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icarusignite · 11 months

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Hey,

Perhaps the second part could be about telling their parents that they want to marry each other and that the other women are told that he has chosen a Wife. Maybe Alicent and Otto has something against it. It would be cool to find out where all the letters went. Maybe Otto noticed how well his grandson and the reader understand each other and since he doesn't like Rhaenyra and her children, he ordered when the letters arrive in Oldtown to have them removed or something. Maybe the reader and Daeron could argue because she tells him that Alicent and Otto have always had something against her and her family but Daeron doesn't want to believe it because he loves his family. I just love drama. He could also says to her in anger that she and her brothers are illegitimate children, maybe he also says that in front of other people. But he wouldn't apologize at first and that makes her angry or something. But of course you can decide, it's just an idea.🫶🫶

I love your writing ❤️

Your reader ☺️

Like an old melody, my heart resumes | Part 2

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

A/N: So sorry this took a while. You asked for drama so here we are. I was listening to cinnamon girl while writing this so you can blame miss lana for the angst lol. Hope you enjoy <3

Word Count: 3k

Pairing: Daeron x Fem! Reader | (angst, hurt/no-comfort)

When you and Daeron entered the main hall again, your fingers were entwined, and everyone could see the shift in your attitudes toward each other. It was evident by the smiles you kept sneaking each other.

"Are we going to tell them right now?" you mumbled nervously.

"Well, we have to so that these lovely ladies who have been gathered here don't hold out too much hope. After all, I am now a man spoken for," Daeron squeezed your hand, shooting you a wink.

"Yeah...but what if...,"

Daeron clicked his tongue, "No more what-ifs, my love. You're mine now, and I'm never letting you go."

A laugh burst out of you.

Approaching the grand table, Daeron's gaze sought out his father, King Viserys, who met his son's eyes with a curious smile.

"Father," Daeron inclined his head to show reverence.

"So my son, have any of the young ladies tonight captured your eye," King Viserys eyed your hand clasped in his son's.

Daeron took a deep breath, his voice filled with unwavering resolve, "My King, Lady Mother, I have chosen my bride, the one who has captured my heart."

Then he spoke your name, the syllables dancing upon his tongue, heavy with familiarity and tenderness. Your name was at home on his lips, in his heart.

The king's eyes twinkled with a mix of pride and affection as he sat up straighter, "Is that so?"

"Yes, sire."

King Viserys turned to you then, "And you, my dear, do you willingly accept this union?"

You turned slightly red, a fact that Daeron found adorable as he snuck a glance at you.

"Yes, Grandsire, I accept."

Queen Alicent, seated beside him, raised her eyebrows in surprise at the admission, but she smiled nonetheless, sharing a fond look with Rhaenyra at the thought of their children betrothed. However, Otto Hightowe'rs face immediately darkened at the news.

King Viserys, aware of the tension in the room, rose from his seat, his eyes fixed on the crowd.

"Lords and ladies, esteemed guests, I have joyous news to share! My son, Prince Daeron Targaryen, has chosen his bride, and I am delighted to announce their betrothal."

A collective murmur rippled through the crowd, curiosity and excitement filling the place. Then the hall erupted in a chorus of applause and congratulatory cheers, the sound echoing off the grand walls. Daeron exchanged a giddy smile with you, his eyes gleaming with happiness and relief, hand squeezing yours impossibly tighter. There was a bit of disappointed muttering from the various noble ladies who had hoped to ally themselves with the young Targaryen prince, but that didn't stop you from feeling safe within his hold.

King Viserys addressed the crowd once again, his voice carrying the weight of authority and affection, "Let it be known that Daeron Targaryen shall be united in marriage with my beloved granddaughter. May their union bring prosperity and happiness to our noble house."

Alicent, a radiant smile adorning her face, stood beside the king, nodding in approval. Rhaenyra, overcome with joy, moved to hug you tightly, her eyes glistening with tears of happiness. Then she turned her attention to your betrothed whom she embraced just as affectionately. Your father on the other hand surveyed everyone's expressions and when he saw Otto's menacing glare aimed toward you, his jaw tightened, his grip on his goblet growing tighter as his eyes followed your movements protectively.

The rest of the evening wore on uneventfully. Although disappointed at their failure at securing a betrothal for themselves, the nobles were still eager to offer up their congratulations and remain on the king's good side. Eventually, as the hour grew late and the revelry began to subside as everyone retired to their respective chambers. You bid Daeron a tender farewell, still reminiscing about the dance you had shared only a short while ago, your first as his betrothed.

When you finally made your way to your chambers, tucked beneath the covers of your bed, you traced your fingers along your lips, still tingling from the kiss you had shared with your beloved earlier. Thoughts of Daeron filled your mind, and you couldn't help but smile in the darkness, feeling a little giddy.

You woke up the next morning, heart fluttering with excitement, eager to see Daeron once more. Your steps were light as you made your way through the corridors of the Red Keep, mind filled with plans of walking to breakfast with your beloved, relishing every moment spent in his company.

As you neared the entrance to the corridor leading to Daeron's chambers, a hushed commotion caught your attention. Curiosity tugged, and you couldn't resist the temptation to investigate. You tiptoed closer, careful not to draw attention to yourself, and discovered a partially open door through which voices drifted.

Peering through the crack, your eyes widened as you saw Otto Hightower, his normally composed demeanour shattered, engaged in a heated argument with his nephew, Lord Ormund Hightower. Their voices clashed in a crescendo of anger and frustration.

"Did you not do as you were told!" he bellowed.

"I did exactly as you said, Uncle. You told me to ensure that Daeron never got a single letter from Rhaenyra's bastard and I did. Do not blame me for your failed plans," Ormund returned just as heatedly.

"I did what I thought was best for the family. Daeron was supposed to focus on his duties, not be distracted by the words of that whore's daughter, and now all my efforts have gone to waste."

"The fault is yours. You could not keep an eye on him when he was right in front of you. For all the years he resided with me, he believed she had forgotten him, abandoned him in his absence."

"By the gods, how did this happen? How are they betrothed if you did as I commanded? Everything is ruined now."

You flinched at his words, eyes welling with tears. You quietly retreated from the door, footsteps echoing through the corridor as you grappled with your conflicting emotions. The letters you had poured your heart and soul into had been intentionally intercepted and it broke your heart to think of how hurt Daeron must have been in thinking that you had abandoned him. You made your way to breakfast alone, forgoing your initial plans.

As the breakfast hall buzzed with the clatter of utensils and the hum of conversations, your normally vibrant presence seemed muted. Even Daeron couldn't help but notice the change in your demeanour. Your eyes, which sparkled with joy the night before, now seemed dull.

Concern etched his features as he took a seat beside you near the end when the room had mostly cleared. Leaning closer, he whispered softly, "Is everything alright? You seem distant, not at all like yourself this morning."

You forced a smile, gaze momentarily flickering to meet his concerned eyes, "It is nothing. Just a restless night, I suppose. My mind has been preoccupied."

"You know you can tell me what's bothering you right."

"Yes. I know."

"Then what's wrong?"

You swallowed nervously, "Perhaps we might go somewhere else to speak of this. Away from prying eyes?"

"Of course. Anything."

As you both made your way to a more secluded corner of the space, your mind raced to figure out how you would tell him what you had found out earlier that morning. You wondered if you should even tell him but it was important that he knew the truth. That he knew that you would never have abandoned him willingly.

"So," Daeron raised an expectant eyebrow at you, his smile encouraging. "What's on your mind love?"

You took a deep breath, avoiding eye contact, and he stepped closer, finger brushing against your chin to tilt it up, meeting your gaze with unwavering intensity.

"I-uhm-there's something I need to tell you, about-uhm..."

"Go on."

"Right, yeah. So remember those letters I sent you, all those years you were in Oldtown?"

Daeron's expression shifted from concern to confusion, "Is this about the letters again? I am sorry for not responding to them, but I swear I never received them."

"Yeah, I know. I know you didn't receive them. That's what this is...I need to tell you something about your family?"

"My family? What about them?"

"The King's Hand, and Lord Ormund too."

"What do they have to do with the letters?"

"Lord Ormund intentionally kept them from you. He made sure that word from me never reached you. And it was under the orders of your grandfather."

Daeron's brows furrowed in disbelief, "You can't be serious. They would never conspire against us like that, against me. They love me. Lord Ormund is like a father to me."

Tears welled up in your eyes, frustration mingling with your determination to speak the truth now that it was out.

"I know it's hard to believe, but I swear I overheard them arguing this morning. They admitted to intercepting my letters to you, leaving you to believe I had forgotten about you."

"That's not possible. They wouldn't do that to me."

"But-but...I heard them with my own ears."

Daeron pulled away from you, his warmth leaving your side as he paced the room, running his hands through his hair in aggravation, "Well, you must be mistaken then."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"I-no...I don't know. All I know is that you must be mistaken. You have to be."

"Daeron, I'm not lying! I heard it with my own ears," the words stuck in your throat as you struggled to choke them out.

"Enough!" he thundered, his voice echoing. "I will not stand for any more slander against my family."

You flinched at the harshness of his tone and your lower lip trembled with the effort to keep the tears at bay, "I thought you trusted me."

"Not when you make up such preposterous lies and insult my family's honour!"

"There is no honour in keeping things from those you love. And I am not lying!"

"I will not listen to these baseless accusations, not from the likes of you!"

"And what's that supposed to mean? The likes of me?"

Daeron's expression hardened, his face reddening and his voice laced with frustration, "A bastard like you! What would you know about honour? What would anybody in your family know about honour, whores and bastards the lot of you!"

His words hung heavy in the air, silence enveloping the both of you as you simply stared at each other. The space the two of you occupied was not as concealed as you had first believed and several servants who were milling about stopped short at his declaration. The tears would not stay back, and now they ran freely down your face. Daeron winced at the sight of them, instinctively stepping forward as if wanting to comfort you. He raised his hands and then clenched them into fists before forcing them back to his side. You wrapped your arms around yourself as if to hold yourself together, to stop your heart from falling to pieces inside your chest.

"How could you...?"

"Listen-I..."

"No. No, I have heard enough," you gave him a tight smile. "I am glad you were honest enough to tell me what you really thought of me and my family. I appreciate it."

"That's not what I-"

"I am not finished...If that is how you really feel, perhaps I am not the person you should be marrying."

"What are you saying?" Daeron's voice was barely above a whisper.

"I am saying that you would not want me to taint your noble, honourable family's bloodline with my bastard-whore blood, now would you?" you let out a breathy chuckle. "Surely some of the ladies from last night's feast are still here, perhaps you might go visit your father and tell him that you would like to be betrothed to one of them instead."

You scrubbed your own tears off your face aggressively, taking in a deep breath. Daeron stepped toward you once more and this time you let him.

"Why would you say that?"

"And why would you say what you just did? Perhaps we both decided to let the truth of how we feel out this morning," you shrugged.

"That's not-" he sighed exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You are the one who started it. You are the one who came in here with your stupid petty arguments and accusations. I get it, you're upset that I didn't reply to your letters but blaming Lord Ormund for intercepting them is low, even for you."

"That's what you think this is about? That I'm upset with you for not responding so I'm making up lies to hurt you. Daeron, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was hurt you, especially when I knew that you never could have gotten my letters. I just wanted to tell you so you didn't think I had abandoned you!" your voice came out broken and jagged.

"It still doesn't excuse the fact that you're blaming my family for something they didn't do!"

"I just-"

"Gods, I wish that you hadn't written to me. Maybe it would've been better if you really had abandoned all thoughts of me. I would have been better off without you and your lies!"

Daeron watched in horror as the words tumbled from his mouth. It was like watching himself in the third person. The person who was saying all these hurtful things to you, the one who was responsible for the startled hurt in your eyes, was a foreigner to him. His mind screamed at him to shut up, to stop speaking the awful things that kept falling from his lips as your expression grew more fragile. You had just told him that perhaps he should marry someone else and he was still insulting you instead of trying to make it better.

Why would I wish to be married to someone else? I am already betrothed to you. I don't want anyone else. I am sorry. Gods, I am so sorry. It just slipped out, and I-that is no excuse. I know it is no excuse but I am truly so sorry. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean any of it.

Those were the words that rattled through his brain, the words he really wanted to say but the demon of cruelty had fully possessed him now and it was too late to halt its rampage or salvage the wreckage it had caused. To your credit, you let him finish his spiel and then watched him for a few more moments as he stood silently, waiting for your response, chest heaving with emotion.

"Say something already," he snapped.

Or maybe to you, it felt like a snap, because in his mind, he was still pleading with you.

You slapped him. His hand flew up to cradle his injured cheek, looking at you with tears in his eyes. There was something satisfying about that. About the way his cheek reddened and you swore you could see his heart breaking in the forlorn way he looked at you. Yes, it was satisfying indeed, after he had fully trodden on your heart moments ago with his heel.

"You called my mother a whore. You. Called. Me. A. Bastard. You called my siblings bastards," you punctuated each word with a stab to his chest with your finger and he flinched every time. "Maybe I should never have written to you after all."

"What?"

"You heard me. Perhaps you truly are better off without me and I without you. Perhaps we are not meant for a life together."

Daeron's lips turned downward and he nodded stiffly, "If that is how you really feel."

"It is clearly how you feel."

Something in his eyes screamed out an apology, something that you recognized because your next words addressed his unspoken apology and felt like they would crack his heart open and carve the marrow from his bones.

"I won't forgive you," you stated resolutely. "I will never forgive you. I fucking hate you and I never want to see you again."

Filled with equal parts fury and grief, you turned away, tears silently tracing a path down your cheeks. Several nobles gawked at you as you sped past them, blinking away your anguish. You knew the two of you had certainly made a scene and news travelled fast in the Red Keep. It would not be long before everyone will have heard of this spectacle and your broken betrothal would be the most talked of scandal for a long time to come.

You heard Daeron call out your name after you once more as your steps increased their pace, and with an aching heart you realized, your name no longer had a home on his lips.

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arcielee · 1 year

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Aōhon iksan

Summary: Daeron has come back from Oldtown to play his role in King’s Landing and marry one of the Four Storms. Paring: Daeron Targaryen x Female!Reader (third person) Word Count: 1183 Warnings: AFAB, sexual innuendo mentioned, kissing. Author’s Note: This is dedicated to the lovely @harrycollettapologist who submitted this request and inspired this drabble ♥ Thank you to my amazing beta readers @aspen-carter and @killergirlfuria Also! Aōhon iksan is I am yours in Valyrian. Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @sirenofavalon @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll

Daeron Targaryen was the third son of King Viserys and the youngest of his siblings; yet despite how his grandsire instilled the thought that his sole purpose would be to create alliances, he seemed more of an afterthought, with the way he was sent away to Oldtown. There he remained isolated, just a squire in Lord Ormund’s shadow until word arrived that his father was dead and it was his brother who now sat on the Iron Throne.

This ignited the dragon’s blood that burned in his veins as he returned at once aback Tessarion. He landed at the peak of Rhaenys’ Hill, the dragonkeepers rushing to assist the blue scaled dragon, alerting his grandsire of his arrival. Daeron was greeted at the barbican of the Red Keep, his mother wrapped her arms around his shoulders while his grandsire feigned the excitement of the news that his brother had just returned from Storm’s End after securing a betrothal for him to one of the Four Storms.

He prepared himself for the namesake, but instead found himself enamored with the arrival of Lady Baratheon.

She was beautiful, in the least, with a presence that soothed whatever room she entered, with grace to her every movement and a voice that was the soft trill of musical chimes. Lady Baratheon was the physical embodiment of a princess-to-be, but in the moments they were allowed alone, the few before the wedding, she showed him her tactful wit and sound mind, their conversation at ease between them.

The whispers of the Red Keep fluttered about the rushed engagement, how the poor Lady Baratheon could not be afforded even the second son, but that she had to wed the third. Though he flushed with the rumors, oddly enough, she appeared to be just as intrigued with Daeron as he was with her. With the allotted time allowed together, her questions seemed genuine and she was rapt to his attention with his reply; as they were escorted back to their respective rooms, he felt himself both fortunate and flustered by her.

A week after her arrival, it was decided to have an intimate ceremony in the Royal Sept, with only a family meal afterwards to allow them all to become better acquainted. Daeron kept his large hands folded in front to keep from fidgeting, a shyness that accompanied the lady when she came up to his side, though the soft touch of her hands to his own settled him. The Septon was monotonous and they echoed the vows, his low timbre with her melodious lilt.

They were escorted to the small hall that glowed golden with the candle light, decorated tastefully and the table laden with a feast while the minstrels played low, but jovial, melodies while they ate.

It was almost unnerving to be back within this very room, his last memory almost a decade prior where he saw his father sitting center and his mother perched at his side. Now, his mother sat at one end while his brother, King Aegon, who proudly wore the Conqueror’s Crown since it had been placed on top of his head, was seated center with his sister-wife at his side. They were picturesque, he was regal and Helaena now seemed to exude a queenly aura that complemented her serenity.

Aemond sat at the end, his severity etched into the sharp contours of his face and his jeweled eye gleamed in his scarred socket–Daeron only learning the day he returned that his eye had been taken. He glowered with the authority from the title bestowed by the king, Protector of the Realm, which seemed to be a cover-up from the debt of his eye repaid in blood.

Daeron was seated by his new lady wife, who spoke with her musical diction that engaged the attention of his family, and he sat silent at her side, the always-forgotten Targaryen prince.

In so many ways, his family had changed and grown into themselves, but some habits remained, including Aegon’s love of Dornish wine. Daeron watched his red stained lips utter a crude comment about a crude custom abolished two kings prior–his right to the first night.

There was the thought of how Targaryens were closer to gods than men and Daeron now felt the thrum of ichor curl with the fire in his veins.

But Aemond acted first, grabbing Aegon by the scruff of his regal fabric and dragging him from the table. He saw the tears that pearled in his mother’s eyes, her regret threatening to spill, and how his sweet sister excused herself to disappear in the shadows of the Red Keep.

Daeron stood, offering his arm to his lady wife.

It was a white fury that clouded his vision, the combination of his embarrassment, the rumors that trickled within the castle walls and the blatant disrespect shown at the dinner table. He wished to speak to her, to apologize, to take action, but instead his tongue remained swollen in his mouth, choking him.

His automatic steps halted when the white knight broke his trance, “My prince, this way.”

Oh. The realization they were being escorted to the marital room prepared and he now found himself truly alone with his wife, the lovely Lady Baratheon.

It was the same warm, golden hue from the candles light and that poured from the ornate hearth lit and waiting for their arrival. They both remained standing and then she moved towards the small tablet, pouring a fresh goblet and bringing it to Daeron, which he accepted numbly.

He took a sip to wet his throat. “My lady, I want to apologize,” he began, setting down the goblet and turning to face her.

“What for?”

His tongue wet his lips as he looked to her, watching her slow, serene movements as she sat down the picture and moved towards him, one step in front of the other, her brow both knitted and elegant above her scrutinous stare. “You did nothing wrong, my prince,” she continued.

He felt his cheeks warm within her proximity. “Daeron,” he placed his hand to his chest, “I wish you to call me Daeron.”

He felt his cock twitch against the crotch of his trousers from the demure way her eyes lifted, how they watched him under her long, dark lashes, how her perfectly pink lips curled. “Yes, Daeron,” she tested his name and it was sweet like honey on her tongue. “You have nothing to apologize for, nothing has changed what happened tonight.”

He blinked, empty, almost dumb until she sweetly reminded him, “I am your lady wife now,” and her smile brightened as Daeron grew rosier with her words. “I am yours, Daeron.”

She closed what little space had remained between them, her small palm resting on top of his large hand stilling resting on his chest. Daeron felt his throat hitch from her sweet scent of lavender that curled into his chest and beckoned him to her. He tilted his head, his silver tresses spilling forward, until the tip of his nose gently touched her own.

And he kissed her.

arcie’s masterlist

#just a sweet drabble #daeron targaryen #daeron the daring #daeron targaryen x reader #daeron targaryen x you #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #hotd daeron

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karsoliar · 13 days

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Prince Daeron Targaryen, also known as Daeron the Daring ✨

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bunnyshideawayy · 18 days

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what is the showrunners plans for Daeron?

if you’re a casual show only watcher you might not even know Alicent has four children, we know Daeron is supposed to be in Old Town but why do they just ignore his existence? have the showrunners even confirmed he’ll be apart of the story? they don’t mention him, even in passing, his character isn’t even eluded to and it’s going to be very confusing when/if he shows up halfway through season 2 or 3 or even 4. they’ll have to spend half an episode explaining who he is and where he’s been im just ????? confused.

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prettymuchteddy · 1 month

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Mercy

Summary: Daeron Targaryen receives news about his nephew, Maelor

Warning: mentions of the death of a child

Words: 667

A/N: This is kind of a character study and expands more on things from Fire and Blood

Daeron remembered the first time he held Maelor in his arms. It was one of the few times his grandsire had allowed him to visit the Red Keep since he began being fostered in Oldtown. He was thirteen when the tiny babe was placed in his arms. He had never held a child before and anxiously cupped his head, terrified of hurting him. His nephew slept quietly; his hand buried beneath the yellow blanket he was wrapped in. Daeron found the courage to relax slightly after minutes of silence from the child. His eyes wandered to the babe's features. His puffy cheeks reminded him of Helaena’s while the curls on his head were remnants of Aegon. A gentle feeling washed over him that day. Daeron smiled at the babe. A harsh wind blew into the tent, he could tell that someone had walked in. “Prince Daeron,” the man announced his presence. “At ease, my lord,” Daeron said. The man’s armor clanged, signaling he had taken a step forward. “My prince, we have received news from Bitterbridge.” Daeron’s brows crinkled. “What does Bitterbridge have to do with us?” The man hesitated. “It's about your nephew, Prince Maelor.” Daeron clicked his tongue. “Ah, they received Maelor. Good, they’ve been traveling for a while, Ser Rickard especially must be exhausted. But I’m sure the ruling lady is treating them well, so he won't complain much when we bring them back to Oldtown.” “My Prince, Ser Rickard, and Prince Maelor are dead.” Daeron’s hand wavered. A moment passed. Then another. His throat went dry. Whatever he was thinking of previously was gone from his memory. The man figured he would continue. “They were found out near an inn. A mob formed and they…killed them both.” Daeron remained still. “When?” Was all he could bring himself to ask. “Not long ago, the ruling lady of Bitterbridge sent your uncle his egg.” Daeron forced himself to laugh. It came out bitter. “An egg is not proof. They could have stolen it. The Gods know Ser Rickard is having a difficult time trying to manage a three-year-old, imagine watching him and an egg.” “That was not the only proof sent, though not to us.” The man paused. “The body was sent to-“ Daeron turned around quickly. “Tread very carefully with what you say,” he threatened. “He is not a body. He is my nephew and your prince.” The man stared at him. Eyes wide and terrified. “Yes, of course, my prince.” Daeron was shaking. “Prince Maelor’s head was sent to King’s Landing where Rhaenyra received it.” Daeron’s grip on the sword by his waist tightened. “They sent my nephew to her?” His voice didn’t sound like his own anymore. “Yes.” “Why? He has nothing to do with her. She was nothing to Maelor,” Daeron spat. “The lady wanted to appease both sides. She doesn’t want to earn the ire of either after what happened on her land.” “Did Ser Rickard not make it to her castle?” Daeron shifted his gaze anywhere but the man’s. “The lady closed her gates. She refused to allow in any person not of her house. That’s why Ser Rickard went to the inn.” Daeron let out an unsteady breath. It came out harsher than intended. “She refused to let anyone in?” The grip on his weapon was turning his knuckles white. “And now she is trying to appease us?” The man only nodded. “Where was she when they found my nephew and Ser Rickard?” “She only appeared after the fact, my prince. She had been in her castle when the mob formed around them.” The young prince turned toward the entrance of the tent. “Tell my uncle’s men that we head for Bitterbridge.” He clenched his jaw. “I need to get Tessarion.” “She has begged your uncle, Lord Hobert, for mercy.” “Oh,” Daeron said. A hollow feeling in his chest. “She will receive mercy, alright. I will grant her the same mercy she and her people gave my nephew.”

#house of the dragon #hotd #fanfic #hotd fanfic #my writing #hotd daeron #daeron targaryen #daeron the daring #maelor targaryen #fire and blood #asoiaf

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