lady,” he greeted, lowering his head in a show of deference to his host.

“I pray your time in King’s Landing has seen you well.”

“It has my lady, and while I am eternally grateful for your hospitality, I’m afraid I will need to depart from the Eyrie soon.”

To her credit, Jeyne Arryn took the news with aplomb.

“Might I ask, who is stealing you away, dear cousin?”

“I am Targaryen, my lady, I worry you may find the truth upsetting.”

She arched a single brow, the same shade of honeyed-gold as her hair. Whatever fondness she reserved for Lucerys in the months since his mother’s passing seemed to vanish at the mere insinuation of him.

What power you wield, dear brother.

The image of pale hair stained more crimson than silver flashed through his mind.

“I see.” She replied with an icy sort of diplomacy that made his teeth clench cold. Her disdain gleamed through in the blue of her eyes.

“And you’re certain there is nothing I can do to persuade you otherwise?”

She spoke with a royal I, not only of herself but also of the Eyrie and all its vassal houses…House Corbray amongst them. He thought of Ser Corwyn – the kind, gentle Valeman that had seen him return to the Eyrie safely.

Corwyn, who carried Valyrian steel upon his hip. He pondered briefly the wail Lady Forlorn might make when she collided with Dark Sister.

The hairs on his arms stood on end. He prayed it would not come to such unpleasantries.

Yet, as he imagined falling sway to Lady Arryn’s suggestions and wedding Ser Corwyn, Lucerys’ mind only conjured the image of Alyssa’s Tears scorched dry by dragonfire, yellow-orange flames shot through with veins of green, and his betrothed’s body severed at the neck, his handsome head gnashed between Vermax’s thorny jaws…

Have care, I will crush him if he intends to deny your departure.

He recalled his brother’s words even a fortnight later, as though he was yet twined in Jacaerys’ arms rubbing mindless fingers against the dried blood, blood his brother had spilled in Lucerys’ name, upon the velvet of his sleeve. He chastised himself still for the thoughtless creature he had been reduced to with his lungs full of his elder half-brother’s scent: the heat of an open flame and the heady musk of white oak.

The thought inspired a conflicting sense of hot and cold spreading through his body. A simultaneous pleasure and pain.

“I think it is for the best, my lady.”

Her smile was amiable, but far from pleased.

“Very well,” She hummed in acquiescence.

It was not until she descended from her carved weirwood throne that Lucerys voiced another rather pressing concern.

“I must admit, dear cousin, I fear how he will take the news.”

Jeyne Arryn offered a soft smile, her hand folded over the delicate expanse of his forearm and he was reminded of the few times the lady of the Vale had taken him hawking in the Mountains of the Moon.

“He loves you, he’ll understand.” she reminded with a knowing tilt of her lips.

Lucerys exhaled. He hoped love might be enough to soften the blow of his elder brother’s proposal as Lady Jeyne escorted him to his apartments in the Maiden’s Tower.

. . .

A long soak in a marble tub had not seen his nerves much improved. In fact, Lucerys felt more disturbed knowing he was avoiding the inevitable.

He sank deeper into the water scented with orange blossoms and rose hips, while it was a distraction, it was certainly a pleasant one; it did wonders for his sore bottom after two hard weeks on horseback.

He hadn’t dithered for much longer before dressing.

He omitted his usual high-collared samite gown with a laced-tight bodice to accentuate curves nature had failed to provide, in exchange for a soft, modest shift to sleep in.

He layered a patterned dressing gown over his shift to stave off the everpresent wind of the Vale.

There was a knock at the door and Lucerys grimaced. He wasn’t ready, yet still approached his fate with a raised chin - as mother had taught him.

“Prince Lucerys-”

“Ser Corwyn,” He greeted, voice lilted in surprise.

“My deepest apologies, forgive the intrusion, I was not aware-” the knight stammered at Lucerys’ state of dress.

“There is nothing to forgive, the fault is mine own,” Lucerys murmured, cheeks warm, as demure as any proper worshiper of the Seven desired in an Omega.

The insinuation of his nakedness was enough, even layered in sleepwear as he was.

Lucerys crossed bashful arms over himself and Corwyn reddened further.

“I have heard the news of your departure,” Corwyn informed steadily and to the point, eyes focused on some fixed point just over Lucerys’ shoulder.

“From Lady Jeyne, I have no doubt” he had shared the news with none other,“– forgive me, it is uncouth to speak of my host in such a way.”

Corwyn shook his head.

“It was uncouth of my Lady to share business that was not hers.”

Lucerys swallowed, wringing his hands together, discreetly scratching small scent glands in his wrists until the air sweetened with his natural scent.

Vanilla and browned butter.

“I gather that she has informed you as to why I must be leaving…”

Corwyn nodded, nostrils flaring subtly. His jaw tightened.

“She has…”

He looked away, sheepishly with a dusky color upon his cheeks that revealed what his nonexistent scent did not. He chafed at the thought of Lucerys departing to Dragonstone - to Jacaerys.

“Ser, I pray you will not think less of me now…it is not a thought I think I can bear.”

Corwyn’s eyes were a bluish-grey, a beautiful, but understated color that Lucerys admired as the knight turned back towards him in shock.

“My Prince I would never.”

“I don’t believe our Lady shared this information with the thought that it might sour my opinion of you.”

“Oh,” Lucerys exhaled with the kind of smile that enamored countless at court, “good,” he hummed with a dithering kind of naivete a simpering storybook Omega possessed.

Corwyn appeared ensorcelled.

He prayed silently that Jacaerys might be so simple to gain mastery over.

“I believe my cousin has shared with me this news to embolden me…”

Embolden, Lucerys thought. Corwyn’s eyes focused on him then, breathing a touch shallow like he meant to sling Lucerys down onto the floor to ravage him…

Instead, the knight drew Lady Forlorn from the sheath upon his hip.

Lucerys’ heart stilled for a moment before Corwyn knelt before him, head lowered.

“With your permission, my prince, I would swear myself to you…as your protector.”

His brother’s words rang through his head once more as the knight’s hands clasped the weeping woman carved into the sword’s pommel and grip.

You have gone too long without an Alpha. Too long without proper protection.

Lucerys was not acquisitive enough to think he could have both his brother’s protection and Ser Corwyn’s.

A choice was required.

He imagined yet again the sound that Lady Forlorn might make when she clashed with Dark Sister, yet when he pictured Valyrian steel on steel he could only hear the bellow of a dragon…

“You honor me deeply, ser…but, I am afraid I cannot accept. To bind yourself to me on the eve of my marriage…it would not be wise. I fear my betrothed will think ill of it. However, I hope that should I ever need such a gallant knight you might permit me to call upon you?”

Ser Corwyn rose with a conflicted look etched upon his face.

His bluish-grey eyes softened as Lucerys draped an effete hand over the knight’s forearm. Corwyn’s gaze lingered on Lucerys’ hand.

“Of course, my prince.”

Again, Lucerys offered that affable smile and his sweet scent and all was well.

“Rest well, my prince.”

Lucerys blinked slowly, a soft smile about his lips, “I shall certainly rest easier now ser, thank you.”

With Corwyn addressed he would face his greatest challenge yet on the morrow.

. . .

In the morn he was awoken by the sound of his door opening and a riotous blur bolting inside. He was spared only a moment before said blur was atop his bed – bouncing.

“You’re back!”

“Joff,” Lucerys hummed, half asleep, partially shielding his body from each spring of his younger brother’s body.

“You’re back!” He exclaimed again with a wide, gap-toothed smile, “What was the capital like? Did you get to see the king? Is it true that you killed someone?”

Lucerys’ eyes widened immediately, what vestiges of sleep remained fled from him.

He wrangled his younger brother in his hands like catching lightning in a bottle.

Joffrey tugged at the silk sleeves of Lucerys’ shift, irritated at being held captive.

“Where have you heard such things?” Lucerys asked seriously.

“A girl from the kitchens,” Joffrey shrugged, “She said someone died-”

Gods damn Jacaerys Targaryen. Already whispers floated about the validity of his hearing of succession. Matters hadn’t been helped by the same rumor mills purporting that Ser Vaemond’s head had allegedly been fed to his elder brother’s dragon; he had yet to hear the word kinslayer but knew it hung on countless tongues.

“You should not repeat such talk, it is not princely.”

Joffrey tugged upon Lucerys’ sleeve, eager to be released.

“Swear it,” Lucerys commanded with a waggle of his finger.

“Fine, I swear it, let go-”

“You swear what?”

“I swear not to repeat unprincely things, Luke-” Joffrey whined.

Lucerys smiled fondly despite himself and released his grip upon his younger brother, content to let him whirl about.

And whirl he did. He had become so content in the Vale. A part of Lucerys mourned the thought of taking him from what had just started to feel like home. It wasn’t fair.

“Joffrey?” Lucerys called as Joffrey’s dark head bobbed around. His brother fiddled with something on the other side of Lucerys’ apartments; something breakable no doubt.

“Something did happen at court…something important.”

“Is this about you getting married? I already know,” Joffrey said, sounding rather bored as he watched the viscous swirl in a stoppered inkwell.

“Another rumor from your spy in the kitchens?” Lucerys asked, unmoved by his brother’s pout.

“No - and she’s not a spy!” He huffed defensively, “Melara told me that you’ll marry her father. I’m not upset, Luke, I promise. I like Ser Corwyn. If you marry him, do you think he’ll train me to be a knight and give me his sword when I’m older?”

Lucerys felt ill.

“Joffrey, come here,” He beckoned, voice trembling. His brother whined a petulant little noise, but remained at Lucerys’ desk, shaking the stoppered inkwell.

“Now.”

It was cruel, Lucerys knew, but he prayed none of his children were Alphas, that none would ever be so obstinate as his brother - brothers. He prayed for Betas and Omegas to quicken in his belly when the time came, for obedient children with sensible little heads on sensible little shoulders.

“She said House Corbray’s colors are like ours, red and black - and white too, but that we wouldn’t have to change very much.”

Change, Lucerys thought to himself, how much of that have we endured already?

Joffrey continued his blabbering, stubborn at that. Lucerys winced, his frustration mounting to a point of eruption.

“I won’t be marrying Ser Corwyn!”

Distantly, he heard glass shattering as the inkwell toppled to the ground. Lucerys bolted from the bed, taking Joffrey’s little hands in his own. He scrutinized his brother’s palms for any shards of glass amidst the overwhelming pools of ink on his pale skin…

“Why not?!”

“Oh, Joff, look at your hands! You mustn’t be so careless.”

His younger brother tore his hands out of Lucerys’ grasp, visibly crestfallen. The pristine white silk of his sleeve was slashed with ugly splatters of black ink.

“Why aren’t you marrying Ser Corwyn?”

Why? Why indeed…

Lucerys sighed. How could he tell a child of seven years about the politics of the matter? Or worse yet, that in the most aggravatingly primal sense, a piece of him yearned for Jacaerys…

“I’ve been presented with a stronger proposal.”

“But, you said we’d be safe here, that we wouldn’t have to leave!”

His younger brother argued, what else could he have said to a grieving child who had just fled the only home he had ever known? Their exodus from Dragonstone had been a hasty affair, yet in the midst of their pain and fear, it seemed the only thing they could do.

“This proposal means more protection, real protection,” Lucerys swallowed, each breath scraping the inside of his throat like shards of glass as his brother’s face reddened, “Joff, we can go home.”

Tears welled in the muddy brown of Joffrey’s eyes.

He held his brother’s dirty little hands so tightly in his own, clinging desperately.

“But if I am to keep my word, we must leave soon.”

Lucerys brushed an affectionate finger beneath the cleft in his brother’s chin.

“You haven’t misplaced Tyraxes’ saddle have you?”

Joffrey blinked slowly with a dawning realization, sadness forgotten at the prospect of flying again.

“No…”

“Good,” Lucerys hummed before ruffling his brother’s dark curls, swallowing beyond the lump in his throat as he spoke, “you’re going to need it.”

. . .

The fortnight he had allotted had passed, and for two days and two nights longer, Jacaerys had waited.

He had spent 6 years in the North as a ward of Lord Cregan Stark, estranged from his family, and yet, he had never yearned more ardently for his own blood than he did in the two weeks since leaving King’s Landing.

Every morning he waited on Dragonstone's beaches for a young white dragon to pierce the clouds and the scent of vanilla and browned butter to shower him from the sky; for Lucerys to come home to him.

Each day that passed he weighed the worth of simply collecting his brother on dragonback. Of flying to the Eyrie, Dark Sister in hand…like Visenya on Vhagar, and dragging his little wife home.

But then he thought of Lucerys…of sweet, gentle Lucerys.

He refused to force the matter. Lucerys would come to him in time, he knew it…

And so he waited, morning after morning.

And each morning yet he had been disappointed, though he was not the only one.

Baela was still bitter about his decision to break their betrothal that had been arranged since they’d been born…

A marriage done in the tradition of Old Valyria was binding, unbreakable, a union that could never be undone or annulled. Immutable to the word of any king or council. It was everlasting.

He’d been rehearsing the words since he’d had ears to know them. Leagues away in the bitter cold, they had given him warmth. The knowledge he might one day speak them to the one that he loved, as his mother had, as his father had, as was his right.

He was owed this. Tradition dictated for the two oldest children to marry, as Aegon and Visenya had; there was duty and honor in it. By definition, Jacaerys and Lucerys were their mother’s eldest children - the two destined to wed.

He stared at the sky, awaiting his destiny.

. . .

It was the third morning and the sky was a cool blue, drowsy in color when a bright streak sailed through it…

Descending toward the island like a falling star.

Lucerys.

Jacaerys had never seen anything so picturesque, so perfect-

Then came the rambunctious squawk of a dragon scarcely large enough to fly. Black and red and chasing after gulls, belching plumes of black flames.

Joffrey.

“Dohaerās, Tyraxes!” A reedy little voice called.

“Ninkiot, Arrax,” Lucerys commanded calmly and Jacaerys watched as that young dragon, glittering pearl white and gold, spread his wings to slow his descent to the island.

The sea breeze rolled over the shore, tasting of salt and morning air, of vanilla and browned butter…

Lucerys was a vision in supple charcoal gray, wool-lined riding leathers. His dark curls were wind-tossed and his cheeks a ravishing shade of red.

Those beautiful brown eyes widened at the sight of him.

His younger brother cleared his throat, calling up to Joffrey.

“Come down here,” He commanded, “now.”

Lucerys’ expression was unreadable as he marched across the sands toward Jacaerys, Joffrey in tow.

The dragonkeepers handled their mounts, even the unruly Tyraxes who had feathers hanging from his maw.

“Jacaerys,” Lucerys greeted coolly, with a defiant little raised chin. Jace wanted him then and there — marriage be damned, he wished to pup Luke in the sand. He pushed the thought away, quite capable of ignoring his hindbrain.

“Brother,” Jacaerys responded smoothly, smile softening, “welcome home.”

Lucerys gave a small nod, dainty gloved hands clasped together demurely.

“I apologize for making you wait,” Lucerys said primly, poised and practiced and perfect.

Jace chuckled, “Oh, I doubt that very much. Come along, we’ll get you both settled.”

They stepped through the Great Hall’s massive red doors, flanked by household guards at every step.

He felt Lucerys gasp as he pressed a palm to the small of his brother’s back, leading him into the hall. Luke walked along, spine stiff, his scent dripping from his pores.

It was surreal, sharing the space with Lucerys once more… It had been so long since they had been here together, lived here together.

“Prince Jacaerys,” Maester Gerardys greeted fondly, “and Prince Lucerys, how comforting it is to see you two together once more…”

For the first time since his brother had returned home, Jacaerys witnessed that icy demeanor thaw. His smile was soft and genuine and beautiful…

“It is…good to be home,” He answered, and to Jacaerys’ surprise, his words seemed sincere. Buried somewhere beneath the stoicism his younger brother wore like a coat of mail, he was happy.

“Your mother would be pleased.”

Lucerys’ throat bobbed and his eyes misted, for a moment he seemed to lean into Jacaerys’ touch upon his back. He steadied Lucerys instantly, naturally — it was what elder brothers were meant to do.

He caught a brief flash of gratitude in the corner of a brown eye when Lucerys glanced back at him.

“I’ll show you to your rooms,” Jacaerys said softly, to which Lucerys nodded, a pliant little thing.

“I know where my room is,” Joffrey called, running off blindly, to Lucerys’ horror and Jace’s amusement. Lucerys seemed mortified of Joffrey’s boyish behavior, like some minute thing would pull the rug out from beneath them, as though he may cast them out to the wilds once more…

He’d sooner fall upon his own sword than permit such a thing to happen.

“It’s alright,” Jace soothed, tasting the frantic spike in his younger brother’s scent, vanilla and burnt butter, “he’s home too.”

Lucerys nodded, swallowing thickly.

“When will the ceremony be?” Lucerys asked, his voice steady like he’d practiced the words.

“When would you like it to be?” Jace asked in return, something that seemed to bewilder his younger brother who stared up at him owlishly. Something he hadn’t prepared for.

“Soon,” he said, a tad uncertain as Jacaerys slowly circled him like prey.

“Soon?” Jacaerys echoed with a wily smirk. Lucerys’ brow dipped in what he knew was annoyance.

“Yes, soon, unless you intend on making me wait.”

There he was, Jacaerys grinned, all teeth - his Luke.

“Had I known you were so eager to be my wife, I never would have left King’s Landing without you…” His lips touched his younger brother’s ear.

Lucerys exhaled a shaky breath that he very badly wanted to be a scoff, struggling to right his mask of aloofness. The rich scent of vanilla and browned butter, nutty and earthen and sweet, betrayed him.

“Is tonight soon enough for you, brother?” Jacaerys asked, his subvocals flanging.

Lucerys turned, blinking up at him, pink-cheeked.

“Y-yes.”

“Good.”

“Good,” Lucerys said with his raised little chin, as though he had been so decisive, to begin with; Jacaerys could only focus on the cute cleft of his chin that he wished to trace with his tongue.

Without another word, his younger brother turned and exited the Great Hall, marching down a corridor after Joffrey.

. . .

Valyrian wedding ceremonies were not as time-consuming as weddings performed under the faith of the seven. The very same priest that had performed their mother’s wedding was summoned to conduct theirs.

The materials had been gathered and garments prepared.

A natural stone dias was dressed accordingly. A thick chalice of inscribed Valyrian steel sat upon the dias, filled halfway from a decanter of blood wine.

Jacaerys’ hands shook as he reached for the traditional robes worn during Valyrian wedding ceremonies. The fabric was a pale cream color, with thick blood-red collars and a gradient along the hem and sleeves.

They were meant to symbolize blood purity… the irony wasn’t lost on him.

“Father was the last to wear these…”

Jacaerys exhaled, fingers trailing over the dyed collar of the robe. He never had the right to refer to Daemon Targaryen as his father publically, yet as he stared at the garment, shapeless against his dressing table, it felt right. His father had worn these robes, and Jacaerys would wear them after him.

“He’d be proud of you…”

Baela intoned, her voice alarmingly gentle despite how angry she had been with him in the past weeks.

“Even if I’m marrying against his wishes?”

His sister smiled a radiant thing. Pretty enough to kiss, but he knew better than to try.

“Especially because you’re marrying against his wishes. You chose your own bride…he’d admire that.”

Baela stepped closer, inspecting the ceremonial garment. The fabric seemed endless when lifted into her tiny hands.

“You have every right to wear them, Jace. You’re a Targaryen.”

He nodded and began unlacing his tunic.

“Slower,” His sister bade, her deep violet eyes raking over every ounce of unveiled flesh with unbridled want. Spice flower and cinnamon hung heavy in the air. There was time when that scent beckoned him like a siren’s call, yet there had always been another scent, more potent —— dragonsong.

“I don’t want to forget a thing,” She added sadly, and Jacaerys felt a twinge of regret…she had always been good to him.

Jacaerys slowed, plucking away each individual lace with the utmost care. The garment swayed open and he heard the sharp intake of her breath.

He smiled softly. He couldn’t marry her, but he could give her this.

. . .

It all felt foreign to Lucerys like something out of a dream. His hair painfully twined into a snug series of plaits and braids atop of which the ceremonial headdress was placed.

The robes were long, the dyed hem puddled like blood around his feet.

Unbidden emotion snagged in his throat as he straightened the headdress. His entire life had led to this moment, from the day he was born and the maester had announced what resided between his legs. He was an Omega, he was born to be someone’s wife. Jacaerys’ wife. His face burned hot for reasons he dared not contemplate.

He was to be married and his mother wasn’t here to witness it…

He glared at his reflection in the looking glass.

He blinked away the tears quickly and straightened his back. Jacaerys wanted a wife and he’d get one…and Lucerys would get the legitimacy he’d been lacking. He would certainly be a wife, but Jacaerys had been born an Alpha —— he would become Lucerys’ weapon. It was all he could find comfort in; for this was not a union borne of love.

Lucerys’ bravado held up quite nicely as they traveled to the dais where the ceremony would be held. Jacaerys looked as he always did, aggravatingly handsome; rakish, even, in the long ceremonial robes with his silver hair bound in twists away from his face.

Countless candles burned around the dias, ensconcing them in a golden hue.

It was surreal, standing on warmed stone in the very same spot, in the very same gown his mother had once worn…

Joffrey stood beside Maester Gerardys, a sour look on his little face, in the same spot where Lucerys had stood as a child. Fragmented memories of his mother’s wedding washed over him like the dewy evening rain.

A hand in his clutched so tightly. Father had died. Warm lips pressed to his crown, there was no giggling when he pressed his cold little feet to the backs of warm knees; just a need to be sated, and comfort that was given. There was no room for laughter on the grim day. Mother had never looked so beautiful. The hand in his was pulled away. It hurt, that missing piece, like a severed limb…

“Luke?”

Lucerys felt the memory fade away as he blinked his way back to the present. Jacaerys stared at him with unabashed concern.

“Hm?” he hummed, “I’m sorry.”

“Are you ready for the ceremony to begin?” The priest asked.

“Yes,” Jacaerys said without hesitation, and all eyes were on Lucerys.

“Yes,” Luke nodded, the tassels of the headdress bouncing.

“Very well.”

Ceremonial dragonglass daggers were given to each of them.

“I’ll go first,” Jacaerys told him and Lucerys nodded, and when he smiled at Luke, it was the smile of an elder brother.

Rest easy, little brother, that roguish smile said, I’m here. His hands trembled as he brought the shard to his Jacaerys’ mouth. He didn’t flinch when Luke cut him. The dagger split the supple flesh of Jacaerys’ lower lip with ease. Blood oozed bright and warm. He gathered some upon his thumb, transfixed by it. The candles seemed to glow brighter, the air more fragrant. He painted the sigil upon Jacaerys’ skin.

His own dagger was lowered as Jacaerys approached. A large hand came to grip his chin, stroking the skin fondly. He tensed in anticipation of the sting of the dagger. He met his brother’s gaze, those hypnotic violet eyes, silver lashes brushed gold in the candlelight. He felt warm, very warm wrapped in Jace’s scent. His hindbrain was alight. Gently, the dagger sliced his lower lip, he hardly felt it.

He blinked and Jacaerys’ thumb was wet with his blood.

The liquid crimson felt hot against his skin as his brother painted the accompanying sigil.

Blood would flow, and their line would continue.

He watched as Jacaerys’ dagger carved a wound across his palm. Lucerys did the same.

The priest carried forth the chalice and spoke the binding words. An embroidered chord of gold tied them together.

“Hen lantoti ānogar”

Blood of two

“Va sȳndroti vāedroma”

Joined as one

Jacaerys’ hand clasped with his, the open wounds upon their palms bleeding into one another. Unerringly intimate; eternally entwined. The golden chord soaked crimson. Red oozed into the chalice.

“Elēdroma iārza sīr”

And song of shadows

“Izulī ampā perzī”

Two hearts as embers

Lucerys stared into the chalice, at the placid surface of the blood wine, small dots of liquid crimson littered the rim, like crushed garnets. His reflection stared back.

The wine smelled of figs and iron and was thick upon his tongue. He’d never known something so foreign, yet so perfect. Heat raced in his veins when he swallowed it. Jacaerys’ eyes never left his, his hand clutched so tightly…they were a perfect fit.

“Prūmī lanti sēteksi”

Forged in Fourteen flames

Fourteen candles stood taller than the rest.

“Hen jenȳ māzīlarion”

A future promised in glass

Jacaerys tilted the chalice toward his lips. Lucerys squeezed at his brother’s hand, fresh blood sticking between their palms.

“Qēlossa ozūndesi”

The stars stand witness

“Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo”

The vow spoken through time

“Rȳ kīvia mazvestraksi.”

Of darkness and light.

“Your vows must be spoken.”

Lucerys nodded and swallowed the urge to mewl as Jacaerys’ hand squeezed his; both comforting and consuming.

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever,” they spoke the words in unison. The lingering taste of wine on his tongue deepened. The richness of Jacaerys’ scent thickened in his lungs. He could taste only fire and blood…

The priest lowered his hands and inclined his hooded head towards them to indicate the ceremony was complete. Lucerys’ entire being pulsed hotter than the dragonmont. They were married. Bound in blood.

He stared at Jacaerys, still struggling to fathom when his brother’s lips were on his - kissing him, ravenously; like he had waited his entire life for such a moment. And it returned to him, the frayed pieces of a memory, like torn pages in a book, as Jacaerys’ hands gathered his face between them, tender and so familiar - they had done this before.

Oh.

He felt a fool.

He gasped when his brother pulled away, mouth red. Lucerys’ legs felt boneless. His hand clutching Jacaerys’ sleeve, anchored to his brother, his husband, his other half…

Jacaerys’ tongue chased the trickle of crimson from Lucerys’ mouth. He mewled then, openly, unabashedly, without meaning to.

His brother’s forehead touched his, tacky with blood. A deep flanging purr swelled there and Lucerys struggled to remain upright with his knees turned to liquid. A strong arm curled around his waist.

The sky shook with the triumphant cries of Vermax and Arrax. Blasts of dragonfire burst above them in a spectrum of color, yellow-orange, gold, copper, and bronze, swirls of white, pearl, emerald, and jade green. There were streaks of rainbow light where their flames collided as their dragons danced in the sky overhead.

With the wedding complete, only one thing remained…

Their wedding night.

. . .

The inside of the Lord’s chambers were carved in dark stone, the snarling heads of dragons frame towering columns around the bed, a blood-red canopy draped above it.

Dragonstone was not known for its forgiving weather, and despite the chill that was ever-present in the air, Lucerys felt like the flesh might slough off his bones from the heat that raged within him.

A fire burned in the hearth that resembled a dragon’s maw, with flames crackling between pointed stone teeth.

A touch dragged featherlight over his pulse and he gasped, body burning hotter than the fire.

He looked at his brother - his husband with new eyes.

“Forgive me,” He murmured in apology, “I feel…warm.”

Jacaerys offered a smile, a flash of pointed teeth that left Lucerys breathless.

“‘Tis your blood calling.” His husband explained.

Lucerys flushed deeply.

“Do not fret,” Jacaerys hummed, fingers finding Lucerys’ chin, stroking the skin fondly, “We will answer it.”

Lucerys nodded, struck into a demure state, his heart hammered hard in his chest.

There was nothing entirely complicated about seduction, Lucerys knew, most Alphas simply desired a chase. A submissive bit of prey that they could play with before devouring them whole. It became clear Jacaerys was no different in that regard.

It brought to mind a memory far more recent…

“Tilt your head, just gently over your shoulder. A tad more. Perfect. Lower your eyelids. Less, Lucerys.” Daemon clucked.

“I feel like an imbecile,” Lucerys complained, though his step-father chuckled.

“I assure you, you don’t look like one.”

He snorted, “Is this how mother got you to fall in love with her?”

Daemon hummed a laugh, flicking Lucerys’ ear as he passed by, “Don’t slouch, extend your neck. There. Delightful. Any Alpha with a knot between their legs will understand the invitation. And, no, your mother was the exception in that regard.”

Lucerys rolled his eyes. Unsurprised to find that his mother, as always, was so perfect.

“You have no shortage of suitors, even now, but it never hurts to know how to keep them.”

Lucerys flushed, “I have…suitors?”

Daemon nodded, “Many. Amongst our vassals Houses Bar Emon, Celtigar, and Massey have already put forth proposals for your hand. You even have the attention of an Alpha up North…”

“Truly?” Lucerys gasped, strangely flattered.

“He’s been the most persistent of all,” Daemon said with a wink.

“That’s enough practice for today, little one. With any luck, matters of marriage won’t be relevant for some time. At least not while your mother and I draw breath.”

The fresh loss of his parents' death yawned open once more, like a gash across his heart, at the memory, but he ignored the pain. His blood had already spilled today. Lucerys turned his back to Jacaerys as he began the tedious process of removing countless metal pins from his hair. Discreetly, he nipped at the scent gland in his wrist.

The aroma of vanilla and browned butter, rich and sweet dripped into the air. A Siren’s call.

Unlike Ser Corwyn who had merely blushed and floundered at the presence of his scent, his husband however, evidenced a more promising reaction.

He heard the sharp intake of Jacaerys’ breathing. The subtle beginnings of a growl left Lucerys weak at the knees.

He shook his curls loose with a soft sigh, he arched his back with an indulgent stretch.

When he turned back towards his husband, he did so employing everything Daemon had taught him. His head tilted coyly, his eyes hooded just right, bare neck extended boldly…

“Husband,” he called with intention, his voice a touch higher than it typically was, “shall we- mmph!”

Being kissed was as disorienting as it had been the first time, scorching, the taste of blood on his tongue. His husband’s hand cupped his bottom. Lucerys considered it a rousing success.

He panted, mouth slick. Jacaerys’ tongue glided against the roof of his mouth and something glittery and warm surged down to his toes. His brother’s fingers curled beneath Lucerys’ chin. A softer, kinder kiss was pressed to his crown, and yearning opened up in him like an old wound.

“I’ve missed you…” Jace whispered against Lucerys’ dark fringe. Longing resounded in his voice, spanning deep like the roots of a tree.

Lucerys swallowed, a strange sense of guilt left him feeling hulled. A part of him wanted to feel what his brother did as well, yet there were still pages torn from their story in his mind; pages he feared he may never recover.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t-“ He stammered, frightened that his husband may be slighted by history Lucerys had forgotten…

“I know,” Jacaerys soothed, thumb pressed to the cleft in Lucerys’ chin. A dizzy back and forth was etched in his flesh by the callused pad of his husband’s finger.

When his brother kissed him a second time, it was a slower exchange. Jacaerys’ mouth and tongue coaxed his into action. It was evocative, sensual, reciprocal; dragonsong. It was the stoking of embers, the spreading of wildfire to every corner of his being.

“On the bed,” his brother growled, a crass hand swatted his bottom.

Lucerys nodded.

Their robes were placed aside and Lucerys settled upon the bed, skin bare and pulsing hot.

He laid carefully upon his stomach, firelight licking at his back. His face burned as he arched his back, his bottom sticking out in subtle invitation.

The bed dipped beneath the addition of another body and Lucerys drew in a steadying breath. His lungs were coated with the aroma of white oak and an open flame; heady and thick. His hindbrain secreted pacifying pheromones that left him strangely at peace.

He was going to be claimed, he realized, holding fistfuls of sheets. He would be mounted like a broodmare…

A warm hand grazed his spine.

A breath that smelled of figs and blood wine caressed his ear.

“What are you doing?”

Laid upon his stomach, Lucerys should have felt vulnerable; his neck was left exposed. He tilted his head against the bedding, curls loose as he caught the corner of his husband’s statuesque visage knelt upon the bed.

“I-” Lucerys swallowed, mouth uncomfortably dry. Even now, as bare as the day he was born, he was meant to exude aplomb. Jacaerys clearly desired a confident lover.

“I am not so naive, journals and written accountings detail that being upon one’s stomach is the most efficient way to ensure a successful mount…”

Jacaerys’ expression remained unreadable, but then he chuckled that pleasant sound that buzzed in Lucerys’ ears.

“...a successful mount.” Jacaerys echoed to himself with a shake of his damnable silver head. Lucerys flushed hot with embarrassment, feeling anything but confident.

A warm hand settled upon the small of his back. The simple touch inspired a strange building pressure. Jacaerys’ lips touched his ear and Lucerys exhaled a flustered sound into the bedding.

“You have spent too long with Andals that do not know how to fuck…”

His husband’s voice dripped thick and hot into his skull, like honey, or blood. His quim clenched. His husband seemed intent on showing Lucerys the error in his ways.

“Fucking is a pleasure. And Omegas were made to be pleased.”

There was lightning in Jacaerys’ voice, raw power, like the crackling of logs in the hearth.

“Here,” Jacaerys murmured, “turn over.”

He blinked up at him, at his pale hair, at his violet eyes that were nearly glazed black, at the sharp contrast of gold light and rich velvety shadows painted by the hearth across his husband’s body. His mouth had grown wet at his lean abdomen and sturdy shoulders, at his firm chest and strong arms…

A picturesque virile Alpha.

“There you are,” Jacaerys hummed, eyes so very fond.

His thighs are eased apart and Jacaerys settled between them. Each touch exchanged between them felt like it might set them alight. Mere kindling to a fire.

Every sensation titillated and overwhelmed.

A finger trailed featherlight from the hollow of his throat to the spot above his navel where that building pressure persisted. He was left gasping. Tears beaded in his eyes.

“Mm,” Lucerys sighed, unaccustomed to such intimacy, such nearness as his husband caressed the spot as the feeling worsened.

His fingers dipped lower toward the dark mound of his quim, wiry curls matted with slick.

Lucerys’ hips leapt from the bed with a cry at the barest touch. A clever, knowing thumb unveiled his bud, teasing it. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, wetting his temples, inevitably soaking into his loose curls.

His husband’s damp fingers teased along the seam of his quim; leisurely, as if skimming the lines of a book he had read before.

He felt as a digit slipped down to the knuckle into his velvety embrace.

“Jacaerys,” He croaked. The concave dip of his stomach quivered as his husband’s attention returned to the pink ache of his bud; his fingers made a lewd sound, so thoroughly wetted with slick.

Jacaerys’ silver head lowered with a knowing look and began to kiss him breathlessly; each press of Jace’s lips against his own selfishly stole what air remained in his lungs, and good sense from his mind.

He anchored a fist in his husband’s pale hair if only for an ounce of control, to claim something in return.

He sucked on Jacaerys’ tongue when it dipped into his mouth; he felt his husband’s body shake with a melodic swell of his subvocals.

“When I claim you, it shall be like this,” Jacaerys murmured through spit-slick lips into Lucerys’ panting mouth, their foreheads were pressed together, tacky with dried blood and sweat.

“Not for a ‘successful mount’, but so that I may look upon you, so that I may see the pleasure writ across this face,” His husband paused mouthing at Lucerys’ jaw, weight steadied on a forearm, Jace gazed down at him with such longing, “to have gone six years without it, ‘tis a crime against our nature. Yours and mine.”

Lucerys longed to pry the words apart, like field dressing a fresh kill, to permit nothing to escape his grasp nor understanding. Yet, his husband’s fingers grazed his cunt once more and all sense was lost, bleeding from the pulsing, open wound of his weeping gash.

A few fingers glided into his heat, effortlessly and Lucerys moaned. Ashamed of how easily his body had been reduced to something so carnal.

He was lost in the pleasure, the thick haze of pheromones in his head, and the scent of Jacaerys in his lungs.

When his hips leapt once more, it was to chase the rhythm of Jacaerys’s fingers spreading him open; shaping the walls of his quim like a smith molded metal — with patience and dedication.

His husband’s digits sought deep, fingers squelching amidst the sticky nectar and slick flesh. Without preamble, that knot of tension above Lucerys’ navel was pulled so readily to its limits, fingers pressing at the tender raised flesh until the tension broke.

Lucerys yowled, the sensation smarted, whip-fast as he came undone. His cocklet, stiff and yearning just above the seam of quim, spurted a few delicate ribbons of white against his stomach and chest. His quim gushed as a more potent release took hold, soaking around his husband’s fingers and onto the bed. A pleasure swallowed him so readily that he could not make sense of an end or beginning.

A garbled stream of hybridized Valyrian and common peppered his ears like a rain of arrows.

“There you are,” Jacaerys huffed, eyes ablaze with awe, “Issa lēkia.”

“ābrazȳrys…” he snarled, “mate…”

His body, so laden with pheromones only longed for one thing. To be claimed.

What power you wield, dear brother.

Jacaerys had tasted his blood once already. Surely he wanted more, needed more, needed to sink his teeth into Lucerys’ neck, where his bonding gland lay pristine and untouched.

“I, I need-”

“I shall give you what you need, wife.”

Pangs of longing littered his flesh, like ground glass in raw meat. He watched, mouth wet as Jacaerys’ cock swayed heavy and thick between well-muscled thighs.

It seemed impossibly large then; too large.

“Mm, b-brother… it won’t-”

“It will fit,” Jacaerys assured with a smile that Luke wanted terribly to believe, a brief kiss was pressed to Lucerys’ lips, “you were made for this,” another kiss, “you were made for me.”

Lucerys nodded, permitting his body to fall slack, tensionless, sedate with pheromones and supplicant for his Alpha.

The fattened head of his husband’s cock rubbed slowly along his quim, gathering nectar along the girth.

His stomach quivered as the glistening crown of Jacaerys’ manhood pressed obscenely large to Luke’s quim, puffy and pink.

“Shh,” Jacaerys soothed. His thumb toyed with Lucerys’ bud, rubbing tender little circles as the head applied a hint more pressure.

His legs spasmed as pleasure frothed in his belly.

He whined, the lips of his quim stretching to welcome the thick, drooling head.

His hips inched higher as Jacaerys’ eased lower. He envisioned the steel-tipped head of an arrow piercing the soft cushion of a straw-stuffed target.

The lips of his quim opened like a flower in bloom.

Jacaerys held himself painfully still as Lucerys mewled beneath him at the thin barrier of his maidenhead halting his brother’s path.

His brother kissed the salty spill of his tears; seeming to savor them as readily as he had Luke’s blood.

He awaited the agony that every maester and septa warned young Omegas of, for a geyser of blood to burst from between his thighs as his Alpha sank down to the bulb of his knot.

Yet, as Jacaerys finally slipped completely inside, it wasn’t at all as violent as Lucerys had imagined. It stretched the walls of his quim to what felt like its limits, certainly, but, the sensation did not inspire any pain. Rather, it felt like a wound being sewn shut, flesh knitted together, a sword in a sheath, a sense of completeness so profound that he wished to weep.

Oh.

“There you are,” Jace panted, a wry turn to his lips before his hips eased back.

A hand cradled his jaw as they laid, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Blood upon their skin, sharing the same dewy breath.

One flesh, one heart, one soul…

The motion of Jacaerys’ hips was fluid, they beat against him as wrathful as the gale upon the sea. Every wave threatened to drag him under. Devastatingly beautiful.

Lucerys gasped, mouth agape as his brother’s eyes stared into his. Jacaerys’ hips pumped, large cock pushing and pulling his insides; molding him anew.

There was a harmony to it, the creaking of the bed, the crackling of the logs, the wet rhythm of Jacaerys’ hips colliding with his. The blood-red canopy above the bed quivered like a razed kingdom behind his husband’s silver head.

He dug frantic nails into the muscle of his brother’s back. He felt power. True power rippling beneath his fingertips.

The broad tip of his brother’s manhood found the raised flesh tucked away within his walls upon every thrust; pleasure spiraled and screamed within him.

Jacaerys’ grip tightened around his jaw. He began to lose track of what limbs were his and which were not.

Barely-there breasts bounced with every thrust, grazing his brother’s muscled chest. His nipples pebbled stiff as they scraped against Jacaerys, the sensation worsening the tension that tangled in his belly.

His quim fluttered, each pulse yearned to draw his husband deeper.

Lucerys dug a heel into the flexing muscle of his husband’s buttocks, urging him faster.

He mewled. Beyond words. Thrashing to bare his neck; recalcitrant and desperate. That only made Jacaerys fuck him harder.

Bloated stones, swollen with seed, slapped against Lucerys’ milk-white bottom.

Jacaerys’ free hand dug into the pliant flesh of Lucerys’ soft little bottom, urging his narrow hips to meet every harrowing plunge of Jace’s cock.

The wet lips of his quim, stretched thin, kissed the bulbous swell of Jacaerys’ knot upon every perfect union of their hips.

He urged his hips down, guided by his brother’s hand, yearning in a primal mania to have that knot inside of him.

The head of his brother’s cock kissed his womb, caressing that soft pink channel on every deep thrust.

His insides felt molten, like the flesh may slough off his bones at any moment. Like every cant of his brother-husband’s hips urged a tongue of dragonfire to lap at that sacred place. The place he yearned to have filled.

Jacaerys offered the dripping length of his tongue and Lucerys suckled upon it readily, filled by him so completely.

He anchored himself to his husband, nails caught upon the rippling muscle of his back.

He has no words left to give, save for a garbled string of “please”.

“Are you close, my love?”

Jacaerys asked, voice little more than a growl, his forehead pressed to Luke’s.

Lucerys thrashed at the delicious torment of his building release, tears streamed down his cheeks. He was close, horrendously so.

His husband’s lips found his, drinking deeply of his anguish.

The cadence of his husband’s thrust had grown all the more ardent in response. The very bed seemed to quake. Yet all he could see was Jacaerys, the silver of his hair, the violet of his eyes, Lucerys’ own blood painted upon his skin…

“Please!” Lucerys cried out, drunk upon the scent of white oak and an open flame, burning with a longing writ in their shared blood upon his very bones. Stripped of all constraints and vanity, he was simply an Omega in dire need of his Alpha.

When he arched his neck, his husband hadn’t the will to refuse a second time. He mouthed at the spot that so dearly needed attention, he adored it with his lips and tongue.

Each thrust fucked him so deeply into the rich, sweat-soaked featherbed. He arched, yowling at the unbearable sensation of his husband’s broad head at his womb.

“Once more, wife,” Jacaerys panted, breath hot as dragonfire ghosted along his lips, “come for me, brother. Shower me in your love.”

His bud was found and assaulted with the unrelenting press of sword-callused fingers; Urging him and higher.

And in a moment, he was undone, his release snapped like their chord of blood-red and gold and his world shook like all of Dragonstone would fall apart around them. His release gushed from his stretched-wide quim, drenching his husband and the bedding further. Jacaerys growled a deeply pleased guttural sound, his hips continued to pump into the squelching mess of Lucerys’ dripping sex, the firm grip of his hand cradled Lucerys’ jaw, forbidding him from looking elsewhere, at anything but Jacaerys.

He could only watch as a trembling look of awe passed over his husband’s face.

Jace’s hips surged forward and Luke bowed off of the bed at the undeniable ache of his husband’s knot popping inside. The thick head pressed against the slender pink opening of Lucerys’ womb. His thighs shook. Teeth were at his neck, kissing then breaking the skin. The bite was clean and perfect and unifying. Lucerys cried out towards the blood-red canopy above them. In that moment he saw a burst of color behind his eyes: the endless rainbow of their combined dragonfire. A third sharp release was upon him; brief and blinding. His cocklet spurted weakly, his quim clenched, milking the fattened bulb of his Alpha’s knot. A desperate whine fell from his lips as he felt it begin to swell. They were tied now, irrefutably: in body and blood.

His unspooling mind retreated to their vows once more as his brother’s seed distended the concave of his belly —— one flesh, one heart, one soul.

A rumbling purr started in his chest and his fingers wound through Jacaerys’ silver hair of their own volition. It was an intrinsic need as primal as the ache to purr, was the need to touch his brother. His husband. His mate.

He became prey pinned beneath his Alpha. His toes curled in atavistic delight.

He felt unbearably whole like he had found his missing piece.

When his brother’s lips inevitably withdrew from the fresh site of Lucerys’ bondmark, he was overcome with the bone-deep urge to weep. Yet, Jacaerys soothed him with a low, nearly musical flange of his subvocals that said, ‘Rest easy, little brother. I am here.’ Lucerys felt the spike of pacifying pheromones filling his frantic hindbrain, putting him promptly at ease. He felt the press of an aquiline nose to his temple, gentle and familiar. He fought his body's need to fall slack and submissive, instead twisting stubbornly upon the bed if only to feel the tug of his Alpha’s knot keeping them tied. A satisfied prickle of overstimulated tears stung his eyes. A dutiful tongue lapped at the slow ooze of blood from the site upon his neck.

A tug persisted at the base of his skull. A nascent thing through which all flowed. Their bond.

There was no word so apt for his current state other than claimed. Even still, adrift within the overwhelming emotion of it all, Lucerys sought some semblance of assurance; some logic to the disorder Jacaerys had made of him.

His mind scrabbled for clarity, despite how his eyelids drooped and his limbs curled into the preternatural heat of his Alpha’s body, wrapped in the woodsy aroma of white oak and the bittersweet bite of an open flame.

He fell deeper still into a place so utterly content as an aquiline nose and warm lips nuzzled fondly at his hairline. It was not long until whisps of vanilla and browned butter roamed in fragrant curls from his sweat-slicked skin.

“I’ll be going soon,” Lucerys said amidst a yawn as firm fingers pressed warm divots into the underside of his thigh.

“Going where, precisely?” Jacaerys asked, indolent, but displeased. The emotion trickled over, like rainwater through a leaking roof. Lucerys frowned at the feeling.

He thought of propriety, of what he’d been taught of formal marriages such as theirs.

“To my own chambers, husband,” Lucerys informed, though he hadn’t the strength to lift his head while he spoke.

“I could use the rest,” he added sweetly, knowing an Alpha’s ego was utterly in want of stroking.

Jacaerys exhaled through his nose before Lucerys felt its straight bridge touch the upturned curl of his own.

“Mm,” his Alpha hummed, “then rest.”

Longing poured over as a hand settled at the dip in Lucerys’ waist where they lay.

“You are my wife now, Lucerys. My chambers are yours.”

Curious, he thought to himself.

It brought to mind a memory formerly lost to him…

“Let me in!” Lucerys demanded in a nasally whisper, lips pressed to the crack in the door.

“Jace-”

The door budged far enough for him to catch the gleam of his elder brother’s silver-gold hair and he felt a swell of victory.

“I can’t let you in, Luke. Mother will have my head-”

“She will not! Oh, Jace, she won’t catch us. She never does.”

Jacaerys’ face twisted in a conflicted expression, but in his heart, Lucerys knew he had won. The door swung open and Lucerys rushed inside. His hand clasping with his brother’s pulling him towards the bed.

“You mustn’t make a sound, hm?” Jacaerys warned, a finger held to Luke’s lips.

Lucerys nodded giddily.

“I won’t. I promise.”

As the memory faded, Lucerys found himself unbearably drowsy, his head pressed to a strong chest, his cold little feet tucked to the backs of warm knees, as familiar as the lines traversing his palms.

I had mastered you once brother, he thought to himself as he squirmed closer into the cage of his husband’s arms, I can do it again.

#my writing #jaceluke #jaceluke agenda #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #dark jacaerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon #jacaerys x lucerys #hotd fanfic

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