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shesjustanothergeek · 1 year

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His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Nine

Master List of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: I feel like a broken record, but THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT!! I have never found people who have loved something that I love like y'all. I wanna giggle, twirl my hair, and kick my feet, but I also need to scream into the void to get these big feelings out. xD Finally, we have reached the beginning of the end for our sweet main character, but with the loss of innocence breeds growth and strength for the future.

Chapter Warnings: It's Game of Thrones. What do you expect? A happy ending?

You had traveled from your solar to your bed chamber, to the door again, unable to rest for a moment. Your lip throbbed, and your cuticles were stained with crusted blood. Your hair hung loosely over your shoulders. The unknown was gnawing at your insides. No one would answer your cries.

The hours dragged on, and soon the sun was setting for the next day. No one had come to open your doors. Servants had not come to give you meals or help you undress.

You survived on pure adrenaline, your limbs constantly shaking as time ticked on. Your mind was set on what could happen to Lyra and Sara. The power of the Targaryen's had no limit. If they wished, they could destroy an entire House. Sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers wiped out with a single dragon's breath.

There was no escape for you, not now, not ever. You had to accept the destiny the Gods had paved for you with a stiff lip as a soldier on the battlefield.

A breeze ruffled your skirts, securing your arms around your torso for warmth and comfort. Another gust whistled through the cracks in the stone walls, the glass in the windows crackling to adjust to the sudden temperature change. You followed each noise, eyes darting across the room. You ran to your wardrobe as your mind raced with ideas, taking a regal woolen cloak with a three-headed dragon embroidered over the left breast.

You rushed to the other side of your bed chambers, feeling the wall for any indentation or crack where Lyra had entered your room the other night. There was no time to scold yourself for not remembering such crucial information as your fingers quickly searched. Finally, you felt a small crack in the wall that was not there from age as you pulled, scraping your nails across the stone. The metal hinges creaked as you opened it, a gust of damp air blanketing your exposed flesh, your hair standing on edge.

No torches lined the way, cobwebs hanging just above ones head as you peered into the darkness. Quickly, you grabbed a candlestick, using that as your only light source as you entered the black tunnel. You had no clue where this led, having no choice but to keep going forward blindly.

You hoped you were using your time effectively. The thought of someone coming into your rooms to let you out while you traversed through the endless night crossed your mind, and doubt began to fester.

It seemed there was no end to the labyrinth of the Red Keep until you spotted another secret entrance. It would be easier to navigate the castle once you were back in the lavish halls; you just prayed wherever you entered was unoccupied.

The door was heavy, catching on a ledge you could not see as you opened. You attempted to remain quiet as you shoved the door with your shoulder, a dull pain radiating through your chest as you tried again, the passage finally giving.

The Gods answered your prayers as you found yourself in an unfamiliar hall. You breathed a sigh of relief as you gathered your surroundings. Luxurious rugs of red covered the floor, drapings of House Targaryen's crest lining the walls as you shut the door, finding its place around the many similar stones. No guards were posted in the corridors, which raised alarm in your mind, but you pushed it away, following your gut. You trusted your instincts to guide you taking in deep breaths as you wandered blindly.

The castle was eerily silent, the sun hidden under Blackwater Bay. The only sign of life was the burning torches and candelabras hanging from the walls. No servants bustled as they did during the day, carrying miscellaneous objects to an unknown destination.

As you rounded a corner, you saw a familiar painting you passed on your daily path to your lessons with Septa Mariam, finally recognizing where you were. Only a few more paces and you would be near the council room, where you were sure to find some form of life.

"My lady, you seem lost," a voice startled you from behind. You clutched your chest as you turned, seeing a knight in shining silver armor and a white cape. You had seen his face before, tan skin with a light dusting of scruff and short black hair.

"Ser," you chortled, attempting to laugh off your evident scare, "you frightened me."

"The hour is growing late, my lady. You should be in your chambers," he said, stepping closer, his palm on the hilt of his sword.

A lump formed in your throat, threatening to choke your words. "I was hungry," you answered, the lie rolling off your tongue quickly. "I have not eaten since near noon and could not wait any longer for my maids seemed to have disappeared." He took a step forward, and you took one back, mirroring each other's moves.

"What is your name, Ser Knight? I do not believe to have made your acquaintance, yet." Your eyes flickered back to his sword, his hand never leaving it.

"Ser Criston Cole," he answered. "The sworn protector of the Queen, and I have strict orders from Her Grace to keep you in your chambers."

You stumbled backward, tripping over your skirt as Ser Criston grabbed your bicep. "Unhand me, Ser!" You shouted, attempting to tear your arm away from him. He was far too strong, a Kingsguard with years of training, and you, a simple malnourished peasant, years younger than him.

"I have no quarl with you," he grunted as you smacked him with your fist. "I must take you back to your rooms by order of the Queen."

You managed to yank your arm out of his grip, your heel catching on the edge of your skirt as you fell. Your head smacked the stone floor, the carpet providing no cushion as the pain shook your skull. Ser Criston kneeled, stiff and uncomfortable in his armor, as he attempted to pull you up.

Before you could think better of it, your leg kicked him in the chest. He slumped over while he gasped for air, certainly not expecting a girl barely half his age to have such strength. You had evaded the capture of the Gold Cloaks your whole life. Running away from men in shining armor was not new to you. It was just more difficult in an elegant dress.

Ser Criston struggled to keep up with your fast pace, your strides unhindered by layers of metal and leather. You had no clue where you were going, only knowing it was away from him. You heard shouting behind you and the sound of more thundering feet than just one man as you jumped down a flight of stairs, using the wall to propel you forward. You continued your sprint, not stopping even as you run into a male servant dressed in red, knocking a tray of polished silver onto the ground.

You ran until you met a large corridor, the most extensive doors you had ever seen at the end. You realized they were made of oak and bronze as you barreled through, slamming them behind you. You turned to scan the surroundings of what you could only assume with the Great Hall. As you gasped, a handful of people stared at your sudden entrance.

You did not know where to keep your eyes. A man who was not the King sat on the Iron Throne. A man with a curly beard of chestnut brown and hair to match with strands of white sat in his place, the pendant of the hand pinned to his left breast. The Queen stood beside him, her wavy hair not styled but still just as beautiful. She had a look on her face, a mixture between shock and anger, as the pursuing knights finally caught up to you.

Lyra and Sara stood at the steps to the Throne, their hands and feet bonded in shackles, a guard on each side of them. Fear lowered Sara's head, a despondent expression on her tear-stained face as Lyra kicked her. A silent communication between long-time friends that you did not understand until Sara smiled. Even as Lyra was chained and headed towards an unspeakable end, she still wanted to protect you. You were the last true family she had. Her sister was long dead due to the same family she stood in front of.

She would soon meet Eliana, she decided. It would be nice to see her sister once again finally. She could tell her how you've grown, how you have her grit and determination, how much of a spitfire you have become, how apples are your favorite. Eliana would undoubtedly laugh at that.

"I was..." Ser Criston started to say, out of breath after such a long chase, "I was just escorting the lady back to her rooms, Your Highness." He addressed the Queen, ignoring the Hand that sat on the Throne. "Please forgive the intrusion."

The Queen and the Hand nodded, Alicent wrapping her arms around her forest green dress and turning away.

Ser Criston grabbed you by the back of your neck, jerking you toward him before you could think to run again. He was more determined this time. His ego was bruised because of a little girl, and he realized he needed to treat you as a man, snatching your arms behind your back as you pulled away from him. You slipped from his grasp again and ran to Lyra as if you could change her fate.

If the King were here, or perhaps your father, they would see the pain this sentence would bring you and hopefully stand on the side of reason. But they were not here as you fell to your knees at the steps of the Iron Throne, Lord Otto Hightower staring down from his nose at you.

"Please, My Lord, please!" You began to sob, clasping your hands together as if praying. "Please spare them! Do not put their punishment on my hands! They are good and kind people, trying to save their only kin from being taken away."

Ser Criston and another member of the Kingsguard came from behind, lifting you to your feet by your underarms. Lord Hightower flicked his fingers, dismissing you, and adjusted himself more comfortably atop the seat of swords. You continued your struggle, two men much more difficult than one, as you thrashed about in their hold.

"My Queen! My Queen! Please, I beg of you, do not take my only family," you cried, racking your brain for anything you could use to find kindness within her. "My mother died on the birthing bed after she bore me! I never knew her love, never knew what she looked like. I can only imagine her likeness when I see her sisters face."

Queen Alicent did not turn to see your tears, picking ferociously at her cuticles until the thin piece of skin ripped clear to her knuckle, blood oozing out of her porcelain skin.

"I cannot bare the loss of another on my heart. The weight will surely break it," you shouted across the Great Hall as the Knights dragged you out. "An aversion to commit murder is not a weakness! Your late Lady Mother would surely feel the same!"

As the door closed behind you, you saw it—a twitch. A slight turn of the Queen's head gave you hope-- licked the flame in your chest as Lyra gave you one last reassuring smile.

***

What was left of your staff was waiting for you in your solar. Izola and Caldia stood with their hands clasped and heads down, solemn expressions on their faces. You did not need to speak with them about what happened, for they already knew, no doubt, a witness to Sara's arrest. You wondered if they knew about her and Lyra's plans and if they tried to help but thought better than to ask. You didn't want to cause another person to suffer on your behalf.

"My lady," they both curtsied, eyes still downcast.

You nodded and walked past them, placing your cloak on a stool and heading to your bedroom. "I would like a bath," you stated without the familiar kindness in your tone. The Targaryen's had stolen that from you. You didn't want to be the sweet and considerate person they expected.

"Yes, my lady," they said in unison, curtsying as before, and ran to fetch some warm water.

You became detached from your body as your subconscious controlled your actions, unlacing the front of your dress and shimmying the top layer off. You didn't care to place your garments into a neat stack as you usually would, thoughtless as you left them in a pile on the floor. The stone didn't cause its typical spine-chilling shiver as you walked to your vanity and fixed your hair, slouching on the cushioned stool. Though the brush was lying plainly before you, you could not see it, your eyes not registering with your mind, unable to form cogitations or feel any emotions.

Your arm lifted like a puppet on a string, picking up the brush as its silver handle glinted in the candlelight and ran it through your hair. You could feel the stinging of your pulled roots, the teeth catching on the tiny knots that appeared throughout the day's mayhem and continued to rake through boorishly.

You studied your reflection. Your cheeks had become fuller than the day you arrived here. Instead of a sallow hue to your skin, it was now flushed, with a red undertone rich from blood. You looked... beautiful, and you hated it.

You loathed what your good health meant, what was lost and taken from you. Sorrow for the years ahead filled with longing for a life you once had.

Your ladies returned with buckets of steaming water, interrupting your storm of thoughts as they went to the tub.

You had gone your whole life without bathing regularly, and you took full advantage of now being able to. You had requested the bathtub be kept in your bed chambers at all times, a decorated partition to be put in front of it as they helped scrub your body. You were used to eyes on you while you washed, a routine quality of living with a house full of women, but these felt different.

They were not Sara, Caldia, or Izola's concentrated stares but ones you could not see. The thought of someone lurking in the shadows, their pupils dilated as they watched the water drip from your sanguine flesh, made the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

"My lady, the bath is ready," Caldia said as if speaking to a startled animal, ready to jump out and bite.

Maybe she was right to be afraid, you thought.

You placed the brush back onto the wooden vanity, removing the final layer of clothing and revealing your naked body. The water was too hot, almost burning your skin, but you did not care, only releasing a sharp intake of breath as you submerged up to your neck. You did not feel the same apprehensive feeling as you had the past times you bathed, which soothed some of the tension held within your shoulders as you sank into the tub.

Izola kneeled beside the wooden pool, laying the products neatly on a stool beside her. She dipped her hands in the water, stifling a wince from how hot it was as she began to lather some scented soap on her hands.

"I thank you, Izola," you turned, facing the two handmaids, "but I wish to bathe myself tonight." Both women gawked, stunned by your unusual request. "And you also, Caldia, I thank you for everything. You both have made this prison feel somewhat of a home to me, and that is more than I could have ever asked for."

They shared a worried look, but in the end, relented, unable or unwilling, you did not know, to refuse your request.

***

You did not think. You did not move as the summer sun burned your skin, sweat dripping down your neck and temples. Your mind and body were immune to any stimulant. All you could feel was a deep, hollow, consuming darkness devouring your heart. A tangled mess of rage, desperation, and anguish gnashing its teeth in your chest as you stared at the unblinking faces, their mouths gaping as flies landed on their tongues.

Lyra's bright, sapphire eyes were now glazed over. She and Sara's heads were next to each other on a wooden pike displayed on the battlements of the Red Keep for all to see.

You could no longer stand to look at them, the sight turning your bones into liquid.

With the consent of the Small Council, the Hand of the King concluded in a matter of hours that the attempted abduction of a member of the royal family was one of the highest treasons and that no punishment other than death fit the crime.

"Look at them," Daemon commanded, finally speaking after long moments of silence. He was leaning against a pillar, his leather gloves clasped together at his waist.

You refused to move your head, your eyes focused solely on the cracks in the pale Red Stone flooring.

"Look at them," he demanded of you once again, but you still did not listen as your teeth digging into your sensitive lip.

He strolled over wordlessly, his pace not matching his tone from earlier as he stood beside your trembling form. A speck of blue flew across your vision, too quick to register, as a bird landed on Sara's stiff head, pecking at her decaying eyes.

"Remember this," Daemon spoke, your watery gaze snapping to his, "remember how this made you feel and keep it. Lock it away inside you until need it's rage." He turned to you, his head tilted downward and peering through his blonde lashes. "Until you need it's pain, hurt, and sorrow brings forth your strength."

"It is your fault this happened," you snapped, unthinking, fists balling at your sides.

"Do not blame me for the Madam's choices. Had she not hidden Elaina's pregnancy you might have grown up privileged and these girls would still be alive." You frowned, glaring at him with slanted eyes and downturned lips.

You were unable to refute his point. Perhaps you could have been royalty if Ma had decided not to hide your mother away. But the rumors of deaths surrounding Daemon's alleged bastards were not something Ma would test.

"The Hightowers killed your family, beheaded an ignorant servant girl who thought she could do good." He placed his palms on your shoulders, rubbing his thumbs soothingly across your collarbones and the base of your neck. "If you wish to protect those you love, you must stay here; let me take care of you as I should have all those years, raise you as my daughter, and we will make these Green Bastards regret the day they stepped foot in the Dragon's Den."

As you clasped your hands onto his wrists, you stared back into your father's eyes, an inferno raging behind your violet-brimmed pupils. You were going to destroy House Hightower and all who supported them. Their plans or aspirations would never come to fruition as long as dragon blood flowed through your veins.

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My life is moving super fast atm. I quit my super-toxic job, and I'm graduating from my program in two days! My work culture was so bad to the point where I was contemplating suicide. I had a post in my drafts spoiling the entire plot of this story that I would post when I went through with it. Coincidentally, my therapist was on freaking vacation during that whole time. xD

I already have anxiety about all the exams and finals I have to take to become certified in what I do, and the added stress of a hostile work environment was just too much for me. I didn't think I would have the mental strength and ability to get out of bed and attend school, which meant I probably wouldn't graduate for some time, and I was also constantly dreading going to a place where I saw others ridiculed and bullied around me.

Long story short... it was not a fun time, but I'm past it and headed for better places!

Thank you so much for supporting me with everything I do, no matter how late an update is. xD

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @alexandra-001, @buckysmainhxe-deactivated202303, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @minttea07, @silverslive, @unclecrunkle, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @djlexi, @ynbutbetter, @honestlykat, @graykageyama, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @brezzybfan, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @sheislonelyalways, @bellameshipper, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @buckylahey, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @partypoison00, @please-buckme, @pastelorangeskies, @joliettes, @existential-echo @priyajoyy, @valaenatargaryensdragon, @merovingianprincess, @rachelnicolee

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thenewgothictwice · 6 months

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Mosab Abu Toha: "Occupation attempts to manipulate the facts of the victims – Palestinians – and twist them as terrorists. If someone hates someone else, he will think everything he does is bad. For example, if he saw him tending to his orange tree he would think that he is planning to use it against him. If he saw him go to his land, he would think that he is going to attack him. People under the cover of occupation are always afraid of us, no matter what we do, because they know it is not their home or land.

To me, my grandfather represents Palestine. The occupier thinks that my grandfather or any Palestinian is a terrorist, but I’m showing you who they really were."

Here's the poem:

"My grandfather was a terrorist— He tended to his field,

watered the roses in the courtyard,

smoked cigarettes with grandmother on the yellow beach,

lying there like a prayer rug.