#rhaenyra looks so pretty here | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wh0reforcoriolanussnow · 10 months

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Daemon x oc, where oc is alicent's 4th child and her favorite, but the oc also inherent Otto's scheming skills and so much better than him and overly can't stand rhaenrya and knows that rhaenrya likes daemon so she goes for daemon and daemon falls harder for the oc AKKKK and rhaenrya pov where she realizes that she is losing daemon to her much younger half-sister, please 🥺🫶

Half-Blood Rivalry || D. Targaryen x oc

GIF by @mad-witch-moon DIVIDERS by @straywords

a/n: tysm for this request!!! anons please continue to send me requests pls!!! I hope you guys are happy for Catarina to play oc as Rhaella :) also please imagine that this takes place in ep 2. when rhaella is born is around the time daemon is banished for taking rhae to the brothel. rhaenyra hasn’t married laenor or has children yet.

The youngest child of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen was sweet Rhaella. When Rhaenyra first held the girl when she was only a babe, she had a strange feeling about her half-sister. As years went by and both girls no doubt got older, Rhaenyra could not seem to shake off the uneasy feelings she felt towards her youngest sister.

“Happy Name Day, sweet child” Alicent goes on her tippy toes to kiss her youngest and—anyone with eyes could see— favourite child. “Thank you, mother,” Rhaella kissed her cheek. It was then her father’s turn. Rhaella and Viserys had always had a complicated relationship, the two never seemed to see eye to eye, quite similar with her other siblings.

Rhaella and her siblings knew that their father didn’t favour them as much as he does with Rhaenyra. Nonetheless, Viserys was still her father and he cared for him.

“Happy name day, sister” Rhaenyra bursts through the doors of the throne room with a drunken smile. Everyone in the room stared at the platinum white haired Princess in shock. Her appearance was dishevelled and she reeked of alcohol. It was only morning.

“Are you quite alright Rhaenyra?” Alicent raises an eyebrow as she looks the Targaryen up and down. Rhaella lets out a scoff. Typical Rhaenyra. “Quite so, I wouldn’t dare miss seeing my dear sister on this special day” She raises a cup towards the younger who rolls her tongue against her cheek in annoyance.

Rhaella looks to Viserys, a wide grin on his face making her scoff. Rhaenyra somehow always seems to pull Rhaella’s buttons without even realising. In her opinion, she was a stuck up Princess that was never grateful of what was given to her.

Rhaella could not stand her older half-sister, maybe it was because of the fact that their father always placed Rhaenyra on a pedestal and could never do anything wrong in his eyes. Placing a fake smile on her pretty face, Rhaella speaks up. “Thank you Rhaenyra, your presence here means so much to me” She pops a grape in her mouth.

Otto lowly chuckles yet shakes his head lightly at his granddaughter’s tone. There was no denying that out of his four grandchildren, Rhaella too was his favourite. The young Targaryen was very much like him in many ways, even better in some aspects you could say.

There was silence at the table for a bit as they all ate, when all of a sudden, the doors once again opened. This time, Ser Harrold walked in. “Your Grace, he’s back” Was all the kingsguard said. Rhaella and her siblings stop chewing their food and look to their father.

Viserys wore a shocked face before standing up quickly and walking away. Rhaella looks to her mother in confusion as she gives her a sad look and rubs her arm. “Father, where are you going?” The young Targaryen turns in her seat as she watches him walk away. What even stung the young girl was the fact that he didn’t respond.

“Daemon’s back” Rhaenyra says to herself with wide eyes. “Don’t be silly, uncle Daemon has not returned to court in how many years?” Aegon questions as Rhaella replies, “Since I was a babe” She shrugs. “But who else would Ser Harrold have referred to? Did you see father’s face,” She humorously scoffs, “That was Daemon alright” Rhaenyra shrugs.

“Enough talk about your uncle. It is Rhaella’s name day and I want you all behaved for her birthday celebrations today” Alicent sternly speaks before continuing to eat. The Targaryen siblings all give each other one final look before going back to their meal.

It was the night of Rhaella's name day where a huge feast was held. Alicent demanded the celebration to be extravagant for her favourite child. You could have mistaken the event as the King's name day.

Rhaella sat beside her mother and her siblings beside her, Rhaenyra on Viserys' side. When her father stood up to announce a speech, he was interrupted by a figure walking into the throne room.

It was no one other than Daemon. Young Rhaella had not seen him all day, him showing up there was her first time seeing him really as she could not recall him when she was a born.

Of course, the Targaryen often heard stories about her uncle. He held a bad reputation and yet everytime anyone would speak of him, Rhaella always found herself wanting to hear more about her uncle.

He sauntered in with a smirk on his face. "Brother, I thought you weren't going to come" Viserys puts a smile on his face as Daemon stands in front of the table, his hands clasped together. Rhaella could have sworn she saw a glint of mischievous in his eyes.

She looks up towards her father, than to her half-sister. Rhaenyra had a look on her face that Rhaella couldn't quite fathom out. "And miss my dear nieces' birthday celebration? How could I do that to Rhaenrya" Alicent gasps in disbelief and Aemond chuckles under his breath, a kick under the table from Otto shut him up.

"I think your mistaken dear uncle, it is not Rhaenyra you should be wishing a happy birthday, but me," Rhaella irked, crossing her arms. Daemon's eyes move to her. She watched him study her before a grin makes it to his lips. "Apologies...." He trails off, "Rhaella." "My brother failed to mention which niece of mine was celebrating. After all, I have little memory of his children before I left."

Rhaella nods her head politely, he was offered a seat at the end of the table near Rhaenyra. She couldn't help but notice her half-sisters' wanting eyes to Daemon. The young Targaryen knew of what had happened when she was born. In terms of Daemon and Rhaenyra.

But she did not expect her to still long for her uncle, after all, Daemon was gone for nearly 20 years. The whole time as they all feasted, Rhaella felt eyes burning into her and everytime she looked, Daemon shamelessly stares with a smirk on his face.

"I think I would like to dance," Rhaella says before standing up and making her way to her sworn knight, Ser Harwin. "A dance Ser Harwin?" The princess looks up at him with a smile. "It is my pleasure, princess" He smiles back as they start to dance, not knowing a certain Targaryen's eyes were fixated on the two the entire time.

"Your daughter is quite pleasing to look at, Alicent" Daemon chuckles to himself, his eyes still not leaving Rhaella. Alicent nearly choked on her drink as she glares at him. "My sister is nearly half my age uncle!" Rhaenyra laughs.

"Mhm, a shame indeed" He mutters as he taps his fingers on the table. Rhaenyra stares at her uncle in disbelief. The princess opens her mouth but shuts it again when Daemon stands up and makes his way through the crowd to where Rhaella and Ser Harwin were dancing.

"Might I have this dance, princess?" Daemon whispers against her ears as she breathed heavily from dancing. Rhaella gives a small nod to Harwin as he backs off and now dances with Daemon. "You know, you've grown quite alot," He starts off. "Thank you for pointing the obvious uncle," She rolls her eyes playfully, "Into such a, beautiful woman" Daemon finishes.

Rhaella smiles, "Thank you, I assume-" She was cut off by Rhaenyra who taps her shoulder, "Can I steal our dear uncle, sister?" She questions as she doesn't even bother looking at Rhaella, only Dameon.

The young Targaryen looks between the two before nodding her head. She walks away not before locking eyes with her uncle before his gaze floats back to Rhaenyra. "Did you just get told to bugger off, sister?" Aegon laughs as Rhaella approaches the table and smacks his head. "Ow!" He groans, rubbing his head. Alicent shoots a look to the eldest.

"I believe our dear Rhaenyra is still infatuated with Daemon" Rhaella tilts her head. "Not surprised, the way she was eyeing him the whole time, I thought she'd eat uncle on the spot" Halaena says concerned as Rhaella and her brothers laughed loudly. Deep down, Rhaella couldn't push aside a strange feeling as she watched her sister and her uncle dancing and laughing together.

“Do you jest, sister?” Rhaella’s mouth hangs open at Rhaenyra’s idea that she had created in her head. “What? Daemon and I are made for each other. We have blood of the dragons coursing through us. Not to forget, he wanted me before he was banished by Father” She paces back and forth in her room.

The young Targaryen only blinked a few times before laughing. Rhaenyra glares at her younger sister. “S-sorry,” Rhaella wipes the tears that escaped from laughter, “Do you still think uncle longs for you? Forgive me for saying this Rhaenyra, but you are no longer a maiden.” Rhaella tilts her head.

“Daemon might have lusted over you at one point but yet again, he did take you to that brothel and just left you there. And now he’s back after what? twenty years and you still think he has his eyes on you?” Rhaella’s jabs stung the elder. Her words were like knives to her heart.

“And what do you suppose? That he’s got eyes for you now?” Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow at the younger. A small smirk forms on Rhaella’s lips, “Time will tell” “Don’t tell me you like Daemon, Rhaella. You just practically met him!” Rhaenyra’s voice loudens. To piss her even more, Rhaella simply shrugged with a playful smile.

“Daemon would make a dutiful Husband wouldn’t he? All that experience and….. well you know. Plus, mother has been pestering me about marriage. What better way to honour her wishes of me staying close to home then marrying our deal uncle?” Rhaenyra scoffs at her half-sister. “Daemon will never want you, you wouldn’t even dare to approach him with those silly intentions-“

Rhaella stands up and storms to her older, and still slightly taller, sister. “Watch me dear sister. Watch me marry Daemon in our old valyrian ways and bear his children. Watch me live a life you only ever got to dream of.” She calmy says yet still, venom laced her words.

Rhaenyra stood still in shock at her sister’s words before opening her mouth, “You are a horrid person.” She said through gritted teeth. Rhaella only wickedly smiles before turning around and walking off. As soon as the door slammed shut, Rhaenyra grabbed the closest object which was a vase and aimed it at the door, shards flying everywhere.

Rhaella stood outside the door with a proud smirk on her face. It was finally time to put her older sister into her own place. She walked through the hallways of her home before she bumped into something hard. “Watch where-“ Rhaella shuts her mouth as she’s met with his figure. “you’re going..” She trails as he smiles at her.

“Rhaenyra is still in her bedchambers” She mumbles massaging her head. Before she could move to the side to leave, he takes ahold of her forearm. “It is not your sister I wish to see but you, princess”

“What could you possibly want to see me for, uncle?” She spoke, her arms folded and her head slightly tilted. “Am I not allowed to spend some time with my niece? After all, I know nothing of you” He says, his eyes wandering nowhere near her face.

Rhaella smirked. She hummed before replying. “I’ve always wanted to her your stories come from you, and more possibly-“ She was cut off by him, “You’ve heard about me and my stories?” He questions.

Rhaella playfully rolls her eyes, “Don’t flatter yourself uncle, your stories are the only entertaining thing to listen to around here” She chuckles. Daemon laughs, “Might you like to accompany Caraxes and I for a ride?” He suggests with smug smile.

1 month later…

“Where’s Daemon and Rhaella?” Rhaenyra looks around the table noticing their absent once again at the breakfast table. “Didn’t you hear, sister? Daemon’s taking Rhaella to Dragonstone today for a few months” Halaena says with a sweet smile as Rhaenyra’s jaw hangs open.

“D-Daemon’s taking Rhaella away? To Dragonstone?” She stutters as she processes what was happening. Dragonstone was supposed to be for her and Daemons. Not Rhaellas’.

“Why hasn’t anyone thought to tell me this?” She bangs her hand on the table in frustration. “I didn’t think it would concern you Princess, The Prince and Princess simply want to get to know each other more” Alicent speaks up.

“Get to know each other more? I don’t see why they can’t do that here, why must they be at Dragonstone. Father! Did you approve of this?” She looks to Viserys in disbelief. “My child, these are Daemon’s wishes. And besides, it is finally time that Rhaella chooses a Husband”

“A husband.” The princess scoffs as everyone on the table watch her, anticipating what was going to happen next. “I wanted Daemon to be my husband at her age and what did you do?! You banished him! Why does my whore of a sister get to do what ever she pleases!” Rhaenyra stands up in her seat as does Alicent. They could have sworn they saw steam leave her ears.

“How dare you call your sister that!” Viserys too stands up and hits his hand on the table loudly. “Rhaella is of age and you were not. You were the heir at the time and choosing Daemon as King consort? The realm would have been up in flames by now! My daughter. Your sister! Needs a husband sooner than later. Daemon is content with his position. Those twenty years where ever he was did him some good. Rhaella needs someone like him to confide to”

Viserys sits back down with a sigh, Rhaenyra only stood there in disbelief, shock and hatred for her half sister. Without uttering another word, she excused herself from the table and left. “She’s lost her mind” Alicent shakes her head.

Rhaenyra stormed out of the castle and into the dragon pit. She immediately paused as she witnessed Rhaella and Daemon in each other’s arms as they pat Caraxes. Rhaenyra was never able to do that the blood wyrm, he just never seemed to accept her. But Rhaella on the other hand.

Before she was could storm closer to the two a voice stops her. “Depriving your own sister of happiness?” Otto tempts her, “Just look at how happy they look with each other. I’ve never seen Daemon smile so much, have you?”

“He smiled plenty with me before” She mutters. “Ah there it is, before.” Rhaenyra glares at Otto. “Before he liked you, now he wishes to runaway with my granddaughter and marry her.” “H-he’s not marrying her” She chuckles to herself.

“Oh but he is my dear, he even asked for the King and Queen’s blessing. Your sister, much more youthful, smarter-“ “What are you trying to do?” The princess says desperately, “Stay away from them. Your sister is perfect for him and deserves happiness. Don’t let that childish dream of yours get into the road of them being happy. He’s obviously moved on and so should you Princess” Otto sternly speaks as the two of them look to the couple.

“I lost him once. Now I just lost him again,” The Princess shed a tear as she watched her half-sister get everything she ever hoped and dreamed of.

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fan-goddess · 2 months

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hello!could you write a reaction to the dragon's house × !fem!reader, when she was flying over the sea with the dragon and one of the enemies was on the ship and shot from a crossbow.

(she and her dragon are alive but slightly injured)

Aegon,Aemond,Jacaerys Velaryon-romantic love

Alicent,Daemon,Rhaenyra,Helaena,Laenor Valeryon-platonic love

sorry if there are any mistakes! I hope everything is clear💝I've actually been thinking about this for a long time��

HOTD characters reactions of when reader is hurt

The summary: The characters each find out during your usual flight around kingslanding that you were shot down by some people belonging to a certain group that hate the Targaryen traditions and believe it to be an abomination.

A/N: They’re all personalised and hopefully different backstories, but have given reader the same dragon in all of them as making dragons are hard. The wound is also pretty much same, but the severity is altered in some places. In the platonic ones I made reader call them mother or father, since I made them a parent. Some of these are very different as I expanded on some more and developed others. You can tell which.

This ain’t fully proofread we die like Luke!

Taglist: @valeskafics, @humanpurposes, @watercolorskyy, @omgbrcat @blue-serendipity @arcielee @targaryenbarbie

Warning: Wounds, various gore mentions, incest, kissing, tried to make it gender neutral and lack of descriptions but there are some scattered about! (if I miss any let me know)

Aegon Targaryen:

When Aegon heard the news from his mother who’d rushed to inform him of your sudden injury, he all but sprinted to the infirmary where you were being treated by one of the leading maesters.

“My love, are you alright?!? I am so sorry my love I should have insisted to accompany you! When I find the man who did this to you I shall rip off his head and feed his insides to Sunfyre and Shrykos!” He declares, the words tumbling quickly with how much rage flooded his body at the sight of your wounded self. You could barely keep up with him if you were being honest.

“Aegon, my sweet husband, it is fine! ‘Tis merely a flesh wound!” You insist, yet wincing as soon as the reassurance falls from your lips.

“And yet here you are heavily bleeding, and in very much pain! You should take some milk of the poppy!” Aegon says, looking around to find the bottle, even when you try and insist you were fine. “If you were fine you’d be with me, in our bed, safe and unharmed! So don’t argue with me wife or my wrath will be misguided!”

You merely humour him by sipping slightly at the small contents of the cup the maester had passed to you. Yet still, you can’t deny that the liquid had its desired effects, as your previously aching wound now significantly dulls down to a mere small throb once in a while.

“Now wife. Tell me who hurt you.” Aegon demands, his eyebrows furrowed and his grip tightened on your body as he insured you would be unable to get away from him.

“Just some idiotic men thinking themselves higher than us my love. They shot at me and Shrykos from their ship when we least expected it with bloody crossbones of all things, and somehow barely managed to skim us. Yet they somehow did not expect the very large dragon to get angry that their rider and themself was just attacked with no prior warning. Shrykos certainly made sure to enact on our lovely families motto. By the time she was done with them, there was nothing left but fire and blood sinking to the bottom of the sea.”

Aegons face slowly turns more and more relaxed, and by the end of your tale he’s practically grinning for joy as he kisses you deep on the lips. “That’s my bloodthirsty wife!” He mumbles against your lips, forgetting all about his past aggressions to make you feel as safe and as loved as you could be in his arms. The maester that continues to awkwardly stand their waiting to finish wrapping your arm be damned.

Aemond Targaryen:

He finds out before anyone else, as he tends to wait for you after your dragon rides if he’s unable to go with you that day. So when you come back later than usual with blood dripping down your arm and half an arrow sticking out of you, he certainly is very angry, and very much willing to get on Vhagar and hunt down and kill those who dared harm his wife. Yet he knows he must stay calm for you.

He notices how you try and mumble your dragons name under your breath, so when he makes it past one of the dragon keepers he makes sure to let them know that Shrykos may be in need of some healing. He assumes by the way your mumbles quieten after he says the order that that was what you were trying to tell him. Yet when he actually looks at you Aemond quickly realises you’ve actually fainted from blood loss.

Aemond rushes you to the Maesters room where he insists only the best work on you, even though he couldn’t afford to be picky what with you bleeding out in his arms and all. Though after a few threats and lot of claims regarding his dragon, the maesters quickly manage to remove the arrow and stem the bleeding whilst you continued to lay unconscious on the healing bed. Aemond stayed by your side the entire time, holding your hand tightly in an act of reassurance. Even though you were still unconscious.

He stayed with you the entire time though. Still holding your hand even when he fell asleep. When you eventually woke, three days after you were injured, Aemond was sure to reassure you that you were safe. Even though by the tenth time you were very ready to smack him.

“Tell me ābrazȳrys who did this too you. Vhagar has been ready for the taste of flesh since I found you. I am sure Shrykos too is ready for the thrill of the chase of those who harmed both her and her rider. Tell me, so I can make sure we can tear them limb from limb.” His words drip malice, and yet there is distinct comfort within them. Aemond has never truly been able to show his affection towards you with displays of anything other than action. And in this moment, it just so happens that action involves heavy bloodshed and possible carnage.

“Those men who hale from the vale. The ones claiming our traditions to be an abomination. A sin in the eyes of the seven. They surprised me and Shrykos as we flew above the seas and got some good strikes. But don’t worry ñuha jorrāelagon. Me and Shrykos made sure to burn them to blood and ash before we needed to flee back to kingslanding.” You attempt to smile to reassure your husband, but if anything it appears to make it worse as you wince at the pain suddenly flaring through your whole right arm.

Aemond stays quiet as he makes sure to force you to drink some milk of the poppy.

“Ābrazȳrys. If you were to die, I would have gone to the brink of insanity. I would’ve gone to those peoples homes and burned them all to the ground for what they have done to my wife. To the future mother of my children. They have harmed you though. The have scarred you. And for that offence alone, I cannot allow them a single more moments of breath. I cannot allow them to live.” Aemond storms off leaving you laying there in half shock and half admiration. You knew he would be true to his word. Which is why when not even a day had passed since Aemond had left, you’d heard whispers of what Aemond had done, and you smiled and thanked the gods for a husband like yours.

Jacaerys Velaryon:

If there was one characteristic you could say your husband embodied to the fullest, it would be loyalty. As no matter how many other women, maids and nobility alike, threw themselves at the future heirs feet he always ran back to you.

Even when other men such as the Lannister’s attempted to charm you with their admittedly horrible, yet according to them successful attempts, Jace was always there with a watchful eye, making sure all knew who you belonged too.

He was protective too. A dragon while not in appearance but definitely in spirit. Jace would always find a way to make sure you were safest whether you wanted him to be involved or not. Even this noon when you wanted to get one last dragon ride before dinner, Jace still insisted there was no need. Yet your stubbornness knew no bounds it seems, as while his back was turned you made quick speed to where Shrykos usually slept and flew her into the great distance. A mere speck in the sky before Jace knew what had happened.

You had started the flight laughing with the biggest grin on your face, eager to see the sights from the sky. Yet of course things turned worse as men from one of the many religious groups of the seven kingdoms took notice of you and your dragon, and decided to shoot you with their admittedly massive weapons.

You dodged the best you could, and yet with a scream from both you and Shrykos, you realised you were both hit.

“DRACARYS SHRYKOS! DRACARYS!” You screamed, satisfied when you hear the hells and the screams of the men and the ships bellow. With your good arm, you steer Shrykos to the direction of dragonstone and order the instructions, before all appears to go dark.

When you wake, all seems strangely normal. That is of course, before you see the giant bandaged wound that is your arm. You can see a hint of red peeking from the bandages and are about to see if you could rewrap it, before Jacaerys comes through and with wide eyes realises you are awake and well as you can be.

“My love!” He shouts, running over and encasing you in his arms. Not hearing the low hiss you make when his hands clasp around your still admittedly sore arm. “Where have you been!? You’re hurt!” He yells, finally taking noticing your blood that steadily pools to the surface. “Let us get you to the maesters!”

As much as it hurt you to have Jace pull you like he did, you merely let it all happen so not to cause an event bigger fuss of you than what he already is making. Yet when you get to the maesters chambers and nearly find yourself fainting, that’s when you suddenly understand your husbands worry.

When you wake up though, it’s the feeling of Jaces familiar warmth that settles you as you gaze on his sleeping form. Yet as you wake, so does he it seems. As not even a few minutes after you’ve woken Jace is quick to rise with you. His eyes wide and worried as they roam you for anymore possible injuries you may possibly somehow have hidden.

“Are you alright my love?!” He asks, his eyes still roaming for even a moment of weakness from you. “There maesters took care of your arm and the arrow. And I heard word from the dragon keepers who tell me Shrykos is healing dutifully from his wounds!”

“Good.” You simply say, hissing slightly as you sit up and try to keep yourself grounded. “I’d kill then if she wasn’t.”

Jacaerys laughs at your threat, and his face looks almost serene as he just looks at you. His eyes going soft as his hands continue to hold yours. It’d be an almost affectionate moment had it not been for the sudden flare up of pain in your arm.

“Fuck!” You yell, hissing once again as you’re reminded of why you’re even in the maesters room in the first place. “It is alright husband I’m fine!” You insist seeing the worry now marking his face.

“I will worry when I want.” He simply says, kissing you on the top of your head before moving to sit next to you on the bed. His head resting on yours as he puts his arms around you. Your eyes shutting as a sudden hit of exhaustion hits you, yet you welcome it fully as Jaces arms feel just so welcoming and calming.

Alicent Hightower:

Alicent had always been like a mother to you. Caring for you when you were sick and making sure that you were always in your highest possible health. It was probably why she’d insisted since you were young to fully call her mother, even though you were not biologically related to her.

Whenever she heard about even the slightest of injuries though, she always worried relentlessly about the damage. Which is why when you appeared before her clutching a bleeding wound from your shoulder, you’re quite honestly surprised she hadn’t dropped from shock.

“Oh my darling what has happened?!” She’d gasped, frozen in shock as she stood there not knowing what really to do.

“Bastards on their boats took a few shots at me and Shrykos whilst we were on our morn flight. They got two good shots at us to hurt us but don’t worry. Before we got here Shrykos managed to give them what was coming for them…” You groan, holding your shoulder in your hand that has now from the lack of adrenaline, has begun aching dramatically.

“Oh never mind the men I care only about you!” She fusses, coming closer before stopping half way, staring between your shoulder and your pained face. Maybe Alicent will drop from shock after all.

“SOMEBODY GET THE MAESTERS!” You hear a voice yell, before all appears to go dark before your eyes. When you wake though, it is as if the light is blinding you. You blink a few times to ground yourself, and it’s with a sudden surprise you realise that you feel a familiar warmth on your hand. You turn your head slightly, stiff from the lack of movement you think, and realise Alicent is staring at you with great worry on her face.

“Are you feeling alright my darling? The maesters have cleaned and sewed up your wound, but according to them it shall take a while for it to fully heal. You must tell me dear girl, in detail, what happened out there. What did those people do to you?”

“After me and Shrykos took off, we flew to the stormlands. We were drifting round shipbreaker bay, when those men the council warned us over took notice. Crossbows the size of my arm began shooting at us mother, so I am grateful they managed to get me and Shrykos only once.” At the mention of your dragon, your face turns to worry. Yet before you say anything, your mother quickly moves to interrupt you.

“Your dragon is safe my love. The dragon keepers have been keeping me up to date on her healing, and she is steadily heading to full recovery. The arrow has been removed fully, and the wound has stopped bleeding.” She says, her face betraying her as she is unable to hide her distaste of your dragon.

“Thank you mother, I appreciate the consideration. I know you have no love for Shrykos, nor any of your children’s dragons.” You say, your honesty true as you smile in thanks and understanding.

“You’re welcome my heart…” Your mother smiles, her hand reaching out to hold yours. Which while you admittedly want to shy away from, yet you push through your discomfort to allow your mother this moment that you know your adoptive sister would not have allowed.

“I do not want you to fly unaccompanied anymore my heart,” Alicent begins, shushing your with a single movement when she sees you about to harshly protest. “I have discussed this with your brothers and sister, and they have all agreed. Aemond has already taken the duty on his ever eager shoulders, and has said he will ride with you tomorrow morn at your usual time. It may be in your best interest to thank him next time you see him.”

“Of course mother…” You sigh, already dreading Aemonds smug face and wanting to punch it. Yet you withhold yourself from groaning out loud only from your mother’s sake, who is still holding your hand with intended comfort, even though she is doing nothing but make your blood pump fast around your body. Still, you say nothing. Allowing her to believe she is comforting you with a motherly smile on her face.

Daemon Targaryen:

Daemon had always possessed an amusingly short temper. It was especially tested though whenever it regarded to you. Whenever you got yourself hurt as a child, whether than was to do with training or just an accident in the halls, he always demanded to know the man behind your pain. It’s why you weren’t at all surprised when he reacted that same way when you flew back to Dragonstone and stumbled towards him with an arrow stuck in your shoulder blade.

“Who has dared to harm you zaldritzos? Tell me so I can show them what the exact consequence is for messing with a dragon. I am sure caraxes is already fuelled with my anger alone and is ready to face those who dares spill such precious blood.” Daemon snarls, his face unable to hide its anger as he holds your body steady so it won’t suddenly collapse.

“Bastards from the bloody ships on the bloody sea. Got us good… got us good…” You slur, every word feeling forced from your very gut as your eyes grow heavier and heavier.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes zaldritzos! Don’t you fucking close them!” You hear him snarl once more. But still, you cannot resist the temptation of sleep as you disobey your father and close your eyes.

When you find yourself waking, it is Daemon is standing by you while you slept. His eyes hard and stern as they observe you.

“I suppose you’re mad?” You can’t help but say. Your face admittedly ashamed as you stare to the floor, unable to hold his stare.

“Of course I am mad!” He yelled, refusing to allow you to turn your head away as he forces you to make eye contact with him. “My daughter has gone out without telling me, and she has gotten herself hurt the same way soldiers are hurt in wars!”

“I am sorry father!” You say, tears brimming in your eyes as the disappointed and anger shines through his. “I cannot control where those bastard men sail-“

“But you can control where you fly!” Daemon yells back. His voice rough and frustrated as the inner dragon inside him comes out. “I have taught you better than this zaldritzos! I have been teaching you how to ride that dragon of yours since you were a mere child! So why was it you were no doubt flailing about the sky like an amateur, when I know you could have done better?!”

“I’M NOT LIKE YOU!” You shout, shoving your father away as he stares at you with an expressionless face. “I am not a great leader, or a great dragon rider! I am still learning father! My lessons have not yet stopped being taught! Those men on the ships who shot at us were the ones you had warned us about. The ones claiming our great traditions to be an abomination and deserving of punishment. Me and Shrykos did not know their affiliation as we flew above them. Only when the arrows began to fly for our heads did we realise… I got an arrow in the shoulder, which has now since been removed. Shrykos though listened perfectly and managed to get out of there without any particularly damaging wounds. Still, my anger shon through her, and we managed to light the whole of the fleet up in flames before we flew back home. Where of course, you found me…”

Daemon is silent throughout your rant, yet by the end, when you’re breathless with how quickly you spoke, his hand is placed on your non-injured arm in an unfamiliarly comforting manner.

“I know you are not like me zaldritzos. While I have made you in my image, I hardly expected it to be your only outcome. You have become strong. You have become a fearsome warrior able to bring honour to our family name and our ancestors. I suppose… I may have forgotten that I too have made mistakes. I am sorry zaldritzos…”

The tears that had brimmed earlier in your eyes now tear down your face now that you hear your fathers words. His pride. So you do the only thing you can think of at that moment to show your appreciation. You take your arms and place them around Daemons waist, pulling him into a hug where your head is against his chest. Thankfully his arms seem to automatically go around your own body, and you can’t help but find this act comforting and safe.

“Thank you…” You can’t help but murmur.

“I would never let anything hurt you…” He murmurs back. Words which to anyone else may sound meaningless, but to you, you know they hide your father’s true feeling of care.

Rhaenyra Targaryen:

Rhaenyra had always been a sort of mother to you. A light to guide you in the darkest of your days. Whenever you took ill or had an injury, it was always she who stood by your bed, holding your hand in her own. Even though both husbands and loyal guards warned her of her possibly falling ill herself. Not that she ever did somehow though.

It was like that now. That afternoon, you had decided on a whim to take Shrykos on a fight around the coasts bordering the land surrounding Dragonstone. Yet it seems you coincidentally forgot Daemons talk about the rising threat of a religious group following faithfully the followings of the seven, as you tried to fly past them calmly and peacefully. Shrieking in fear when you realise it was not a harmless fly that flew past your face just now, but a very deadly steel-tipped arrow.

You barely made it out of there alive. The only injuries you yourself sustaining being a few arrow nicks on your shoulders, and the worse of it being a shallow puncture from one of the few successful shots. Shrykos though took most of the hits. Her rage seething the more those pathetic men tried to harm both her and her rider. It was quite satisfying you must say, when you flew away with the fresh smell of burning corpses still behind you, lingering on your clothes.

Yet when you got back home and were standing in front of your mother, that satisfaction quickly changed to a strange sort of guilt when you see her horror struck face.

“What has happened my darling!” She tells, taking ahold of your arm to look at your injury while you yell at her to try and say you were fine, even though you wince as soon as she yanks you towards her.

“Bloody men on the coast of Gull Town decided to shoot at us from their fucking boats. They got only a few good shots before Shrykos managed to get to them. By the time we left, we ensured they became fire and ash. I doubt there are any men alive after that….” You say, barely able to stand as the sudden blood loss reaches you.

You’re barely able to think as your mother brings you to the castle hanging on her shoulder. Soon, maesters surround you whilst your mother fusses by your bed to the left of you. She insists and demands certain things, but by the end, your grateful to feel the pain in your arm significantly lessen not only due to the lack of wooden arrow, but also due to the large amount of milk of the poppy that was pretty much forced down your throat.

“Is it all better now my darling?” Your mother asks, putting your hand between her own to soothe you as if you were a small child who’d scuffed their leg falling on some loose gravel.

“It is fine mother!” You insist. Even smiling as you play the part of the healthy child, able to bounce back from any injuries. Yet somehow she can still manage to see through your facade.

“Are you sure?” She asks again. Her brow raised in questioning as she makes you feel like a young child again. Small, and helpless as you cry to mother.

“Yes I am fine!” You firmly say, taking your hand from hers and placing it on the cold clinical bed sheets. Already missing the familial warmth your mother’s hands had provided you with. “I do not need you pressing!”

“Okay my love. I believe you.” Rhaenyra smiles, acknowledging her child’s want for independence. Moving from the chair she previously had sat on so she can place a quick kiss to the top of your head and smile fondly at the way your nose scrunches. “I will leave you now my love. The maesters had said you’ll fully heal by the moons next turn, but you’re fit to leave the bed tomorrow morn. I’ll visit you then.”

As quick as Rhaenyra leaves, you find yourself already wanting her motherly touch to tell you it’s okay. Your legs tucking under your chin as you hold yourself under the covers, letting your eyes shut so hopefully you’re able to wake up tomorrow by your mother’s voice.

Helaena Targaryen:

Compared to all your other family members, it has always been Helaena you were closest too. A close bond forging between the two of you since girlhood that not once has ever been broken.

You were with her when she claimed Dreamfyre, just as she was there for you when you claimed Shrykos. You also made sure to try and be with her whenever she experienced one of her, moments.

Yet that morning, you were way too busy trying to get ready for your usual morn flight to be with her when she took what the queen would call, a funny turn.

‘Blood of the dragon lost twice over. Beware the boats from bellow filled with men of hate.’

She’d seen your injury and the fire coming from your dragons mouth, and being the anxious person she was, she waited at the dragon keeps entrance with her hands fiddling with each other.

When you fly in holding your arm to try and stem the blood, getting off with difficultly as you try and not fall, you almost scare yourself when you turn and suddenly find yourself face to face with Helaena, who holds a bandage ready to treat you with it.

“Give me your arm…” She softly asks, waiting for you to release your arm from your grip so she can slowly and carefully take the arrow from your arm, choosing to ignore your vocal cries of pain so she can make sure to get the arrow out. When she does, she chooses to just drop the bloody wooden chunk to the floor so she can quickly wrap your now gushing wound, which she cleans with a slightly damp clothe that can’t have been out of the water bowl for long.

“What happened?” She asked while she cleaned your red streaked arm.

“Do you remember those men Aemond warned us about? The ones who hate us for our heritage?” You ask, waiting to hear Helaena unique hum to show she’s truly listening. “Well when I was flying by Tarth, those men were in there boats and obviously spotted me before I spotted them. So they shot at me till they hit me.” You shrug, regretting it soon as you did as you hiss at the sudden flare up of pain.

“It’ll hurt badly. I didn’t manage to take any milk of the poppy from the maesters, so we’ll probably need to visit them soon.” Helaena simply says, giving you a smile before she takes your hand in her own. An act you cannot say in words how much it means to you, given how you know of her usual revulsion for physical touch.

So you stay silent. Allowing her to lead you to the maesters with a small smile on your face, that is wiped right off when you become face to face with them. They stare at your with judgement and soulless eyes as they remove you from Helaenas comforting warmth and instead force you to feel cold metal against your flesh. They ignore you as they unwrap the bandages. Only giving each other looks as they wordlessly judge the state of your body.

It almost makes you want to tear their heads from their bodies and feed them to Shrykos. Who no doubt is feeling your frustrations and anger down in the dragon pit.

Yet you hold your tongue for Helaenas sake, who is watching the maesters take supposed special care of you from the corner of the room. She gives you small smiles whenever you make eye contact, and it’s only with them you manage to pull through. The milk of the puppy though they force down your throat certainly makes you more cooperative though you must say.

“Thank you Hel, for looking after me.” You say, staring at her as soon as the maesters deemed you healed enough and left you. No doing to go get the queen to inform her of your sudden injury.

“It is no problem…” She softly smiles back, moving forward to stand next to you so she can hold your hand in her own. Her soft flesh relaxing you possibly even more than the drugs flowing through your system. “I will always be there for you…”

Laenor Valeryon:

Even though you always knew that Laenor could never truly be your father, he nonetheless always managed to act like one better than anyone. While your mother was busy attending to your brothers, it was Laenor who was always busy attending to you, making sure you were fussed in a way a princess should be fussed.

He always made sure to give you the bestest care a princess may need it. Like right now for instance.

“I NEED A MAESTER RIGHT FUCKING NOW!” You remember your father screaming while your vision slowly began to blur in a variety of difference places. “Where are you hurt ñuha nūmio? Where is the pain? What can I do?”

“Arrow in the fucking shoulder.” You groan, bile building in your throat as you resist the urge to vomit. “Only there father. Shrykos was hit too. Fuck it hurts so much…”

“Do not worry dear girl! The maester will come!” As he says this, guards come running with a maester in tow. The guards take ahold of you carefully as you nearly collapse under the sudden blood rush. The maester barking orders for what to do to you to cause the least amount of damage to your body as possible.

When you get to the healing room, you’re placed roughly onto a bed where now a whole group of maesters now flock to you like a group of crows over a fresh carcass. They all say a different method on how to treat you, yet it’s Laenor whose voice shines louder than them all.

“You will not cut up or harm my daughter!” He yells, his voice firm and harsh as he glares at them all. “You will take out that fucking arrow, and you will heal her. Or I swear, as the heir of the realms husband, I’ll make all of you fucking regret it!”

All is silent, and yet with a firm glare they all scatter to complete your father’s order. Soon, cloth is finding its way in your mouth to quench your screams as hands force the arrow once imbedded in your arm is forced onto a silver plate. Blood gushing down your arm in an admittedly disturbing manner.

By the end, there is an elder looking maester stitching up your blood coated arm, and an arrow head and some wood pieces. Laenor held your hand with every scream and every clench of your body. He made sure you felt as safe as you could in the presence of the same type of men who killed your aunt. He also made sure to quickly push them out as soon as they were done with there work. Nodding along in a dismissive manner as they insist they are still needed.

When they are eventually shushed away however, with the door shut quickly behind them, Laenor quickly finds himself by your side again. His hand laced firmly in yours as he takes a lone damp cloth so he can clean away the dried blood still decorating your wounded flesh.

“Does it hurt much? I can always call a maid to fetch you some milk of the poppy?” Laenor insisted, his touch delicate as he makes sure not to harm you in any way.

“It merely stings…” You shrug, wincing though soon as you do due to the sudden flare up in your shoulder. “I do not need any milk of the poppy father. I can manage my pain.”

“I can see that…” He grins, even chuckling when he sees your own smile. “Though, I must ask. What happened? You did not exactly give me much information before the maesters came for us.”

“Me and Shrykos began our normal journey to the direction of Runestone. But on the coast of Gull town, it appears those men mother had recently warned us about, the ones who deem our customs immoral and a disgrace to a seven, spotted us before we spotted them. They took no time before they were shooting at us with giant crossbows on their ship. They took us by surprise, and managed to get only a single time, but that was enough to enact Shrykos’ rage. I didn’t even say the command father! Shrykos enacted our joined rage and set fire to their ships and their bodies. If they weren’t dead by the time we left, I am almost sure they are all at least dead by now.”

He takes in your words carefully. Murmuring small words every so often while he holds your hand as a sigh of sympathy. When your done though, his face is smeared in deep anger. A hatred you have never seen your father show ever before in your lifetime.

“Well it’s a good think they are dead though,” He finally says, snapping from his thoughts with a huff. “Because if they were alive, Seasmoke would be gorging on a feast right now!”

“Thank you father…” You simply say, falling into his arms that welcome you immediately. You close your eyes and allow yourself to bask in his familiar comforting warmth.

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criminalamnesia · 4 months

Text

Pretty like the sun

warnings: reader described as having long, silver hair; no use of y/n; female!reader; Targaryen!reader; sneaking around with harwin; little sliver of angst but that’s it; fluff; not proofread sorry

summary: you spend a morning with harwin.

author’s note: I miss harwin strong. that is all.

The soft, early morning light poked through the thin fabric covering your window. You stirred in bed, eyes scrunching tighter together as you attempted to will yourself back asleep.

“Good morning,” Harwin’s chest rumbled with the sound of his voice. He was almost whispering, as if afraid to spook you. One of his hands trailed up your back, his fingers ghosting over your bare skin.

“Mhm,” you grumbled, refusing to open your eyes. You snuggled closer to his side, your head laid right over his heart. The reassuring rhythm of its beat brought a small smile to your lips.

“What time is it?” You asked after a moment of comfortable silence, your eyes still closed. You could feel the heat of the sun now, its rays more intense as it rose in the sky.

“Almost time for me to go,” he replied. The hand trailing up your spine moved to rest in your hair, his fingers lightly scratching at your scalp. His free hand moved over your body, looping around you and pulling you impossibly closer.

It was always like this in the mornings you spent together. Hushed words and warm touches. The two of you tangled together, holding each other as close as possible. This time was sacred to the both of you. It was stolen from the rest of the Keep, something just for the two of you to share, damning the rest of them.

“Do you have to?” You asked, but you already knew the answer as you finally opened your eyes. You tilted your head back to look up at your lover. His eyes met yours, and he gave a small smile as he nodded.

“You know I do, Princess. I cannot be caught in here, your father would have my head.”

You rolled your eyes as you turned your head to plant a kiss to his sternum. He hummed in contentment.

“You underestimate my power in this keep, Ser. At most, my father would have your finger. Maybe a hand, if it were a bad day for the King,” you grinned as you teased him, meeting his gaze once more.

It was Harwin’s turn to roll his eyes now. His fingers dug deeper into your scalp, massaging the skin there. You groaned and swatted his hand away, knowing his actions would put you back to sleep.

As much as you wanted to succumb to the welcoming embrace of slumber once more, you knew you’d regret it. Harwin wouldn’t want to wake you, and so he’d slip from the room quietly, depriving you of the chance to wish his farewell. You despised it when he did that– and he knew as much, yet he still tried.

He told you once that he hated seeing the look in your eyes as he left, and that’s why he tried to lull you back to sleep. He didn’t want to watch the sadness and anger seep into your expression as it did every time he snuck away.

It wasn’t sadness and anger aimed towards him, of course. It was at this whole situation– the fact that you two had to hide your affections. The King had made it quite clear you were to remain untouched and unmarried until your sister, Rhaenyra, found a match.

You disobeyed his wishes, but what the King didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him– at least that’s what you believed.

“Where do they have you stationed today?” You questioned the man below you as you turned your gaze to the villainous window that disturbed the peace the night gave both of you. “Guarding ‘Nyra again?”

“Guarding you, actually,” he said, and you sighed.

Having your lover guard you was a double-edged sword. You were with him all day, but you were not allowed to truly be with him. It was almost torture, how the man you loved was right beside you and you couldn’t touch him. You couldn’t even speak to him the way you wanted. You had to remain proper, as did he, and you had to keep up this carefully constructed facade of a princess and her loyal guard.

“You do not wish to be accompanied by me today?” He asked, and you finally pushed yourself up, your hand resting on his chest to support yourself.

The arm he had looped around you fell, his grip now at your waist. His thumb caressed the skin there as he watched your face with concern. His other hand remained in your hair, moving to brush strands of silver from your eyes.

“You know that is not the issue,” you told him.

“Sometimes it is the issue. Remember just a fortnight ago, when you asked for another guard just because I slipped out the night before?”

“You did not tell me you had to go,” you said as you shuffled over to the other side of the bed. His hands retracted from your body to let you move.

“I was not aware I needed to ask your permission to get a glass of water,” he retorted, and you scoffed.

“The last time you snuck out during the night, it was because you were sent to guard my sister for her two week journey to see whoever that lord was. Lannister? Baratheon? I do not recall— but it does not matter. You did not tell me you were leaving!”

“Love–” he began, but you spoke again.

“No, I know, Harwin. You did not know either. I am not trying to fight,” you reached a hand towards him, which he clasped in one of his own. His fingers intertwined with yours, and you smiled.

“I just worry for you. I fear one day you will slip out before I can say goodbye, and I will never see you again.”

Harwin frowned, his eyes trained on you as he gave your hand a small squeeze. You inhaled deeply. “I do not want to keep sneaking around,” you admitted.

“Nor do I, but–” he began.

“But we must,” you finished his sentence with a sigh. “Just until my sister finally meets her match. Which will probably be after we are all dead.”

Harwin laughed and used his grip on your hand to pull you back into him. You gave a sound of surprise as you fell onto his chest, both his hands snaking around your body to keep you glued to him.

“The Princess will wed soon, my love. Your father will make sure of it. And if not, then I am sure you will make sure of it. Gods help Rhaenyra if it gets to that point. You are quite scary when you are angry.”

“As scary as Daemon?” You questioned, your eyebrows raised as you glanced up at Harwin. A teasing grin painted your lips.

“Oh, much scarier. The Rogue Prince wishes he was as terrifying as you.”

“Careful, Ser,” you giggled. “My uncle would feed you to Caraxes for such an insult.”

“It would be an honorable death, dying to defend my Princess.”

You shuffled upwards so that your face was right above his. Your hair fell around the both of you, creating another barrier the sun streaming through the window fought to break through.

“You are insufferable,” you whispered, your nose brushing his.

“Am I?” He asked with a grin.

“Mhm,” you hummed in answer before lowering your lips to his.

The kiss lasted a few wonderful, peaceful seconds before a sobering knock sounded at the door.

“Princess!” Your lady-in-waiting called from behind the door, her knock becoming louder as she tried to rouse you. Unbeknownst to her, you were very awake at the moment.

Your eyes widened as you looked down at your lover who was very much naked, very much still in your bed, and very much late to his post.

“Princess, are you awake? Are you in there? I don’t see Ser Harwin out here. Are you alright?” You could hear panic begin to sneak into the woman’s tone. You knew how it looked to her– a locked door, no guard, and a silent princess? She probably thought you were dead.

You pulled yourself from Harwin’s embrace once more and hurried out of bed, reaching for the night clothes you had discarded the night before. Harwin followed suit in rushing from bed. He began grabbing at clothes and armor, trying to be silent but quick as he redressed.

“I’m awake!” You shouted to your lady-in-waiting as you ran a hand through your hair. You turned to watch as Harwin gave up on buttoning his shirt and began gathering his armor in his hands.

“You have got to go!” You whisper-shouted at him.

“I am trying! This damn armor–” he groaned as he nearly dropped his metal chest plate. You cringed as you watched his barely catch it, releasing a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. That sound would’ve had your lady busting down your door in an instant.

“Princess, are you alright in there?” You heard your lady ask as the door knob jiggled.

“Quite!” You yelled back, your pitch rising in panic. You rushed to Harwin’s side and began snatching up the remaining pieces of his armor. You ushered him to the secret passage in your room, prying open the door and all but pushing him inside. “Just looking for something!”

You pushed the armor in your hands into Harwin’s, who was looking at you with a wide grin.

“What?” You asked incredulously, curious as to how he could be smiling at being nearly caught.

“Looking a little disheveled, Princess.”

“Gods, go!” You scolded him with no real bite to your words. You shoved at his broad shoulders, careful not to disturb the mountain of metal in his arms.

He gave a quiet laugh as he swiftly ducked down to kiss your forehead. “See you soon, Princess.”

With that, he disappeared down the dark passageway and you all but slammed the door closed. You quickly concealed it once more before smoothing down your nightdress, taking a deep breath, and opening the door for your lady-in-waiting.

“Gods, I thought you were being killed!” She cried, her voice shrill as she surged into the room.

You gave a breathless laugh as you shut the door behind her, noticing a forgotten trinket of Harwin’s laying on the stone floor. You swiftly kicked it under your wardrobe before your lady turned to face you.

“Where was Ser Harwin? He was not by your door,” she questioned as she began to assess your appearance.

“Oh, I sent him to fetch me a glass of water well before you arrived. He never returned. I suppose he was roped into something more important.”

“Hm,” your lady hummed, unconvinced, but she didn’t press the topic further.

The two of you fell into comfortable silence as you went through your routine of dressing.

Finally, as your lady finished clasping a ruby necklace around your neck, she cleared her throat to speak.

“Did he at least take all his armor with him this time?”

Your cheeks turned a deep red, and your lady laughed.

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sapphire-writes · 5 months

Text

Money Shot

Part 4 of The Campaign

modern!Aemond x Reader

summary: Tensions rise between you and Aemond at the arrival of Floris Baratheon.

word count: 6.3k

rating: explicit/18+/MDNI

warnings: kissing, fingering, oral (f receiving), degradation, slight praise, semi-public, finger sucking, gagging, hair pulling, begging, infidelity, reader serving cunt (listen, our reader is not a girl's girl and you know what we're just rolling with it for this one rip), angst, alcohol consumption, smoking, language

note: oh hey there! it's my monthly series update whatcha know! how's everyone doing? surviving? thriving? slay! thanks for reading lovelies I hope you enjoy it!

dividers & headers by me (i know, we've come so far)

if you'd like to be notified when I post please follow and turn on notifications for @sapphire-writes-updates in lieu of a taglist!

like this story? check out more of my work HERE 🖤

Floris Baratheon is annoyingly pretty.

Even more so now that she’s this close; seated across from you at brunch. Floris and her sisters went to school with you when you were younger; you’d been in the same grade as her older sister Maris. You were never close. When it became clear her family was supporting Aegon over Rhaenyra, you made it your mission to find out everything worth knowing about them.

Floris motherfucking Baratheon.

She bats her lashes at Aemond as he holds his brother’s attention in polite quiet conversation. Easily the prettiest of her sisters so it is wasn’t surprising that Aemond had chosen her as his prize. Though to be frank, you’d never thought of Aemond as shallow. He hardly dated at all.

Aegon had arrived late the previous night, setting off the alarms of Summerhall as he fell into the swimming pool. A fabulous start to the day.

Floris had arrived the evening after you and Aemond’s most recent rendezvous. She’d squealed like an excited teenager, throwing her arms around Aemond, her heels lifting off of the ground as she peppered light kisses across his face. Her presence had been a thorn in your side ever since.

A family outing had been Alicent’s idea. The restaurant was Rhaenyra’s choosing; an intimate little rooftop brunch spot. You’d all gotten there early to avoid the sweltering midday sun.

You glance over your shoulder at the table behind you where Rhaenyra is seated, flanked by Daemon and Joffrey. Alicent and her father sit across from them, both tight lipped. Daemon is lost in his menu, the corner of his mouth curling into a sneer as he murmurs something to Rhaenyra. The table appears quiet, with no polite conversation. Though Joffrey is seated beside his mother, it feels very much as though you’d been seated at the kid’s table.

“Weren’t you supposed to bring someone?” Helaena asks, glancing at Aegon out of the corner of her eye as she pours over the menu. “I thought you were seeing that Lannister girl.”

You turn away from the grown-ups' table, reaching for your wine. You declined the complimentary mimosas, as did Aegon. He swirls his glass of scotch in his hand, the ice cube clinking against the sides. Nothing like hard liquor at 11 am.

“She’s not coming,” Aegon answers.

“Not coming?”

Aegon merely shrugs, tapping his finger against the glass, “We had a fight.”

Helaena quirks a brow at that, pursing her lips as she sets her menu on the table.

“A fight?”

“Yes. A disagreement.”

“About what?”

Aegon groans, leaning back in his chair as a waitress walks by. His eyes rake over her figure so quickly you almost miss it. Aegon’s been perving for years and he’s mastered his technique. Your stomach sours and you roll your eyes. Jace reaches over to you, placing his hand on top of yours giving it a comforting squeeze.

“Loyalties. I kissed someone else and she wasn’t happy.” Aegon tells his sister. His playful frown suggests he’s unbothered by her reaction to his infidelity.

Of all the Targaryens, you think you hate Aegon the most.You glance at Aemond and find him already looking at you.

Well, maybe not the most.

“How dreadful. You’ll cause a scandal, I’m sure,” Helaena muses.

“No one’s paying much attention to me. Nothing to worry about,” Aegon says, plucking a piece of bread from the basket in front of him, “Everyone’s more concerned about Maegor With Tits.” He holds the bread against his chest for crude emphasis.

“Hush,” Helaena snaps, always the quickest of her siblings to defend her half-sister.

Helaena and Aegon quarrel like lovers. It’s unsettling.

Aemond is still watching you, even though you’ve looked away. You’re trying to control the small smirk that plays on your lips. You know why he’s staring.

It wasn’t as though you were trying to get him to look at you, but you had opted for a more revealing dress than you usually would for a family outing. Jace’s eyes had widened considerably as you’d smoothed the small scrap of silk into place that morning.

“You look incredible,” he’d said, hand on your hip, eyes following the fabric that stopped just below the curve of your ass, leaving no amount of leg to the imagination.

You glance at Aemond, meeting his hungry gaze. He’s awfully fun to play with. It’s been so boring the past few days ever since Floris’ arrival. She’d been stuck to Aemond’s side like a pretty little leech the entire time.

“So, Floris,” you say, placing your wine glass on the table, “We’ve been living in the same house for three days now and I feel like I don’t know anything about you. Tell me about yourself.” It’s a command more than a request.

Aemond keeps his eye focused on you, the heat of his glare burning into your face. Helaena raises a brow as Jace and Aegon begin talking to one another, oblivious. Helaena has always been the most observant. Floris smiles kindly, not sensing the tension that rolls off your shoulders. It’s the first time you’ve attempted to speak to her.

“Oh ... .well…,” she glances at Aemond though he says nothing, “What would you like to know?”

A smile dances across your lips. This should be fun.

“I can’t remember for the life of me where you studied. Which university did you graduate from again?” you ask, cocking your head to the side, “Was it Harvard or Yale? I always confuse the East Coast ivies.” You laugh breathlessly, shaking your head.

Floris’ eyelashes flutter; a nervous tell. She smiles with a sigh, clearly not used to the spotlight directed at her.

“Oh well I think you’re thinking of my sister Maris,” she answers, cheeks turning a rosy hue of pink. You knew that, obviously. If Aemond wanted intellectually stimulating conversation, he’d have chosen her as his arm candy. “But I’m planning on going back and getting my degree at some point. I’m really interested in botany—”

“Botany! Ha! That was my minor in university,” Helaena chimes in. Floris’ eyes light up, thankful Helaena has joined the conversation. “That’s rather—”

“Flowers?” you interrupt and Floris’ smile falters ever so slightly as her blue eyes return to you.

Unlucky for her, you’ve never been one to give up easily. You reach for your glass, holding it lazily between your fingers. Smiling tightly and tilting your head to the side, you continue your advances.

“Yeah,” Floris shakily answers, “I mean…I don’t know. I haven’t really made up my mi—”

“Have you read any good books recently?” you ask, taking a sip of wine. You watch Aemond begin to tap his fingers against the table out of the corner of your eye.

“Oh um, not really,” Floris answers, “I’m not much of a reader.”

You flick an eyebrow up at that, glancing at Aemond. His pale blue eye holds your gaze, nostrils flaring. Interesting. Aegon and Jace have paused their side conversation.

“Oh?”

The table is silent. It’s like watching a cat play with a mouse. Aemond’s knuckles blanche as he curls his fingers in toward his palm. A waitress walks by, absentmindedly refilling the sweating glasses of water that line the table. Aemond says nothing; he doesn’t jump to his girlfriend’s defense.

Doesn’t look away from you.

Floris wets her lips, smiling politely up at the waitress as she refills her cup. She pauses for a moment, nervously sipping her water. She’s about three mimosas in; you’re sure the alcohol is working in your favor. A layer of nervous sweat covers her brow.

“I mean, I haven’t really—”

“What about current events?” you continue to steamroll her, “Aemond loves staying up to date he must be driving you crazy with all that. Especially with what's been going on recently in the Riverlands.”

“Oh, well I’m not really sure—”

“Oh you aren’t?” you ask in mock confusion, over dramatically pouting, “Hmph. I assumed you’d be interested in his work. I mean as Aemond’s girlfriend and all—”

“Oh well, that’s actually a great segway,” Floris interrupts, her voice shriller than before, as if she’s trying to regain control of the conversation.

You take another sip from your glass, allowing her interruption. You’re enjoying her distressed state. A smile curves at the edge of your lips and you attempt to hide it behind your glass.

“We’ve just been having the loveliest time together, haven’t we?” Floris says, pressing her hand against Aemond’s shoulder.

He makes a soft noise of approval and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. You catch his gaze again, the conversation fading into white noise.

Does Floris know she’s been sleeping on the bed he ruined you on? Your cheeks grow hot. Just a few nights ago you’d been tied to the rails of their headboard. Guilt stabs you in the gut but you choose to ignore the uncomfortable feeling. Floris Baratheon means nothing to you. She’d do the same to you in a heartbeat. There’s no playing fair in these circles.

“—you see we decided to get engaged!”

You choke on your wine, sputtering, and coughing. Droplets of wine stain the white tablecloth like little pink raindrops. Jace rubs a comforting hand on your back.

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“Sloppy girl you got there, Jacey,” Aegon snickers.

“I’m fine,” you manage in a hoarse voice, “Just went down the wrong way, that’s all.” You can feel droplets of wine running down your chin, onto your neck, and down between your breasts.

Aegon raises his eyebrows, an amused smile on his face as his eyes shamelessly follow the river flowing down your chest. You wipe your chin as you stand from your chair, the legs scraping harshly against the wooden floor.

“I’ll just go freshen up,” you tell everyone. Your throat tightens uncomfortably.

“D’you want me to come with you?” Jace asks, rising halfway from his chair, his brown eyes wide.

“No, I’m fine,” you insist, pressing your hand against his shoulder until he sits back down, “I’ll be right back.”

You don’t look at Aemond, nor anyone else as you hurry past Rhaenyra’s table and between other patrons towards the restroom. Hurrying down the hallway and slamming the door shut behind you, you take a deep breath gazing at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are wide and bloodshot from your coughing fit, and your chest is shiny and sticky from the wine.

“Seven fucking hells,” you grumble, grabbing one of the provided towels and wetting it in the sink. Cleaning yourself up, you try to stop your hands from shaking.

Engaged.

You shake your head, fixing your hair, trying to rid yourself of the thought.

He’s fucking engaged.

Sleeping with Aemond Targaryen when he has a “girlfriend” is one thing. But fiancee? The thought makes your stomach tighten. Well, it shouldn’t mean anything. You didn’t care then. You shouldn’t care now. You meet your eyes in the mirror, your stomach flipping unpleasantly. You shouldn’t care. Your lower lip trembles, nails digging into the soft flesh of your palms.

Seven hells.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

What have you been doing? You have a boyfriend. He has a fiancee. You press your hand against your forehead, breathing deeply as your heart thrums against your ribs. A wife practically. Gods if this got out. You don’t even want to think about it. Rhaenyra’s campaign would be jeopardized. Everything you’ve worked for. You’ve been so incredibly reckless.

This has to end.

The door opens and you’re torn from your thoughts as Aemond enters the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Of course, he followed you. You glare at him through the mirror.

“Out.”

“Let me explain—”

“Get out Aemond,” you demand, drying your hands, not turning to face him.

“I meant what I said,” he continues, taking a step forward, “It’s an arrangement that’s all, a publicity stunt—”

“A publicity stunt? You’re getting married,” you hiss, throwing the towel against the counter, meeting his eyes through the mirror once more. It feels hauntingly familiar, looking at him like this; the last time he was buried to the hilt inside of you. “Get. Out.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” he insists.

You laugh bitterly, finally turning to face him. He’s standing inches away from you, so close you can smell the intoxicating scent of his cologne. It makes your head spin. Shit. Stay focused.

“Doesn’t change anything?” you repeat, “She’s going to be your wife.”

“Don’t be such a child,” he snaps, causing you to flinch, “You know how this works. People are paired off together all the time.” He takes a step forward and you back up, your ass nudging against the edge of the sink. “What did you think was going to happen, hm?” He steps even closer, his body completely caging you against the counter.

Aemond places his hands on either side of you. He’s not wrong. You know how this world works. Families align with each other all the time through relationships and marriages. It’s as if they’re frozen in time using betrothals for political gain.

Just look at Rhaenyra and Laenor Velaryon. Their marriage was anything but a loving one. Her children are proof of that, clearly fathered by someone else. You remembered watching them arrive when you were in grade school; exiting the black limousine and not realizing who they were. Their father was rumored to be the head of the Secret Service at the time, Harwin Strong, though this was never confirmed.

“It’s not like Jace is going to let you go,” he murmurs, hands inching closer to your waist, “Or have you not thought that far ahead?”

His hands come to rest on your hips and he chuckles softly at the sound this elicits from you.

“You’re in too deep,” he says, nose brushing against your cheek. His minty breath wafts over your face. One hand remains on your waist, the other trailing up the side of your ribs. Goosebumps bloom on your arms as he reaches your face.

“It’s for the election,” you whisper.

“The water’s over your head,” he murmurs, his hand caressing your cheek, “If you think it’ll end there, you’re not as smart as I thought you were. You’re drowning.”

You swallow, lips parting to give him another snide remark, but he doesn’t let you; the hand that cradles the side of your face pulls you forward and presses your lips to his. You push against his firm chest, disconnecting your lips with a wet pop. Your hand reaches toward your face, your fingertips pressing against your tingling lips.

“You’re getting married—”

“And you’re fucking jealous,” he snarls, bringing his face inches away from yours. You suck in a surprised breath, cheeks warming as his lips curl into that familiar smug smirk, “Worried Floris is getting what you’ve been missing?”

Humiliation makes your skin prickle; the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. Your fingers fall from your lips.

“Fuck you,” you hiss from between clenched teeth, “I don’t care.”

You try to push by him but his hands plant themselves on your middle, holding you firmly in front of him. His hands slide down your waist, cupping the globes of your ass. A disapproving whine leaves your lips as he squeezes the soft flesh harshly, lifting you onto the counter. Your fists beat against his chest and he grabs your wrists.

“You care,” he insists, pressing a kiss against the side of your neck as you twist an arm from his grip to shove him, “Otherwise you wouldn’t be behaving like a spoiled brat in front of everyone.” His lips press against your throat with every word he speaks.

One of his large hands moves up your back winding in your hair and tugging your head backwards. Your forearm presses against his shoulder attempting to push him away. Aemond hums appreciatively against your throat, pressing another soft kiss against it. Your breathing hitches as he continues to kiss your neck, warm desire pooling in your belly. You stop pushing, curling your hand into the fabric of his shirt instead, pulling him closer.

“It’s been three days,” he murmurs, continuing his exploration up your neck with his lips, nipping and sucking at the smooth skin, “Three days without this cock is driving you crazy, huh?”

“Aemond,” you try to snap at him but it’s dangerously close to a moan, “They’ll be waiting for us—” You’re silenced by his fingers thrusting through your parted lips, pressing down against your tongue.

“Shhh,” he hushes in a condescending tone, “I think that pretty mouth has said enough, don’t you agree?” You watch him with wide eyes as he presses further down your throat until the tips of his fingers reach the rough surface of the back of your tongue causing you to gag. He moves his fingers back.

“C’mon, you can do better than that,” he scolds, tapping your cheek with his other hand. His eyes narrow as he presses his fingers further down your throat once more. Your throat constricts and you claw at his bicep, fighting the urge to gag again. You hollow your cheeks, sucking his three fingers in your mouth. “There she is. That’s much better— there’s a good girl, that’s it.”

He removes his soaked fingers, a line of saliva still connected to your lips. Gasping for breath you feel him part your legs, his hand sneaking under your dress. You can feel his cool, wet fingers against your inner thighs.

“Aem—”

“What did I say?” His words are clipped and irritated. His fingers graze against your clothed center, pressing lightly against your soaked center. You can feel how much you want him. How right he was about the jealousy that burns in your belly. You’re sure he can feel it too.

A muffled whine leaves your lips as his fingers pull your panties to the side, parting your silky wet folds. You’re embarrassingly wet already. Aemond chuckles darkly, fingers dipping against your entrance and gathering some of your arousal before circling your clit.

“You’re begging to get fucked, you know that?” he asks, his voice husky and strained, “Walking around here looking like this.” The hand in your hair tightens and pinpricks of pleasure sting your scalp. “Needy. Little. Slut.” His fingers pinch your clit on the last word and you cry out.

Aemond slams his lips against yours to silence your cry and you hook a leg around his slim waist, heel digging into his lower back pulling him closer. He kisses you feverishly like he means to devour you. It’s sloppy and his teeth scrape against your lip but you don’t care. It’s been days without him speaking to you, let alone touching you. You’ve felt like you were going crazy.

Not that you were about to admit that to him.

Your breathing is turning to pants as he continues to kiss you, fingers circling your bud with determined precision. Your eyebrows scrunch together as the current of pleasure in your abdomen winds tighter, and your toes begin to curl. You whine against his mouth and he shushes you once more.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls through an open-mouthed kiss, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth.

You accept it greedily and your limbs turn to jelly when he licks at the roof of your mouth. One hand clings to his bicep, nails digging into the hardened muscle while the other winds around his neck and tangles in his hair. His hand dips lower, two fingers stretching inside of your warm waiting pussy.

“That’s it,” he murmurs as you shudder at the stretch, “Fucking c’mon then—” his fingers crook upwards pressing against the spongy section of your walls that has your back arching, and black spots dancing across your vision.

“Gods—” you whine, clenching around his digits as his thumb presses against your clit. His fingers are longer and thicker than your own; you’d indulged yourself several times the past few days but masturbation was nothing compared to the pleasure Aemond is able to give you.

“This is all you needed, huh?” he asks, steadily beginning to finger you, focusing all his attention on caressing your sweet spot. “Oh yeah. You’re so much happier with my fingers buried inside this tight little cunt, huh?” Your face flushes as he speaks to you. Every stroke of his fingers sends waves of pleasure washing over you. Your jaw slacks, eyes squeezing shut. Every nerve ending in your body is singing as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

“You want my mouth on this sweet little pussy?” he asks gruffly, his face pressed against yours, “Tell me how badly you want it. C’mon. Tell me.” The squelching sound of his fingers is borderline pornographic in the small space.

“Yes!” you wail.

“Beg me,” his voice is rough, the commanding tone causing your walls to spasm around his lengthy digits.

“Please,” you whine, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. He knows your body so well. Too damn well. Every curl of his fingers incessantly bullies against your sweet spot. You can feel your walls pulsating around his fingers, squeezing him tighter and tighter and tighter.

“Please what, baby?”

Your teeth are clenched together, and a whimper gets caught in your throat. Your eyes roll back in your skull as he slows his pace stroking just right. Your head tilts back gently tapping against the mirror, mouth hanging open in bliss as you try to find the words.

“Please—please I need your mouth—”

“Yeah?” he says, an amused, open-mouthed grin slashed across his face, “Where?”

Seven hells he’s relentless. You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, your heel presses against his buttock, your back arching off the counter desperately grinding against his hand for more friction. Gods you’re practically fucking yourself on his hand your hips rutting against his palm.

“Please! Please on my pus—” Your sentence dies as Aemond kneels in front of you. “Aemond—oh god,” you moan as he presses his face against you, one hand holding your panties to the side, as his tongue slides over your aching clit.

“Since you begged,” he murmurs, suckling your clit between his lips and sucking; tongue lavishing the sensitive button with even strokes.

His tongue is deliciously warm and firm, tracing little circles around your clit and making your mind go blank, the last few moments forgotten. His fingers stroke the rough patch at the front of your sensitive walls and he presses against it with brutal determination.

Your thighs shake around his head, fingers tangling in his hair as the pressure in your belly builds, winding tighter and tighter until at last white-hot pleasure bursts through you; your muscles go taut and you cry out, slamming the back of your hand against your mouth to stifle the noise as you release barrels through you.

He fucks you through it, a low rumble of appreciation bursting through his chest as the wet, sucking sound of his fingers grows louder with your release. The pleasure is almost too much; it ignites you completely.

A rush of air enters the small space and your head snaps up. Aemond is quick to stand, mouth falling away from you and your release fizzles out.

Daemon leans against the doorframe, a knowing smirk on his face as he purses his lips. His eyes follow the length of Aemond’s arm down to where it disappears still beneath your dress. Aemond’s fingers slip out of your pussy, the soaked digits dragging a wet path down against your inner thighs leaving you despairingly empty.

“Carry on,” Daemon murmurs, letting the door close behind him as he exits.

Blood rushes in your ears and the room begins to spin. It’s like Daemon took all the air in the room with him. Black spots appear in your vision.

“Fuck,” you’re nearly panting, “Oh gods—” Your mind is beginning to spiral, the high of pleasure leaving your limbs. “Shit,” you breathe, fixing your panties, hopping off of the counter, “—fuck.”

Aemond reaches for the sink, and he turns it on calmly, beginning to wash his hands.

“Relax.”

“Relax?”

He shuts off the faucet, drying his hands as he faces you.

“He’s not going to say—”

“Aemond,” you stop him, holding your hand up, “Just don’t.”

Fixing yourself quickly, Aemond stands in stony silence as you open the door and flee the bathroom. You return to the table, not looking at anyone. Sitting beside Jace you reach for your wine, downing the rest of it, trying to ignore the ache between your legs.

Aemond rejoins a moment later, reclaiming his seat next to Floris. She holds out the menu, pointing at something trying to show him. It takes him a moment to get back into character. You watch him blink before slinging an arm over the back of her chair and leaning into her, seemingly very interested in what she’s showing him.

You place your glass on the table, your leg bouncing uncontrollably. Helaena watches you, lilac eyes narrowed. Turning away from her scrutinizing gaze you subtly glance at Rhaenyra’s table.

Daemon meets your eyes, raising his glass to salute you.

Fuck.

You forgo dinner later that day, claiming the sun has gone to your head. Hiding beneath the silk sheets of you and Jace’s bed seems like a much better way to spend the evening. You try to busy yourself on your phone but your thoughts keep going back to Daemon. The smirk he wore, the look in his eyes.

Caught you.

Your stomach turns and suddenly the blue light is making you feel nauseous and you throw your phone across the room. The sun bleeds orange tendrils of light across the floor as it lowers over the horizon, the hours ticking by as you lay in silence.

The door creaks open when the room is shrouded in darkness. The mattress dips as Jace sits, placing a comforting hand on your back.

“Hey,” he says softly, rubbing slow circles over the covers, “How’re you feeling?”

“Miserable,” you answer truthfully.

“I’m sorry baby,” he murmurs, “Do you want me to stay?”

“No,” you tell him, “I’m sure there’s something planned, you should join them.”

“It’s just a movie,” he tells you, “Joffrey picked it. Some crazy action film.”

“Charming,” you grumble as he places a kiss on the top of your head.

“Can I bring you something later?” he asks, and you don’t answer, “Get some rest.”

He gently closes the door as he leaves and the nausea comes back. You don’t deserve him. Jace knows, you’re sure of it. He knows there’s someone else. He’s just too nice to say anything.

Whether he knows it’s Aemond you’ve been sleeping with is a different story.

It should make you feel worse than it does.

You sit up, throwing off the covers suddenly very hot. You can’t sit in this room anymore, can’t lie down and sulk. It’s driving you up a wall, making you want to crawl out of your skin. You need fresh air. Rising from the bed, you throw on a pair of shorts and a simple t-shirt along with some flip-flops.

The hallway is quiet when you enter; everyone must still be in the theater room or have gone to bed. You quickly pad down the stairs, the sound of your flip-flops echoing through the grand entryway as they slap against the marble staircase. Heading through the spacious kitchen you open the sliding glass doors and head out the back towards the pool.

You see him as soon as you step onto the patio. He’s standing at the far end of the pool, a lit cigarette dangling from his perfect mouth. He glances at you, the cherry red tip pointed in your direction. He’s taken his hair down, the silver waves ripple over his shoulders.

The pool is filled with lights dancing on the blue surface; little lotus flowers holding candles. A basket of beach towels sits next to the door and you grab one. Aemond watches your movements as you walk along the side of the pool coming closer to him.

“What are you doing?” you ask, watching him crush the cigarette under his shoe.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Didn’t know you smoked.”

“Only during times of stress.”

You nod, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth. You don’t ask him to follow you, but he does all the same as you continue to walk the edge of the pool until you reach the beginning of the yard. You walk on the grass until you reach the dimly lit cobblestone path you’d seen during the tour of Summerhall house Alicent had given the day you’d arrived. Fairy lights have been strung along the railing that leads down to a small private beach giving the path a feeling of perpetual summer. Aemond’s footsteps echo behind you sounding heavier than your own.

As you arrive at the end of the steps you remove your shoes. Your feet sink into the sand, cooler now with the blazing summer sun not hanging overhead.

“You shouldn’t swim at night,” Aemond comments.

“I’m not going to swim,” you tell him, placing your shoes on the last step, “Are you coming?”

Aemond hums, hesitating for a moment as he holds your gaze. He truly looks ethereal with the moonlight casting shadows along the angles of his face. That chiseled jaw, those striking cheekbones. His prominent long nose. He could have gone into modeling if not politics, that you’re sure of.

You walk side by side further down the beach before you spread the towel and sit on top of it. You pat the spot beside you and he accepts the silent invitation to sit. For a moment neither of you speak, staring out at the waves that gently lap against the shore. The lights of the city are visible from here, just shiny little stars sparkling against the horizon.

You can feel his gaze shift as he looks at you. What was it he said to you a few days ago?

You can’t fool me.

“I can speak to Daemon,” Aemond says softly, “Make sure he doesn’t…”

“Don’t bother,” you cut him off, “You and I are a ticking time bomb. It could have been anyone walking in on us.”

At least it was Daemon. If he releases it, he’ll spin it to make Aemond look like the sleaze; cheating on poor, doe-eyed Floris Baratheon. You don’t even want to think about the possibility of Otto or Alicent walking in on you.

It’s always easier to scandalize women.

If Daemon spoke to Rhaenyra, she’d make him leave your name out of it. Nameless, faceless. Just some girl. Curiosity gnaws at you.

“Why wouldn’t you say something?” you ask him suddenly, “You could get on top of this before Daemon goes to the press. He’ll ruin you with this.”

“I’m not worried,” Aemond responds coolly, “I’m not scared of a little scandal.”

You think back to the stories you’d heard about him. The dutiful son with his sprinkle of bad decisions. Aemond cleans up his messes, unlike his elder.

“I suppose your family is very protective of your reputation,” you agree, tucking your knees against your chest.

“You don’t have that sort of protection,” he says softly.

It’s true. The Targaryen and Hightower names are like royalty compared to everyone else. Sucking your lower lip between your teeth, you slowly shake your head.

“No,” you agree, “I don’t.”

“I’m not going to say anything,” he clarifies, “I expect Aegon to win this campaign without the additional nonsense.”

You snort out a laugh. Even now he can’t help but try and push your buttons. It’s inevitable, the two of you. Always trying to one-up one another.

“Yeah okay. Well, we’ll see about that. Besides, Rhaenyra’s numbers have increased steadily since the debate,” you tell him, bumping your shoulder against his. The small contact leaves a burning feeling where your skin meets his.

“Don’t count your eggs before they hatch,” he softly teases.

“I know my chickens.”

Aemond frowns, giving you a quizzical look. “That’s not a saying.”

“Says who?” you ask, arching a brow at him.

This is easy, this is good. Just banter. Just Aemond versus you. It’s much more simple when you’re on opposite sides of the playing field.

“Surely someone,” he says leaning back against his hands.

The waves crash loudly against the rocks and seafoam sizzles against the sand. The moonlight reflects off of the top of the surf sending a silver trail down the middle of the water, splitting it neatly in two.

“Why?” you softly ask, tapping your fingers against your calves.

“Why what?” Aemond asks.

“Why aren’t you going to say anything?”

Aemond stares at you, his gaze burning into the side of your face until you can’t stand it. Turning your head, you meet his heated gaze.

“You know why.”

Your head tilts to the side, eyes not leaving his. “That’s a problem.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Aemond insists, “If we’re careful.” Aemond wets his lips, “What do you want?”

Your heart is beating so fast against your ribs it's almost painful. You place your palms against the towel, pushing against it trying to ground yourself.

“This…” you struggle to find the words, opting for another shake of your head, “This will never work. You and I; we hate each other.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, his hand moving on top of yours.

“And you’re engaged,” you continue as his fingers lace through yours. Oh gods. There it is. That ache deep inside of you; a bottomless pit of want that threatens to swallow you whole.

“I’m engaged,” he agrees, reaching over to stroke your cheek, “And you’re with Jace.”

His thumb strokes your cheekbone, hand cradling your jaw. The action is affectionate and caring. It’s so tender, so endearing you almost burst into tears.

“I’m with Jace,” it’s barely a whisper, “I’m with—” You don’t get a chance to finish. His mouth is on yours before Jace’s name leaves your lips. There’s only Aemond.

You fall into the familiar rhythm quickly as he climbs on top of you, kissing you all the while. The sounds of the waves are deafening, matching the beating of your heart, of blood rushing in your ears. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. You want to lose yourself in the sound, in the feeling of him on top of you, pressing against you. He’s everything. He’s all-consuming.

It’s too late for anything else.

You’ve already been devoured.

The heat of the morning sun wakes you, a light sheen of sweat covering you. The side of your face itches and you bring a hand to it, brushing away some sand. Sand sticks to your legs and arms. Aemond lays beside you on his back, an arm thrown over his eye to block the sun.

“We fell asleep,” you tell him, squinting at the rising sunlight.

Whirl. Click!

A noise startles you. Must be the birds. Pushing yourself into a seated position, you brush some sand from your arm. Aemond turns onto his side, throwing an arm lazily over your outstretched legs. His hand curls against the meat of your thigh causing you to chuckle.

“Someone’s needy,” you tease, combing some hair from his face.

He growls his eye remaining shut, but the corner of his mouth quirks in a smile.

Whirl. Click! Whirl.

Craning your neck, you raise your arms above your head, yawning as you stretch. A sliver of flesh is exposed as you do so, and Aemond reaches his hand to grasp your waist, tugging you closer. You definitely shouldn’t have fallen asleep. Jace is probably worried sick. You pat your shorts. Shit. You’d left your phone as well.

“They’ll be looking for us,” you tell him, attempting to escape his grasp.

“Let them look,” he says, voice rough with sleep, as he pulls you close, pressing a sloppy kiss to your lips.

Click!

You turn. There’s that noise again. As your ears adjust, you’re less sure that it’s simply the sounds of the birds rustling in their nests. The waves crash against the rocks, and you look over the dunes as the sea breeze rustles through them.

There it is.

A photographer, laying on his belly in the dunes, camera held at the ready. Whirl. Click! Your heart drops into your stomach. You’re going to be sick, for real this time.

You should have known.

Pushing away from Aemond, you pull your shirt down, dusting off the remaining sand.

“You’re a real fucking asshole,” you hiss, pulling the towel out from under him.

Aemond frowns at the sudden change, watching as you shake the towel out before chucking it in his direction. He catches it, leaning back slightly, surprised at the force of your throw.

“What?” Aemond says, face a mask of confusion.

“Shame I wasn’t in some skimpy suit, bet the press would have a field day putting those photos side by side with you and Floris,” you tell him scoffing, “I should’ve fucking known better.”

He calls your name. You don’t turn back, shielding your face as you hear the click of the camera once more attempting to save whatever dignity you have left. You can hear Aemond struggle to sand as you move toward the stairs, slipping on your shoes. His hand wraps around your forearm as you begin to climb them, halting your steps.

“This was not me,” he insists, “Look, Storm’s End yes, I did that but I had nothing to do with this—”

“I am such a fucking idiot,” you snap, ignoring him.

“I swear it-” You tug your arm away from his grasp, his expression crestfallen.

“I don’t even know why I’m surprised,” you tell him, laughing bitterly, “Like I didn’t know who I was dealing with.”

Aemond’s lips part, but he says nothing. You open your mouth to speak again.

Click! Whirl. Click!

“Fucking hells,” you mumble, turning away and running up the steps back towards the main house.

Tears stream down your face, hot and wet as you continue to climb. They’ve already got their money shot. You won’t give them one of you crying as well.

455 notes · View notes

lauraneedstochill · 1 year

Text

My first choice (part 1/2)

summary: Aemond thinks you are way too good to be Aegon’s best friend. But you are enough for the one-eye prince to fall in love with.

pairing: Aemond Targaryen and F!Reader words: ~ 5500

warnings: friends to lovers, slow burn (with very obvious mutual pining), angst, Aegon is a sad boy (but ends up being a pretty good wingman!)

author's note: this is inspired by “Little women” and Amy March in particular. I took the liberty to rewrite some plot lines because to me Aemond is nothing like Laurie (Aegon is ;) and I hate love triangles so we are not having any of that sorry. it's a bit of a roller coaster so I divided it into 2 parts in hopes that it will be easier to read: the first part explains Aemond's feelings, the second one is about hers. ✨ part 2

part 1. How could you be so blind

Aegon knows he's supposed to be relieved — he never wanted the crown and now that Rhaenyra is the Queen and a feast is arranged in her honor, he should be celebrating. And he may have been hitting the wine way too hard for the past couple of hours, but he can’t pretend to be happy, and he gave up trying to force a smile. It’s ridiculous that he is upset over this, and yet he can’t help but feel horribly useless. The prince drinks one cup after another until the room starts spinning and he can’t even sit straight — and then he suddenly finds himself propped against the wall, sliding under the table instead of sitting at it. Aegon catches a few judgemental glances but at this point, he couldn’t care less. There is only one person whose judgment he is afraid of — and it’s not long before he’s greeted with a displeased remark:

“When I asked you not to swoop too low, I couldn’t imagine you would literally lay on the floor.”

He looks up — and here you are, staring down at him, not even trying to cover up your disappointment. At any other time, Aegon would’ve at least tried to sober up, but today he’s disappointed in himself, too, so he doesn’t make an effort. Instead, he reaches out an arm to you with a lax smile:

“Would you like to join me?”

“I didn’t get the invitation to this pity party so I will pass,” your tone suggests you are not in the mood for jesting. “Now that you’ve succeeded in making a fool out of yourself, would you mind getting upright?”

“I think I like it here,” he retorts, shamelessly staring at the legs of the maids passing by.

“You like wallowing in misery for all to see?” you huff. “Aegon, get up.”

He fakes a whine:

“My legs gave out, I’m afraid!”

“You would need to drink all the wine in the castle for that to happen, and I doubt you managed to do that,” you roll your eyes, taking a step toward him — but pause upon hearing a voice behind your back:

“You underestimate my brother.”

Aemond has a habit of sneaking up on people which often startles you yet right now you are too angry at Aegon to be bothered. You throw Aemond a glare over your shoulder but your eyes soften when you see the apologetic look on his face. It’s not the first time that the two of you find yourself in this situation — throughout the years you learned to work as a team: you bring Aegon back to his senses while Aemond helps to physically bring him to the nearest flat surface. You have never asked him for help — and yet he’s always there.

Aemond is about to lean down to help his brother up — you stop the one-eye prince with your hand, your palm inches away from his chest. Anyone else would’ve thought twice before standing in his way but you don’t hesitate.

“He is perfectly capable to get up on his own,” you reject Aemond’s attempt, your eyes fixed on Aegon. “He can hold onto the wall shall he feel unable to stay on his two feet.”

There is something in your gaze that makes Aegon uncomfortable, piercing him to the bone. You are never downright mean or rude but with just a few words you can easily unmask his feigned recklessness. The prince stands up, tottering and feeling a little light-headed.

“Are you happy, now when I'm in the standing position?”

“If you cared about anyone else's feelings but your own, you wouldn't be in this position,” you scold him while Aemond takes his brother under the arm to guide him out. Aegon tries to grab another cup of wine but you slap his hand.

“Do you ever get ashamed of yourself?” you hiss at him.

“Let me think... No, why would I?” he sounds sarcastic.

“You should be,” you whisper scream at him. “You can find nothing to do but dawdle and make a mockery of yourself!”

Aemond feels his brother shuddering at your words, and he tightens his hold on Aegon.

“Well, what else am I to do,” his voice is bitter. “Since I am not an heir and serve no purpose to the realm nor do I have any taste for duty.”

You slow your pace, and a sigh leaves your mouth.

“I feel sorry for you, Aegon, I do. I only wish you'd bear it better,” you reach out to stroke his arm but the prince bristles.

“You don't have to feel sorry for me. Your duty is to marry, and we will see how that goes,” he mutters before he can stop himself — and regrets it the very next second when you swiftly turn to him.

“At least I would be respected if I couldn't be loved,” your tone hushed but sharp.

Aegon stops dead in his tracks, his wide eyes meeting yours. You moved away from the crowd into the hall, and it becomes silent. And then his lower lip quivers.

“But I thought that you loved me,” Aegon whimpers, his assumed nonchalance instantly gone.

“Oh, Aegon, how much did you have to drink?” you come to his side, lending him a shoulder to cry on. While he’s aggressively sniffling, you look at Aemond and quietly mouth “How many cups?”

“Way more than usual,” he gives you a wan smile, and you groan at his answer, taking Aegon by the arm.

“Alright, you can lean on me. But don’t get handsy or I will push you down the stairs,” your remark earns a weak laugh from the older prince, and the three of you head toward his chambers.

Aegon doesn’t talk much but his mood softens and you exchange a few jokes before finally reaching his room.

“I can take it from here,” Aemond suggests but his brother eagerly protests.

“No, I want to be tucked into bed! And definitely not by you,” he sticks out his tongue, and you chuckle at his whim.

“Aemond, I can handle him.”

The one-eyed prince shoots you a knowing glance and holds the door open for you and Aegon to walk in. You slowly move to his bed, making sure he doesn’t stumble on his way — and then, with a sudden boost of energy, the prince flops down on the fluffy blankets, letting out a satisfied moan. You hold back a giggle and wait for him to crawl under the covers.

“Should I call for the maid to help you undress?”

“No, I am way too comfortable like this,” he pulls the blanket up to his chin, and you sit on the edge of the bed.

“I am sorry for the way I behaved,” he reveals, frowning. “I did not mean to, truly.”

“Aegon, you know I’m not the one you should apologize to,” you take his hand in yours, and he squeezes it with childish eagerness. “You left Helaena all alone. And you promised me you would make an effort.”

“I know, I know,” he yawns. “I was doing better until today, I swear, you should ask her,” his speech becomes incoherent as he is already too drowsy to talk, his cheeks flushed from the wine and the heat of the blankets. As you stand up to leave, Aegon mumbles:

“I fetched you a book... the one you were looking for,” he sloppily points to his table by the window before dozing off.

There is only one book so it’s easy to find — and when you do, you can barely contain a sound of surprise: it's the complete history of Westeros, heavy and hardcover, decorated with gilding. You glance at Aegon but he looks fast asleep so you cautiously get out of his chambers.

If you were to turn around, you would’ve noticed that he kept an eye on you with a grin on his face.

When you walk out, you see Aemond still standing there, his gaze landing on the book and then immediately on you. It takes you a minute to figure it out and then you smile at him:

“Even though I appreciate the gesture, it is hard to imagine Aegon in the library.”

“He asked me to help him find the book you wanted. I did,” the prince explains as if it isn’t that big of a deal. But to you, it is — although you think he only did it out of politeness.

“Thank you, Aemond,” you enthusiastically turn your attention to the book, flipping through the pages in awe. He watches you, feeling the warmth in his chest at the sight of your joy.

“You know that you bring out the best in him?” Aemond says in a low voice, and your heart skips a beat at his comment. You are thankful for the dim lighting that makes your heated cheeks less obvious.

“You overestimate my influence,” you say, then dither before admitting, “I’m afraid I was too hard on him today.”

“Someone has to do it,” Aemond objects, and there’s something in his tone — sincere and soft, that makes you look at him again. At this moment, away from the prying eyes and the pressure of everyone’s expectations, you can see the side of him that people rarely get acquainted with.

“I think you are doing a pretty good job, too,” you tell the prince, finding his presence ever so calming. You could never understand why would anyone call Aemond intimidating when he’s been nothing but kind to you ever since you two met. Whenever you have a chance to be alone with him, his company always brings you comfort, and that feeling is so rare, you want to chase it.

But then you remind yourself of the harsh reality, and your smile falters.

“I’m sorry you had to get involved,” you look down at the book. “I wouldn’t want to distract you.”

“You need to elaborate on that,” Aemond says uncomprehendingly.

“I’ve heard that you were courting lady Baratheon,” you explain casually, avoiding his gaze.

He hesitates before answering.

“Well, I only plan to,” the prince clarifies. “If she accepts my advances.”

“It would be silly of her not to,” you blurt out and, while you can’t see it, Aemond gives you a quizzical look.

“She may have her reasons —”

“I can’t come up with a single one,” you tell him with so much confidence, Aemond’s heart flutters at your words but you continue without a second thought. “You are intelligent, good-hearted, handsome — and a really skilled swordsman. Not to mention you have the biggest dragon in the realm, which does sound like a reasonable perk.”

The prince is glad that you’re too preoccupied with the book to see his stunned expression. It’s not just the fact that you compliment him so easily — but also the way you do it. When other people try to, they usually start with Vhagar as if the old grumpy creature is the main good thing about Aemond. But you only bring up the dragon at the very end and in passing, instead keeping the focus on the prince. He is silent for a moment, letting your words sink into his memory.

And then Aemond persuades himself that you only said it out of politeness.

You notice his lack of response — and you are about to question it when a maid comes to you in haste:

“Lady Y/N, your presence is needed. Your father is looking for you.”

“Better not keep him waiting,” the prince encourages you with a grin. “If he finds Aegon, he might hug him to death.”

You playfully elbow him and turn to follow the maid but then stop to say:

“Please make sure your brother stays in bed.”

“Will do,” Aemond looks at you walking away, clutching the book to your chest as if it's the most precious thing in the world.

To this day, it is truly a mystery to him how Aegon managed to befriend someone like you. You met the Targaryen brothers when your family was invited to one of the royal feasts. You were ten and three, the middle one of three sisters. Your oldest — Elaesa — has been the center of attention, beautiful and graceful, but while everyone’s eyes were on her, you looked a little bit disoriented. It was the first feast that you’ve attended, and maybe you got too agitated or overwhelmed — or both — but soon you ended up lost in the castle, and somehow ripped the hem of your dress in the process.

Aemond was the one to find you. The prince has never been keen on taking part in celebrations, often sneaking away from all the noise. That’s when he saw you — fussing with the dress, your sobs echoing through the hall.

“Are you hurt?” he rushed to your side, and you looked up at him with blubbered eyes.

“Why do you have so many halls? You should hand out maps so people can find their way back,” despite being clearly upset, you sounded unusually serious, and Aemond fought back a smile.

“I can help you find your parents without a map,” he suggested, and for a second it seemed to lighten your mood but then your pout worsened.

“I cannot go back,” you gestured at the dress. “I am in such trouble!” you whined, the tears threatening to spill out of your eyes.

Truth be told, Aemond didn’t have much experience with ladies back then nor did he know a thing about dresses but your distress seemed so genuine he couldn’t leave you be.

“It is not that bad,” he pointed at the ripped material. “I can ask our seamstress to take a look.”

You studied his face for a second, then glanced back at the dress — surprisingly, that was all it took for you to stop crying, and no other coaxing was needed. You wiped your nose and fixed your hairdo, smoothing the damaged hem the best you could.

“I'd appreciate it if you help me find my way back,” you said, your face seemingly more relaxed.

Getting you to talk was pretty easy, and Aemond shortly discovered how open-minded and outspoken you were, using your quick thinking to compensate for your timid personality. When you returned to the hall of the Iron Throne, he was reluctant to let you go but promised to come back with the seamstress. The task only took him about ten minutes, but when he did reappear, you were not alone — Aegon was standing next to you, making you laugh so hard, it looked like you forgot about the dress already. Aemond didn’t mean to interrupt as he suddenly felt very out of place, uninvited in his own home, so he abandoned the idea of helping you and just left.

At first, he thought you fell for Aegon’s flirtatious charms but soon learned that, as much as you did like his brother’s humor, his charms had no effect on you. On the contrary, you often chided him for hitting on young girls and openly condemned his affection for wine. Your honesty set you apart from all the ladies Aegon was surrounded with — and that was the reason he came to enjoy your company as much as he did. Despite the three years age gap, you were the one who told him the truth, no matter how ugly it might’ve been, but you did so without prejudice or any ill intentions. You would usually follow your critique with advice or a solution of some sort to keep the prince away from unnecessary trouble. That is why you were on friendly terms with Helaena, too, and your influence was also welcomed by Alicent, the then Queen. She liked that you were straightforward with your remarks and often said that you were wise beyond your years. Although, as much as Aemond agreed with it, he suspected there was a reason you had to grow up early.

It happened the same year you met — your older sister, with all her grace and beauty, ran away from home to elope with some unworthy beggar. Your mother was inconsolable for at least a week, saying that Elaesa brought shame upon her family. Your father, the kind man that he is, forgave his daughter fairly quickly and tried his best to restore peace. And yet, you came to realize that Elaesa's vagary did cast a shadow over your House. Your youngest sister, Alyna, was a fragile little thing, frequently sick and tacit — which left you to be the one representing your family in the eyes of society.

Within a few years, there wasn't a thing you weren't good at: lords lined up to have a dance with you, ladies admired how well-spoken you were and shared a laugh at your florid sarcasm, and you learned to embroider, to ride a horse, to walk exquisitely dressed and with impeccable posture. But while for everyone else it was a reason to compliment you, Aemond saw the underlying cause of your diligence — the corrosive desire to prove one's worth which was something he learned to live with as well. And which led him to think he understood you better than anyone.

More often than not he found himself watching you as if he had the need to make sure you weren't in harm's way. Helping you with Aegon was a part of that routine but it also gave him a chance to be alone with you. You talked about everything and nothing in particular, and he would catch glimpses of you — the real you, shy and emotional at times, but still understanding and perceptive. He cherished every opportunity to steal you away from the never-ending chattering, from lords ogling at you, from Jason Lannister whose interest in your company should've been concerning. Aemond has gotten so used to observing you, so enthralled with your covert conversations, he didn't realize that a particular feeling was creeping up on him. But there was one person who turned out to be more observant than Aemond has been. Aegon was the mere reason why his brother ended up at your door a few days later. Aemond’s been to your place a couple of times and he promptly memorized the way to the farthest room of the house — the one you used to paint in. It was the only thing you truly allowed yourself to enjoy, an unexpected talent of yours which you soon perfected, too, except it wasn't meant for the others to marvel at but plainly for you to keep your head occupied, to have some quiet time.

He walks in when you are already painting the finishing touches. When you turn to greet him, you stop mid-sentence, seeing that it’s Aemond instead of his brother who you were waiting for.

“He overslept,” the younger prince shrugs. “It isn't a bothersome task to come pick up the portrait of my nephews.”

You point in the direction of the painting with the brush in your hand. Aemond admires your work — as he always does — while you try to shake off your confusion. There is another reason you did not expect to see Aemond today. You tarry with voicing your concern but eventually glance at him with empathy:

“I was sorry to hear about lady Baratheon’s decision.”

“I was not,” he’s quick to retort.

“I cannot imagine agreeing to marry a Stark,” you say, dipping a brush in a jar of water.

“Is it the cold weather?” Aemond grins knowingly.

“Yes! Gods, just thinking about it makes me feel uneasy. All the layers you have to wear to keep yourself warm, barely being able to move, getting no sunlight...,” you ramble, making sure to wet all the brushes before lining them up on the table.

“Some say they've got quite a beautiful scenery,” Aemond tries to object although he knows his argument doesn't stand a chance.

“I wouldn't be able to enjoy that,” you huff. “How am I to capture the beauty if my paint freezes?”

He only hums in agreement, watching you busy yourself with your supplies. You go through the brushes, delicately cleaning the bristles with a cloth. Your fingers carefully take one brush after the other, and Aemond silently admires your love for neatness and order.

“You are staring,” you say without turning to him.

“Where do you want me to look at?”

“Aemond, you are in a room full of art!” you chuckle lightly. “Surely, enough options to land your eye on.”

The prince lets his gaze go around the place, and it takes him about a minute to quickly examine all the paintings. And then he inevitably looks at you again. Aemond thinks he likes this view the most.

“When do you begin your next great work of art?” he asks, hoping to distract you.

You halt movement, then force out glumly:

“Never.”

“What do you mean?” he’s taken by surprise.

“I’ve come to realize that I’d never be a genius,” you reluctantly explain. “So I’m giving up all my foolish artistic hopes.”

“Y/N, you cannot be serious. You have so much talent and — ”

“Talent isn’t genius!” you throw up your hands in defeat, and he can sense your frustration from a distance. “I may be talented in other things, but when it comes to painting, I want to be great or nothing. And I am only of middling talent,” you scoop up the brushes, give them a quick look and place in another jar to dry.

Aemond wants to argue, he really does — but he also knows better than to try and persuade you when you are like this: firmly standing your ground, exuding nothing but stubbornness. In any other situation, he would’ve found it endearing but it’s upsetting to see you downplaying your brilliance.

“Hm, may I at least ask your last portrait to be of me?”

You instantly turn to him, taken aback. Throughout the years you’ve known him, he clearly expressed that he did not like being painted, and you only could make a quick sketch or two, at best, when he wasn't paying attention.

“Alright,” the long-awaited opportunity makes you smile. “Next time I come for breakfast, I will drag you into the garden to pose for me,” you give him a pointed look, and Aemond humbly nods.

Your smile grows wider but you try to tone it down, afraid to spook him, and focus on wiping the nearest table.

“What are you going to do with your life in the meantime?” he changes the subject.

“Polish up my other skills and become an ornament to society,” you sigh, putting the cloth away.

There’s a brief pause before he says, his voice a bit strained:

“Here is where Jason Lannister comes in, I suppose?”

You say yes but the answer comes a little bit too fast, and Aemond notices that the topic makes you uncomfortable.

“But you are yet to be betrothed to him,” he clarifies, gaze fixed on you.

“I will be if he proposes,” your eyes meet his, and you are sure that there’s a shadow of disapproval on his face that only spurs your stubbornness. You fully turn to the prince to say: “I always knew I had to marry well, I do not feel ashamed of that.”

But Aemond isn’t looking for a fight — he swiftly corrects himself:

“There is nothing to be ashamed of. As long as...” — he can barely bring himself to say it — “As long as you love him.”

For the reason unknown to Aemond, his statement brings a bleak smile to your face.

“I believe we can have some power over who we love,” you object, lowering your gaze for a second as you start absentmindedly twisting the ring on your finger.

“I think the poets would disagree,” he chuckles, trying to defuse the unexpected tension.

But when you look up at him, your glare is as obdurate as ever.

“Well, I am not a poet, I am just a woman,” you rebut crisply. “And as a woman, I have no illusions about my prospects which do not include me earning a living to support my family. And my parent’s fortune has its limits as I've come to learn. Hence why, if I want to have children — I do — and be able to provide them with everything they wish for, I must rely on my husband,” that last word is pronounced with disappointment. “So don't stand here and tell me that marriage isn't an economic proposition, because it is. It may not be for you but it certainly is for me.”

Had he not known you, Aemond would’ve been very impressed — with how blunt and witty you are, you are very good at delivering speeches. But as he’s standing in front of you, watching your face, he senses that your determination is akin to despair. Aemond thinks he might take a chance at arguing with you, after all — but you’re both startled by a knock on the door:

“Lady Y/N, Ser Lannister just arrived.”

You look baffled for a second, your confidence crumbling.

“Why would he — I, I didn’t expect him today,” you mumble, almost ashamed of his arrival.

Yet you pull yourself together faster than Aemond can come up with a reason for you to stay. You remove your apron and quickly examine your dress, then move to put on a cape.

“Did I miss any paint stains?” you ask Aemond in a haste.

“No,” he looks over the flowing material of your neat dress, your hair knotted up high — and then: “...Wait!”

You stop abruptly while he grabs a clean cloth.

“There is something on your cheek,” he says as you both step toward each other — and in the next second you’re suddenly standing too close.

You turn to him and shyly shut your eyes, taking a deep breath. Aemond is frozen for a moment but then carefully wipes away a slight smudge of green from under your cheekbone. His hand unwillingly lingers as he examines the delicate features of your face. You open your eyes, looking at the prince questingly. His facial expression is unreadable but it makes you wish you didn’t have to go.

You brush away that silly thought and stand back, fixing your cape.

“How do I look? Do I look alright?”

“You look beautiful,” Aemond says with no hesitation, taking you in — with your cheeks a bit flushed, lip parted and eyes shining. “You are beautiful.”

You seem bewildered at his words but then a smile grows on your face — and in a blink of an eye, you’re gone. The prince is left standing there, staring at the spot where you were just now. The room suddenly feels so empty without you — and so does his heart.

The realization strikes Aemond like lightning: he wants to be the one you come to, at all times. The one holding your hand, watching you paint, or read, or dance — watching you do whatever your heart desires. Because his only desire is to be with you. That thought puts down roots deep into his chest, and he doesn’t know how to pluck it out.

Nor does he want to. It’s all he can think about for the duration of the week, until you come to the castle — with canvas and supplies, not hiding your excitement. He almost forgot about his promise but follows you into the garden without objection. You sense a slight change in Aemond’s behavior, him being more quiet than usual, but decide not to push the prince so he won’t reconsider.

“I will start with a sketch and then we will go from there. Alright?”

He just hums in response while looking at you but you are unaware of the meaning behind his gaze.

“Take any pose you like, I don't want you to feel uncomfortable,” you suggest with a half-smile, knowing full well he will probably remain standing.

And he does, arms clasped behind his back, his eye never leaving your face. You immerse in the process too quickly to be bothered, the piece of charcoal in your hand sliding over the paper, leaving lines and shadows. Drawing Aemond is an effortless task, and you can only enjoy how easy it is to sketch the sharp contours of his face and his lean body. The simplicity can also be explained by the fact that you've already memorized all the details by heart: the curves of his cheekbones and his lips, the flow of his silver hair, the shape and cut of his eye.

When you are finally satisfied, you can’t tell if it’s been an hour or three, and the prince, as it seems, hasn’t moved a muscle. At this point, Aemond’s demeanor does worry you yet you blame it on his nervousness.

“Want to take a look?” you hand him a few sketches. “Mind you, I’m not finished so please don’t judge too harshly —”

“I could never,” his hand brushes yours when he takes the drawings.

Aemond has seen your works before but it's a whole new experience when he's the one being portrayed. He almost doesn't recognize himself — you didn't miss a single feature of his yet somehow this version of him looks too beautiful to be real. He's at a loss for words until he spots that there's another drawing hidden underneath. It's a sketch of him sitting, both arms on the table, his face looks like he's deep in his thoughts.

“When did you do this one?”

“After the coronation,” the memory makes you smile. “Made my poor father lug around with charcoal in his pockets while he was trying to keep up the conversation with Ser Lannister.”

It was the day you got introduced to Jason. You were supposed to be by his side, with your charming smile and polite talks, yet you spend your time drawing Aemond. He can imagine your gaze focused on the piece of paper, the way you must've been looking at him to capture every detail and movement — all of that without him asking to, without him even noticing. There's so much care in that act, he is unexpectedly moved by it.

The words leave his mouth before he can think them over:

“Don't marry him.”

His request makes your hands tremble, and you drop the piece of charcoal, slowly looking up at Aemond, the smile disappearing from your face. He did not mean that, you must've misunderstood.

“...What?”

Aemond turns to you, looking you straight in the eyes:

“Don't marry him,” he repeats, helplessly and desperately.

“Why?” you ask in disbelief, suddenly having trouble breathing. The only reason you can think of sounds delusional, close to impossible. You wait for him to come up with some clever explanation — instead, he comes closer to you, his gaze so warm it makes your cheeks burn.

“You know why,” Aemond says and his hand gently lands on yours. You look down at it, perplexed, your mouth opening and closing, heart rate speeding up.

He keeps his eye on your face as he waits for your reply. You are not repulsed nor angry — which is supposed to be a good sign — but the reaction he gets is actually worse than that. Because when you finally glance at him, you look hurt.

“No,” you yank away your hand as if his touch stung. “No, Aemond, you are being mean, stop it,” you take a step back, your eyes glossy and lips tight. The look you give causes him physical pain — while you are trying your best to fight back the tears.

His intelligence clearly fails him because Aemond has no clue what’s going on. He feels like there is a deeper meaning to your words but he does not get it.

“Why am I being mean?” he asks incredulously as you slowly continue putting more distance between you two.

You don’t even realize you are doing it — it’s almost an urge to not be in his presence, for the first time ever. The weight of his words feels suffocating and merciless. How easy it is for him to toy with your emotions, you think, and that cruelty of his — as you see it — wounds you so deeply, he might as well put a torch to your heart.

“I have felt like everyone’s second choice my entire life,” you bemoan, not being able to keep your agony bottled up any longer. “In everything, no matter how hard I’ve worked to be better. I thought you out of all people would understand that,” you sound raspy, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

“So I will not be the person you settle for just because your first marriage proposal was turned down,” only when your voice shudders, Aemond finally understands how wrongfully you interpreted his intentions.

But you are out of his reach already — at least ten feet away from him, and the distance separates you like a giant chasm.

“No, I won’t. I can’t,” you are hurting so much, your feelings spill out like blood from a wound. “I can’t do it. Not when I have spent years loving you.”

His breathing hitches as your confession pierces through his chest — and he is left speechless, deafened by it. The moment slips through his fingers with unforgiving pace: you were standing so close only a minute ago — and now you are turning your back to him, rushing away. The last thing he sees is how broken you look, your shoulders slumped and eyes brimming with tears.

Aemond stands, shocked and paralyzed until it’s too late — the garden is silent with your absence and the only evidence of you being there is your supplies scattered on the ground. Your words are ringing in his head, his heart heavy with a dreadful feeling.

He was afraid he would never have you — but he actually could have.

If only he wasn't so blind.

➡ Part 2

yes, this is me blabbing again: I’ve watched this movie an embarrassing amount of times, and I’ve wanted to write a fic based on it for a few months. I did rephrase a couple of quotes but still tried my best to do the story justice. my apologies for the angst — just so you know, it was painful to write. also, will I ever stop using friends to lovers trope? only time will tell! (I probably won't, though) I know there is a very heartwarming fic by aemonds-war-crime that was also based on “Little women” and it's only fair that I link it as well!

tagging @greenowlfactif because you asked 💙 comments and opinions are VERY welcomed! 🥺 🎨 my masterlist English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes!

#aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #<<< PLS don’t be mad! I know Aegon isn’t the main character but he has a meaningful role #so I thought maybe I should add his tag too... (PLS DON’T BE MAD)#on a completely unrelated note I decided to start with dialogue(s) and then bring the backstory #I think it’s more engaging??? but we’ll see how that goes #also it was a conscious decision to start with Aemond’s side of the story — just so it comes as a surprise when she says ‘hey I loved you f #(I mean it obviously won’t be surprising if you saw the movie...)#ALSO I really hope you guys will want the second part (’cause I already wrote it lmao)#my stuff #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond one eye #aemond one eye x y/n #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfics #aemond targaryen fics #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfic #hotd fanfiction #aemond angst #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen angst

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darilaros (princess) │ Chapter 8: Birthright

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: As the second daughter of King Viserys, you experience firsthand what it means to belong to the House of the Dragon. Your wish comes true.

Hello! Welcome to the FINAL CHAPTER of this instalment, another 8000+ word chapter! Everyone's long-anticipated 'claiming scene' is here, so please give a round of applause to our angryboi, the Cannibal! Keep in mind that I've officially retconned Luke and Daeron's ages (they're 8 and 9 in gevivys now, not 5 and 6 like they were originally - please let me know if I've missed any instances so far!), Thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing this thingo!

TRIGGERS: more abandonment issues, reference to pervy suitors.

Scarcely any time passes between that eve and the arrival of Rhaenyra’s firstborn son, Jacaerys.

’Nyra’s world changes when her baby comes. She is as perfect a mother as you think any woman could be, spending nearly all the hours of the day looking at him or holding him or caring for him. Having a babe has changed her, softened her hard edges and given her a calmness she had once lacked. All she wants to talk about is him. When she is not talking about him or being with him, she is in Council meetings, or she is with Papa performing whatever tasks the heir to the Throne is expected to do. She tries to find moments to spare for you, though it is far less often than it used to be, and she always brings her boy with her.

Jace is a pretty babe, dark-haired and dark-eyed, so unlike either of his parents, and he always seems quite serious in expression—but there is something that holds you back with him. Even though you love him—and he is one half of ’Nyra, so of course you love him—it is like a wall exists between you and him. His mother is your sister, and his father is your cousin, and you… you have no place there. You are on the outside looking in at a life you cannot have.

A part of you wants to stare down at the babe and tell him that you were here first. That you will always have known his mama for longer than he ever shall, that nothing can take away the fact that she belonged to you before she belonged to him. But you don’t. ’Nyra is a new mother, and her child should be all that matters. If you were her babe, that is what you would want. She does not need the petty jealousy of her little sister to ruin things. It is better for you, for her, for him that you find other ways to fill your days.

Daeron’s birth makes it easier.

It is almost like Alicent barely even notices the arrival of her third son, though you do not blame her. She had screamed so loud that even you had heard her in your own chambers. It was not like that with Aegon or Helaena or Aemond. The commotion had been enough to rouse you from your bed to creep toward the Queen’s apartments, to hear Grand Maester Mellos tell Papa that her belly might need to be laid open like—

No. No. The throb of nausea is so vile just thinking of it. You put it out of your mind, doing your best to ignore the prickle of an old hurt and the word ‘Mama’ on the tip of your tongue, hushed and afraid.

Alicent is weak after the birth, and so you take it upon yourself to visit your new little brother, to keep him company where everyone else would have left him to attendants. He is so, so quiet, as though he is ashamed of the way he had entered the world, the way he had hurt his mother coming out. It is like he is an apology for the pain she was made to go through. He is sweet, barely crying though he goes for times without the attention he deserves, and he never fusses when you reach into the cradle to lift him up. You are not quite strong enough to carry him around places, but it is relatively easy to take him to the chair to prop him on your lap in the nursery while Helaena plays.

When Alicent heals, she makes no attempt to disturb your routine, and it is like you have your very own baby to match ’Nyra’s. Sometimes, you imagine that Daeron is yours like Jace is hers and that you are ’El’s mama too, and that you have the important task of being their whole world. Even though the idea of having babies is beginning to scare you a great deal, being a mama is nice. Playing pretend is nice.

But then, the wet nurses come or Alicent comes, and your brother and sister are taken away. It reminds you that you really are alone, after all. ’Nyra giving birth to her next son, Lucerys—Luke—only worsens that feeling. Her family is growingand growing while yours seems to only exist on borrowed moments. Still, you take what love you can and bury the rest of it—the despair, the resentment, the soft tender parts of you that cry out for someone, anyone at all to really, truly see you—far, far below the surface, so deep that no one can touch it, not even you.

You seek solace in knowledge.

Books become your very best friends. The older you get, the easier reading becomes—you leave behind folktales and children’s myths to begin browsing through tomes with smaller letters and larger, more difficult words. Stories turn into histories and treatises on all manner of topics, with dragons, direwolves, men, and the fall of Old Valyria being but some of your preferred subjects of study. You learn the names of the Lannister kings before the Conquest; you gather as many legends on the Age of Heroes as you can; you peruse chronicles detailing the first coming of the Andals to Westerosi shores. Through books, the very land you live upon seems to unfold like a map through time itself, all the secrets of the continent opening themselves up to you through tooled leather and yellowed pages.

It makes Papa immensely proud. “If a woman is to sit the Iron Throne after I am gone,” he says, “then perhaps a woman ought to be her right hand!”

You can tell this makes his other Councilmen nervous by the way they share glances. For all that Rhaenyra has been heir for years now, there are still many among the court who believe your brother ought to succeed him. But Papa does not seem to want to change his mind, for he is as determined to see your sister continue to attend Small Council as he always has been.

Still, you take it to heart. Being Hand of the Queen someday means that you will get to stay with your sister even if you are made to be married. It means you will be important in a way that you haven’t really been so far. But a good Hand has to know so so much about all the lands and people a King or Queen might encounter during the years of their reign. You outgrew Septa’s lessons moons ago, and the more you read, the more it becomes apparent that books aren’t enough to teach you all you need to know. There is no one and nothing that can help you become the cleverest possible version of yourself in King’s Landing—at least, not one willing to do such a task. The maesters would not abide by schooling a girl in the higher arts.

Thus, you firmly decide upon the gift you would like for your name day. Standing in the King’s solar two moons before the occasion is to take place, you impart your desire to your audience of one.

“I wish for a tutor, please,” you tell Papa. “Someone who can teach me anything I wish to know.”

Papa laughs. “And what is it you wish to know, my girl?” he asks. You are unsure if he is amused or delighted by your request.

His question makes you think. What do I want to know? There is no single answer you can produce. How do you describe the feeling of wanting to know something you don’t know enough about to be sure you want to learn it?

“Anything,” is what you reply with. “Everything.”

“Anything and everything.” Papa takes a drink from his cup, his nose scrunching when the liquid inside hits his tongue. You do not think it is wine. He returns the cup to the table beside him, reaching his hand out to you. You move forward to take it. “A lofty request. But you are soon to be ten summers!” He grins. A scab at his temple cracks with the motion. “That, I think, is a milestone worthy of celebration. Very well, daughter,” he says with a grunt. “If a tutor is what you want, then a tutor we shall find.”

He stays true to his word. Not long after you make your appeal to him, all manner of strangers the Realm over make their way to King’s Landing to seek an audience with you and Papa. It is the first time you are allowed to remain by his side in the Great Hall, though it means you must balance atop a twist of melted-together swords to rest your rear against the edge of the armrest, one of the few places upon the Throne that cannot cut you should you make contact with it. Papa insists, however, for these people have gathered to seek employment with you, and so you must be the one to approve them.

There is frightfully little to approve. Several of those who come to answer Papa’s ravens ignore you wholly, their eyes sliding over you as though you are not even there. One of them, a man named Robert, outright refuses to answer your query as to what would make cyvasse lessons so appealing to a girl of your station. It is enough to put you off the game entirely. But his conduct is by no means the worst. There are younger lads who possess no more skill than the average knight’s squire, clearly hastened to the Red Keep by the promise of a lucrative wage and companionship with the King’s daughter. More than one Septon shuffles in to lecture you and Papa on the merits of providing a holy education to the female mind, sinful as it is. Even noblemen like Lord Rosby come to offer to take wardship of you, suggesting that growing up with another girl your age is more than enough learning for a Princess. You suspect his proposal has more to do with the large sum he owes over East.

You and Papa reject them all, sending them away with nary a further glance. Those who grow angered by the refusal are easily frightened off by Ser Criston’s hand coming to rest on his pommel at the foot of the steps. Since Alicent had appointed him your sworn shield some moons after Rhaenyra’s wedding, he has taken to his task with a dedication that would worry you if not for the fact that he is made to take breaks. You think that if he were allowed, he would set up a pallet beside the door to your rooms to keep constant guard over you.

Four days after your tenth name day, someone different arrives. Someone new.

“Presenting Ser Lysan Marios of… er… the Free Cities!” the guard announces.

You crane your neck in curiosity as this Ser Lysan makes his way into the hall. He is dark-skinned, light-haired, and his robes are an odd assortment of various fabrics stitched together. It appears well-made, if unusual, and the colours are bright. Reds, blues, yellows, greens, oranges—it seems as though every shade is represented in the patches making up his attire, though you note that purple is missing. Not a noble, then. The man ambles slowly inside, helped by the use of a cane.

“I am from Volantis, Your Grace,” he says when he is finally within earshot, bowing lowly. His voice is deep and rich; if a hug were to have a sound, you think this would be the closest you might come to finding it. “But I do suppose ‘of the Free Cities’ works just as well as any other epithet.”

“You have come a long way, Ser,” Papa says. He is smiling like he always does when these visits begin. You wonder how long it will take for it to fade this time. “You are welcome here in King’s Landing.”

Ser Lysan laughs. “I certainly feel welcome! Such pleasant people you have here, Your Grace. Not a single one has attempted to steal my books thus far—and I confess I have brought plenty!”

This is what spurs you to finally speak up. “Books?” you ask. “What kind?”

When his eyes meet yours, it is like they twinkle, like stars. His mouth widens, exposing pearl-white teeth. “And this must be the young Princess to whom I would be most glad to embark upon the journey of erudition with! Salutations to you, Your Highness!”

He bows again, attempting to cast his arm wide in a flourish—but it appears he had forgotten he was carrying one of his aforementioned books in hand, for it promptly clatters to the floor when he flings his hand out. You giggle, charmed. You cannot help it. He seems so kindly.

“Oh! Oh dear,” he mutters, crouching to the ground to collect his quarry. “My apologies, Your Grace, Your Highness. Oh dear…”

Ser Criston darts forward as if to help, but the man has already taken hold of his prized tome by the time he is close enough.

“Ah—might I ask what areas you are learned in, Ser Lysan?” Papa asks, clearing his throat. His brow has furrowed ever-so-slightly, which means he finds the man before him a little confusing. It is more than a little funny. “My daughter has yet to decide upon an avenue of study.”

The embarrassment slides straight off Ser Lysan’s face. It is as though a bolt of lightning courses through him, such is the sudden shift of his expression into one of sparking joy. “Oh! What am I not a scholar of? I have studied in the physicians’ arts with the Healer’s Guild of Lorath; I have attended the great histories of Westeros and Essos with the esteemed intellectuals of Braavos; I have amassed a more-than-considerable lexicon of tongues across the known world—”

For a reason unknown to you, this piques your interest. “Languages? You know different languages?”

He nods. “Oh, yes! I am quite proficient in your ancestral tongue, Princess. Valyrio Eglio udrir jaehenka issa.” High Valyrian is the language of the godly. He winks. “I am also well-versed in the Eastern dialects of Valyrian, though admittedly they have not the lyricism of their originator. But I must confess, it is my particular interest to devote my academic prowess to the Lekh Dothraki, the tongue of those who ride.”

Papa’s knee twitches beside you. “The Dothraki? How have you come to make dealings with them?”

Ser Lysan waves him off. “Oh, I would not profess to be so grand as to make dealings with the horse-riders of the East! Ah, but mine wife was a Dothraki woman, who gave herself to me in payment for preventing a Volantene herbalist from poisoning her brother. A strange and alarming custom, I once thought. She was the most marvellous of creatures.” He sighs. For a moment, he is silent—then he jerks nearly full-bodied, as though he is awakening from some reverie. “The Dothraki are a misunderstood civilisation, Your Grace,” he says to Papa. “It is my hope that, in time, I am able to repay my wife’s goodness and bring knowledge to those who are ignorant of their ways.”

“I see,” Papa says. He coughs awkwardly. I don’t think he has ever met someone so inclined to talking, you muse. “And… what of your wife now? I had thought the Dothraki were opposed to crossing the sea.”

“They are.” Ser Lysan’s expression becomes shadowed, drawn. “It is my great sorrow that she has passed on to the nightlands, to roam the skies among the starry khalasar of her people.”

“My condolences.” This sounds more genuine; you know that Papa too still mourns your mother, even though he has Alicent now.

“My gratitude, Your Grace. But”—at this, he lightens, forcing a smile to his face once more—“that is not what I have come to discuss, is it?” He turns to you. “My apologies, Princess! If I am so fortunate as to be deemed worthy by you, you may well find such tangents a price to pay for the lessons I have to impart. I am not well known for brevity, I am afraid.”

He’s the one. He’s my tutor. You know it. The way he speaks so happily about all the things he has learned; the way he cares so much about showing that some people are not always what everyone else thinks of them; the way he talks to you as though you are a person rather than just a means of earning coin or living in a palace. You want to know what it is like to be surrounded by that happiness, to spend your days learning from a person such as he rather than continue to quail under the yoke of Septa Marlow.

You readjust to curl into Papa, to lean forward and whisper into the shell of his ear. “I like Ser Lysan, Papa.”

“You do?” He exhales, a long-suffering sigh of resignation. His stare narrows at you as though irritated, though it slowly morphs into a grudging sort of smile. “Naturally.” If he were ’Nyra, he would be rolling his eyes by now. To Ser Lysan, he projects his voice far louder and says, “It appears my daughter has no taste for brevity, Ser. If you wish to take up this post, we would be… honoured… to accommodate you.”

Ser Lysan’s brows raise in surprise. “Oh! No, Your Grace! The honour is mine!” He bows a third time, and it really ought to be excessive, but you cannot help how amiable you find him. “I pray I will not disappoint you, Princess.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Ser Lysan,” you say, fighting the urge to leave Papa’s side and go forth to follow the man before you wherever he might go, to let yourself be enthralled by his tales and his rambling, half-formed thoughts. “I hope we shall have a very good time together.”

You are not to know it at this precise moment—but you will.

“We have made our introductions, Princess, and I have learned the lay of the land as best I can, so to speak.”

Ser Lysan is settled in the chair opposite you, having just completed his surveyance of the room around him. You have been granted a solar for the very first time, a whole new chamber to fill with the tools necessary to begin your education. It is empty for now, though the bare necessities are present—namely, the considerable size of the bookshelves just waiting for their occupants to rest safely upon their surfaces. These will, in time, be filled by both your own and your tutor’s collections, or so he has assured you.

The crinkle of a page rouses you from your thoughts. Ser Lysan has unrolled a scroll of parchment, the nib of his quill already inked and prepared for some unknown purpose. He stares assessingly at you.

“What is it you wish to know?” he asks, hand poised to write.

It blurts out of you before you can think to stop it. “You can only be called ‘Ser’ if you are a knight, but you have said you are a scholar. How is it that you have come to be called ‘Ser’, then?”

You wince. Your question is far ruder than you had intended it to be. Thankfully, Septa is not here—she has begun spending more time with Helaena as of late. She would surely have reprimanded you. The query only serves to make the man smile indulgently at you, though. He lays the quill to the side upon his blotting paper. The ink pools dark across the fibres.

“If you must know, Princess… I was a soldier in the Battle of the Borderland. The triarchs sent us in to attempt to wrest control of the Disputed Lands from Lys, Tyrosh and Myr. They were once under Volantene rule, did you know?”

Ser Lysan gazes at a spot on the wall just past you, and it is like he is seeing something altogether different. Something from another time and place.

“At first, we were sure of victory. Volantis has long held dominion in the East for a reason, after all. Our armies were larger; our armour finer; our steel sharper. But then…” He sighs. “Those cities joined forces. Formed the Triarchy. No one saw it coming. We ought to have. Such is hindsight, is it not? We understand now the things we missed then.”

Ser Criston shifts by the door, clearly uncomfortable. You wonder when he will interrupt, when he will instruct Ser Lysan not to tell you such dark-natured stories. You can only hope it will not turn violent.

“One morn—the sun had barely risen—our garrison was set upon by the Triarchy’s forces,” the man continues. “It was… carnage. So few of us survived. Of those of us that did, even fewer still were able to stand. The alliance’s warriors enjoyed leaving a rather particular token behind on the battlefield, as we were to learn. Severed legs are quite effective deterrents, it turns out.”

“That’s enough,” Ser Criston barks, face set in a glare. Secretly, you are glad for the interruption. The tale had grown far too frightening for you.

“My apologies!” Ser Lysan says, coughing lightly. “I forget myself sometimes. To answer your question, Princess—I was able to make my way back to the main encampment, to warn the commanders just in time for our troops to pull back from the region. Many a life was lost; but thousands more were saved that day. I was knighted in the field.” A wan smile curves his lips. “That is where my title of ‘Ser’ comes from.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you say. “I… I am sure it is not a pleasant memory. I am sorry.”

“It is quite alright. I became stronger for it. I learned that if I wish to survive, I must fight for it with everything I have in me. The fires of adversity strengthen the spirit.” He pauses, eyes locked onto your own. They are dark, almost black, like all the light in the world has been quenched. “Let this be my first lesson unto you—if you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.”

Silence lingers for one moment; two; three. All of a sudden, he is cheerful again, shuffling his papers like nothing of import has occurred. You share an uncertain look with Ser Criston, who looks positively bewildered by the shift. Ser Lysan is an eccentric man, you decide. This is no bad thing.

“Back to my previous question, Princess.” Ser Lysan picks up his quill once more, dipping it in the inkwell and tapping it against the rim to return the excess to the bottle. “I am knowledgeable in a great deal about the world in which we live. What is it that you would have me instruct you in? Histories, statecraft, linguistics?”

Before you is a man who has lived. He has come from a strange land bearing a strange name, learned in all manner of strange subjects. He fought for Volantis. His wife was a Dothraki woman. He bears the title ‘Ser’ and yet wears a patchwork robe. What you know of him is bleak and terrifying, and yet here he sits before you, as jovial as a young man in his cups. There is a steady peace to him despite all he has seen, all he has likely experienced.

How has he come to be so merry? You think about the manner in which he’d brightened at the talk of his learning. Could one achieve such simple tranquillity through knowledge alone? Can books, can foreign tongues and foreign disciplines empower you with that sense of fulfilment you crave, that sense of belonging you have felt absent all your life?

You want dearly to discover the answer. It is this that permits you to finally settle upon your response to him.

“Anything,” you breathe. “Everything.”

You are not as brave as your sister. She is able to stand face to face against even the staunchest of her detractors—as of late, this being your very own lady stepmother, determined to discover what she believes to be ‘the truth’ of Jacaerys’s parentage, for a boy so dark of hair cannot possibly be Laenor’s, by her reckoning—without so much as a quiver in her lip. She can endure shouting, the strike of a switch, the endless train of whispers that seep through every crack in the walls of the Keep with barely a pause in her breath to mark the ignominy of it. She can laugh in the face of humiliation and continue on her way with her head held high and some cutting remark poised on the tip of her tongue like a steel barb waiting to meet its target. These are not things you are capable of. But then, you are only a girl; younger than Rhaenyra was when she was made heir.

Yet old enough to finally—finally—claim your own dragon.

It had taken you years to wear down Papa, the scar on your arm serving as a perpetual reminder of the dangers that lie ahead in seeking out your birthright. Whenever you had made the request—“oh, please, Papa! I swear that I am ready!”—he had only to look upon the mark bisecting your flesh before his eyes hardened, the musculature of his neck clenched and poised to shake in refusal.

Once, his rejection had been sufficient to prevent your asking for several moons’ turns at the least; but Ser Lysan has been of great influence in his two years serving as your teacher, your companion, and your dear friend. If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it. These words have remained as carvings in stone within your mind since that very first meeting. It is not within your power to unleash fire and fury the way your sister might—but you have come to learn that such a thing was never in your power. Your strength lay in other qualities. Your courtesy. Your placidity. Your modesty. These are strengths in their own way.

You had continued to ask. Over time, the nature of your appeals changed from churlish, infantile insistence to restrained, unaffected enquiry. Upon rebuff, you had smiled and said, “Very well, Papa. Thank you for listening.” You had repeated this same tactic over and over, sennight after sennight, until, at last, Papa had been worn down to his bones from weariness.

“You’ll not let up, will you, my girl?” he had asked, utterly fed up.

Instead of responding, you had simply maintained your carefully blank gaze, prepared to don your quiet acceptance like armour when his denial should strike. He had sighed; rubbed his eyes. The pull of his skin had cracked open another fissure in the lines of his face, red slowly beading up to the surface.

“Fine!” he had finally exclaimed, his hand thumping down upon the table so hard that you had wondered at his not feeling it. This was before the maesters agreed to remove it from his person, and so the flesh was mottled grey and black from rot. “Do as you will, daughter. Far be it from me to dissuade you.”

Thus, the ravens had been sent to the Dragonkeepers residing on the ancestral isle of House Targaryen; the ship had been made ready; your retinue arranged; and you had been sent off on your first great journey.

The moment you step foot upon the shore in the low light of early evening, you hear it. You feel it. Like a rattling in the core of your bones, or an unearthly siren song catching faintly on the wind. It is not a sound, though, nor a sensation that you can describe in any language you know. All that you are sure of is that there is something here, something… expecting you.

Come, it says. I am waiting.

The Keepers linger past the shoreline, scarcely a stone’s throw away. “Urnēbās, darilaros!” one says, eyes darting nervously about. Be watchful, Princess! “Va īlō Zōbrios issa.” The Dark One is near.

“The Dark One?” you ask, frowning. “Who is that?”

Septa Marlow’s face pales so starkly that she looks like she has applied paints to her skin. She seems entirely distasteful of the island itself, a curl to her lip that she only gets when seeing or hearing something she does not like. Meanwhile, Ser Criston’s fist tightens on the grip of his sheathed sword. He too glances around, tracking the skies like a shadowy shape will make its appearance at any moment. He seems familiar with the name.

It must be a dragon, you think. Very few living creatures reside upon the island, save for those that had been introduced by your blood long ago. Dragons are the only wild things that can weather such inhospitable climes.

The Keeper leans in. “The Cannibal.” He shivers. “He is most wroth as of late. Beware of the beaches—too many of our Order have been lost to his appetites.”

The Cannibal. It is a story you have heard only when one had sought to frighten you—that of a winged beast so monstrous that not even his own kind would endure him. A creature so malevolent that he found his joy through death and destruction, ripping apart the younger members of his species so thoroughly that, at times, it was as though blood rained down from the heavens. The Cannibal, a being so malignant that any man who attempted to ride him had vanished cleanly from the face of the earth, consumed whole or left to rot away in some deep, dank pit below the mountainous terrain.

And yet—for all his supposed cruelties—no cities, no villages, no lands have been brought to waste beneath his flames. It is the one part of those tales that had never made sense to you. If he were as awful as that, surely there would be no one and nothing safe from him?

“Let us not waste our time, then,” Ser Criston says firmly, hand pressed between your shoulders to spur you onward. The weight of it grounds you in the present. He turns to bark orders at the attendants making their way ashore. “To the Keep!”

You are taken past the Great Hall, catching a glimpse of the Painted Table on your way to a smaller chamber. You know the name of Aegon I’s table is not quite correct; that it is made mostly of wood and rock, and that the rock itself is what Ser Lysan has told you is thermoluminescent, ‘thermo’ meaning heat and ‘luminescent’ meaning light. The table glows like lava when you ignite the candles below it, casting the great map of Westeros into fire. You should very much like to see it. But this visit is not to take in the sights of your family’s seat.

Much to the Keepers’ confusion and consternation, you reject the offer to examine the eggs they have concealed within the hatchery. Or rather, you feel that the eggs would reject you if you should try to seek your companion in one. It is difficult to explain even in your own mind, so you make no attempt at voicing these thoughts—these almost-whispers at the back of your mind, like a soft brush of fingers at the base of your skull.

Septa Marlow huffs her displeasure. “This is most unbecoming of you, Princess. You ought to know better than to refuse a gift such as this.”

‘They are not for me,’ you want to say. ‘The thought of them does not rouse me.’

You know not why you feel certain of this—that the mere prospect should stir you beyond simple anticipation. But it is as though you have always known this, for you do not find yourself disappointed by the missed opportunity nor by the censure.

A faint recollection sparks from your earliest youth, an old fear of what should occur if an egg comes into your possession and refuses to hatch, turning to stone over years and years. You do not wish for such a future. No; it is for the best that the eggs are left for another. Another time, another day, another person. Perhaps when it comes time to have your own children, you will revisit the notion.

To make matters even more complicated, however, there are no hatchlings upon the isle. It is what you had counted on all this time, but it seems that this is not to be, either.

“Zōbrios pōnte iprattas,” Acolyte Zūgis tells you, wringing his hands for good measure. The Dark One ate them all.

What a nervous man, you think. Since meeting him on the beach, he has been continuously anxious, ready to jump clear out of his skin at the slightest disturbance. You wonder if his path is best suited to Dragonkeeping if he is so afraid of it.

“Pōntālosa sikagon kostis, yn jēdraro toliot dorolviktys se dorolviktys sittaksi.” His mouth twists. Sometimes they hatch by themselves… but that has become rarer and rarer over the years. Your stomach twists at this. There was once a time where dragons hatched aplenty upon the isle. No more, it seems. “Vermithor dārligon kostā, darilaros. Yn uēpys issa se zaldrīzāeksio bōso jēdo syt mijetas. Qopsa kessa, se avy hinikilāks.”

You can try to claim Vermithor, Princess, he concludes. But he is old and has long since been without a rider. It will be difficult, and dangerous.

Neither Septa Marlow nor Ser Criston understand High Valyrian—but the name Vermithor agitates them nonetheless.

“A dragon of such size and stature is not appropriate for a well-bred lady,” Septa exclaims, fingers like claws clasped together before her. “What of Silverwing? Good Queen Alysanne’s mount? Does it not reside here? ‘Tis far more suitable beast.”

The Keeper shakes his head. “We believe Silverwing is gravid. She has shown much aggression as of late. The last of us to attempt approach…” The silence that hangs at the end of the sentence leaves no mistaking his meaning. He clears his throat. “Well. It is far too perilous at present. Vermithor is the Princess’s best option.”

“The Princess is a child,” Ser Criston says, expression flat and eyes flinty. “Vermithor is a dragon of war. I am sorry, Princess”—he kneels before you, angling his head up so he can look directly at you, and one hand folds around your elbow—“but I cannot let you risk yourself so.”

You know what you are being told, albeit in a roundabout way. The despair renders you mute. What am I to do? What am I to do? You nod, an agreement to your sworn shield’s words, though your heart is scarcely in it.

“Perhaps on the morrow,” the Keeper says, “we may… reattempt with the eggs, then. We have several, though they have been kept for some years now.”

Ser Criston makes his agreements to Acolyte Zūgis, entering into discussion with him and Septa Marlow as to the following day’s schedule. None of them so much as turn their faces to include you, despite the fact that you are central to their plans.

While they talk, another thought comes to mind. You wonder why none have so much as dared to broach another possibility—that there are three wild dragons upon the isle. Silverwing and Vermithor are not your only options.

Sleep is hard to come by, that same, pulsing sensation tingling through your limbs and keeping you awake.

Come, it seems to say. I am waiting.

You rise before the sun comes up. Septa Marlow is likely to be awake at this time, but she will not venture your way until the skies are bathed in light. Ser Criston does not begin his shift until an hour after you rise; his replacement is usually whomever can be spared.

It is even easier than usual to make your escape.

Dragonstone is an old fortress, and so there are a great many secret passages winding between rooms. You need only to check behind the tapestry along the inner wall to determine that an opening has been concealed. Brandishing the candle from your bedside, you slip into the looming maw that awaits.

Inside, it smells of damp and salt, and you can hear a faint, steady drip. It continues no matter which direction your feet take you, and you feel your breath stream from your mouth and nose in a cloud of warmth that gives the skin of your face and neck momentary respite from the wintry chill. The walls are rough-hewn, made for function rather than appeal, so you are careful where you place your hands.

Because you are so unfamiliar with the layout, you wander for what seems an age before you finally surface upon the outdoors, a dim glow emanating from between metal grates at the end of a dark tunnel. The hinges squeak shrilly as you push them open, shutting behind you with a clang. Your slippered feet sink into the sand upon the beach.

You do not know where you are headed—to find Vermithor or Silverwing, to find one of the wild ones, or simply to wander. All you know is that one of them is calling to you through the magic of old, the magic that ’Nyra and Papa have always said lives in the blood of the Targaryen line. It is how Papa knew that he was destined to be Balerion’s last rider. It is how ’Nyra found the courage to mount Syrax when she was so young. You feel it now, singing in your blood as it has since you crossed into the shallows surrounding the island.

Come and find me, it says. I am waiting.

You trudge along the beach, allowing the sand to sink into the opening of your shoes, to fill the small spaces between shoe and skin with stinging grit that collects between your toes and rubs to rawness. The wind whips at your hair and your robe—you did not bother to change from your evening wear—and the sound of the waves crash like thunder.

You walk. And, as you walk, you wait for the purpose to reveal itself, a part of you hoping that whomever you are meant to claim will find you.

You ought to be more careful of what you wish.

A dark shape swoops across the sky above you, casting you even further into shadow, and you hear the rumble of something powerful. The beat of its wings is great enough to be heard from a distance, you think, and stirs up the sand before you into a cloud of dirt and dust. The beast growls, deep and terrifying, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

It lands ahead.

Oh, no. Oh, no.

The Cannibal.

He is enormous, far greater in size than Syrax, than Caraxes, than any dragon you have ever seen or read about. His scales are black—no—blacker than black, the complete absence of colour or brightness, and each muscle honed from years upon years of eking out his existence ripple below the skin. His lips peel back, exposing at least two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. Perfect for tearing me to bits, your mind supplies in your panic. His stocky frame hunches low, claws sunk into the sand, as though poised to attack, and he hisses, a rattling threat that fills you with the urge to run.

His eyes glow green. You feel it again.

Come. I am waiting.

What is it Ser Lysan said, again? If you want something, you must do whatever is in your power to achieve it.

Come. I am waiting.

It may be courage, it may be madness, but you are moving onward before you realise it. The dragon hisses again as you approach, and any moment you expect to be bathed in dragonfire or snapped up in his almighty jaws, but your footsteps remain as rapid as your heartbeat.

The attack does not come. The fire does not come.

Something more is at play here. You may only be twelve summers, but this you know. A dragon as fierce as the Cannibal would never let a person so close as this under ordinary circumstances. Old magic thrums through the air, a tether forming between you and the form ahead. A bond. A claim.

You reach out a hand. Skin to scale. Heat that ought to burn courses through you, but you are safe. You feel his pulse, your pulse, pounding through dermis, reforming your own to match.

Your eyes well. “Gierior glaeson ñuhon avy rhaenagon jumptan,” you whisper. I have waited my whole life to meet you. In the rumble he releases, you think he must believe the same of you.

Dressed only in your nightgown, you make the climb up his wing. He lets you, chuffing irritably as you seek out the correct handholds and footholds to make your way up. It is entirely different from mounting Caraxes; this dragon is much, much larger, and so you are forced to actively coordinate your movements to ascend the perilous terrain. Still, there is enough of memory remaining to you of that day, years ago, that you can draw some reference from. You rely on those recollections to hoist yourself up. Finally, you are able to settle somewhat awkwardly between the blunted spikes below his neck.

From far off, you can hear faint voices. Atop the crest of the Cannibal’s shoulder, you look to the horizon. The sun has risen. The world is awake, which means that Ser Criston and Septa Marlow will be leading the search for their wayward princess.

It startles the dragon. Before you are ready—before you would even have dared to tell him to fly—he shifts, growling so deep that the vibrations buzz through your legs, your toes. You jostle where you have perched, gripping frantically to the spike in front of you as he sets off on a crawl that morphs to a run, building momentum to flap his wings up and up and up—

“Princess!” echoes through the breeze as you rise. Below, you see the forms of the guards, of Ser Criston, of Septa, growing smaller and smaller as the dragon—your dragon—takes to the air.

You keep hold of the Cannibal’s spike as he soars through the skies, letting the wind billow your hair about. It is both the same and so, so very different from your first flight. It is freezing up here, for one thing, and you can discern no sound but that of the air whistling so stridently in your ears that it is like a shriek, and the dragon below you is warm enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay. Your belly swoops and twists with each wingbeat, the momentum rocking you forward every time, but none of the discomfort is enough to tamp down the sheer exhilaration.

The Cannibal turns, revolving away from the distant line where sky and sea meet toward the island again. The change in direction gives you a momentary reprieve from the rush of air hindering all noise, and you hear something else.

Beneath your legs, beneath your skin, you feel it as the Cannibal bellows to the world, a roar that pierces the still of morning and announces to all that his wait is over. That he has claimed his rider, that you have claimed your mount—that you have done what no one else has been able to and emerged victorious.

That feeling—the one that has plagued you—has changed, you realise. You have found me, it seems to say.

Yes, you think, turning your head to admire the expanse of this creature, this being who is and was always meant to be yours. I have.

When you land, Ser Criston and Septa Marlow nearly shake you from your body with the force of their panic, their vexation, their “You do not ever run off like that, do you hear me, Princess?” and their “Just wait until your father hears of this!” They try to dissuade you from your course, but the Keepers wring their hands and mutter that the deed has been done; there is no unbinding what has been bound by the magic of old.

Still, their refrain is just as shocked, just as bewildered. “The Cannibal, Princess,” they say, shaking their heads. “The Cannibal…”

“No,” you reply. “His name is Athfiezar.”

Dothraki is fairly new to you, ‘tis true, for Ser Lysan did not agree to teach you until well into your acquaintance. And there is a certain irony in the choice; many a person will surely raise their brows in question of your use of such a savage tongue, which is rather best suited for a dragon of his reputation. But the word—the name, for he has long gone without one, and it seems only right that he should have something of his own, free of the censure of old—seems apt enough. Love. That pure, uncorrupted kind, the kind you think you have been searching for your whole life, the kind you find in small moments that are never, ever enough for the gaping maw that is your heart awaiting someone to fill it. You just know the Cannibal—Athfiezar—is a creature with a soul like yours. How long has he gone without love?

Never again, you think. Not with me.

You hold onto that thought as Papa rails at you upon seeing the hulking behemoth touch upon the top of the Dragonpit, heralding your return to King’s Landing.

“You could have died! What in the blazes were you thinking, girl?” he yells.

He has never yelled at you before, and perhaps you might have cried once, but you keep firm to the memory of Athfiezar’s eyes upon yours, the life palpitating through his immense form into yours like some sort of cycle, elemental, mysterious. No matter what Papa says, no matter how he says it, it is as the Keepers said. The deed is done.

The news spreads like wildfire, bringing with it a most unwelcome attention. For much of your life, you had been largely ignored by court and commons—now, with having claimed such a dragon for your own, many a considering eye falls upon you. Their thoughts are louder than if they spoke them: perhaps we have gotten the wrong measure of this one. Perhaps she is worth more notice than we had given her. Invitations to tea come to your door with a regularity that is almost predictable; and, maybe worse, many an enquiring lord approaches Papa with the pivotal question upon their lips: “When is she to be wed, Your Grace?”

Your mother was wed at eleven—it is not impossible that you should be given to some man to settle a treaty or forge an alliance in due course. It is your duty as Princess, after all. One day, yes; but not now. Besides, all they truly desire is the power you have suddenly amassed. They do not want you.

You retreat into yourself, using all the courtesies Septa had imbued into you like plate steel to shield yourself from the worst of it. Save for your two freedoms—your Ser Lysan and your boy, Athfiezar—you commit to being the most polite, the most recalcitrant, the most dull creature you can be. You help ’Nyra with her boys where you can, for a useful girl is best kept than discarded, and your sister is the heir which means her rule will someday be law. You take on two ladies, noblewomen from Houses in the Reach, in accordance with your stepmother’s wishes. You try your very best to devote time to each, spreading yourself between what is rapidly developing into entirely separate factions in the Keep—the Princess and the Queen, the Blacks and the Greens, or so they are called. Such silly names, you think. And, over time, it all becomes less performative and more intrinsic. Your propriety is your defence, and you use it well.

But it will not last forever. One day—one day soon—you will be called in by Papa. You will be told that your life is no longer to be your own, but passed on into the care of a man you will call husband. You will be asked to choose he who will be your master, he who will use your womb to give his House sons and daughters of royal blood, and you will be expected to be glad for the opportunity to make the decision, that it was not taken out of your hands entirely.

You wait for the day, spending what evening hours you can in the Sept entreating the gods for their intercession. Please, you think, on your knees before an effigy of the Maiden. Please. Deliver to me a husband who will love me as I am.

You wait, you hold your breath, and you pray.

“The claiming of the Cannibal came as a great shock to the Realm, not least because of she who had claimed him. King Viserys’s younger daughter by his late Queen Aemma Arryn was by all accounts a diffident, well-mannered girl most unlike her elder sister… Several parties were of the view that the Princess ought to be wed quickly to keep her mighty mount out of the hands of those considered less than desirable. However, it was not until the year of 126 A.C. that the King finally consented to the courtship of the girl, with many a man seeking her hand. Of those suitors, only three were truly deemed worthy—Lord Jason of House Lannister, Lord Denys of House Tyrell, and the Princess’s own half-brother, the Prince Aegon.”

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

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yzzart · 1 year

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imagine daemon and rhaenyra’s pretty daughter, who has such a close bond with her brothers, jace and luke (like in your ‘now im here, with you’ fic). never far from them, hugging them, holding their hands. and in return, they’re incredibly overprotective of her.

and then there’s aemond, driven wild with jealously 🤭

— Flavor of a jealous dragon.

characters: Aemond Targaryen x (F)Targaryen!reader.

summary: witnessing one of your brother's trainings, you can witness the jealousy of a dragon.

warnings: incest, explicit language, explicit words.

word count: 2.978!

english's not my first language, so sorry for any mistakes!

"It's so strange to see him fighting the wind."

The youngest prince whispered, in a peaceful, mocking way, for you. Your lips couldn't resist trying to prevent a knowing smile, finding your younger brother's speech funny, from appearing quickly.

Really, it was strange to see a person with a sword Indeed, it was strange to see a person with a sword slashing only the wind and pretending that there was a person there, but you wanted to support your little brother.

"He's doing fine." — You uttered the words as you returned to stare at a little Jacerys training session. He was practicing alone, at that time. Some guards suggested training him, but your brother decided for himself that he preferred solo training. — And it was impossible to disagree that he was doing very well.

And Jace, insistently, decided to train in the sacred grove. It didn't matter to him if the place he chose might be a little too small to fight with his sword, he decided and is getting what he wanted. — With each sudden, swift step, the admirable leaves of pure red hue, which lay on the ground, moved in accordance with Prince Velaryon's feet.

You felt pride in being able to witness your brother demonstrate his skills and new ways of fighting. — In fact, it was much more interesting than being locked inside your chambers or going through several meetings about the future of the throne. — And seeing Jace increasingly become a worthy fighter was important to you.

"I think you should train too." — Taking your eyes and attention away from Jacerys, you begin to glare at Lucerys; that when he feels you staring at him, he lowers his head. — "Luke…" — The velaryon mumbled something it wasn't possible to understand.

"I don't think i should and i can't see myself fighting with dignity." — He muttered with his tone of voice of sadness mixed with indifference. That mix had a name and it was insecurity, and you knew what it was about like no one else.

The feeling of insecurity dominated Luke's mind, it was like a plague; words he once said to her. The feeling of insecurity dominated Luke's mind, it was like a plague; words he once said to you. — One thing that sometimes dominated him more than usual and sometimes fear joined in and brought a heavy and confused mix of feelings.

Having the rank of old sister, you know your brothers and sisters like the back of your hand. — Like a dragon with its rider. — And witnessing all the events with all of them, you get a sense of how much and how all the feelings came to them and with Luke it couldn't be the other way around.

And you knew Luke hated picking up a sword, even if it was in self-defense and that had happened once before. — And ended up with a person missing an eye. — And that person was Aemond, your uncle and your lover.

You tasted and found out what the word love meant with Aemond. It wasn't just a common feeling, that he was not worth your time or lost your focus on strengthening your family. It was more than that.

Living between complete love and hate is not an easy thing to live with and witness, it felt like a punishment from the good gods. A punishment that will always haunt you.

Lucerys did not harbor a sense of anger or indignation over your relationship with the man he'd blinded in one eye, on the contrary, he respected you. — He looked up to you, always will, and also always respects your decisions and feelings.

"You deserved to be happy." little Lucerys had spoken those words to you.

However, that did not mean that the relationship between Aemond and Lucerys could improve. — Only the good gods, who all begged for the blessing and good life, knew what would happen between those two worthy princes who shared the same house.

"I think otherwise." — A quick and pure response was directed at the prince. — "Dignity has always been with you and in you, Lucerys." — You directed your hand to the side of the youngest's head, intending to make a small and simple caress. — "Since the day you were born."

The last words almost came out as a whisper. Your voice had shown a certain weakness because of the feeling of emotion that was growing in you. Seeing your little brother like that broke your heart, and it seemed that there was no miracle cure or medicine that could heal that pain.

Your fingers passed through the youngest's brown locks, showing more than simple and meaningful affection. — Lucerys needed this. He needed support, and he didn't want to hoard those fears just for himself.

"My dear little brother." — You plead, beg the youngest Velaryon to look into your eyes. Deep down, you knew Luke was fighting himself not to meet your eyes, afraid of a reprimand or complaint.

In long seconds, Lucerys decides to turn his head in your direction and soon, his blue eyes, with the pigmentation of the ocean, e of the youngest meets your eyes the color of pure purple. — His eyes looked so empty yet searching for a lifeline at the same time.

"You are my point of pride." — You said. — "With sword or not, you are still worthy of everything about you and around you."

A small smile, shy but a little contagious, formed A small smile, shy but a little infectious, formed on Lucerys's short lips. — It was already a good start. — You didn't stop smiling at the boy.

The uncomfortable, sad and tired image of Lucerys from before was gone in a matter of seconds, and you never felt so good about your brother in your entire life. — The good gods were recognizing that.

"Kirimvose, issa mandia" (Thank you, my sister.) — The thick accent during the Valyrian lines was uttered from Lucerys's mouth. The fact that Lucerys was more confident with his High Valyrian than Jacerys was was funny to you. — But, you always kept it to yourself.

Lucerys didn't intervene or stop the small, light movements, the petting you were giving him, in his head. He was enjoying that attention and time with you. — You noticed it, of course, but you didn't think to remove your hand from there.

In a matter of seconds, you started to feel like you were being watched. — Well, you were watched everywhere, by the guards who looked after you and your life, and by the civilians. — But at that moment it was a strange thing. A strange feeling. — Maybe it was in your head, or it must be the stress you've been going through lately, so you decided to ignore it for a while.

"Is spending time with my older sister or does that only go for the younger brother?" — Jacerys's voice exclaimed in your ears, snapping you out of your worried thoughts.

How long had Jace stopped his training?

"Oh, shut up." — Luke grumbled, not caring about his brother's joke. Jacerys just laughed and didn't want to upset his brother any further, and quickly noticed his scowl and put it in his mind that he should ask what was going on with him later. — "Can we go? I feel like i'm going to get dizzy if i see you spinning alone with your sword one more time."

Lucerys couldn't hide the feeling of boredom and weariness that had been building in his body since the minute he arrived. The youngest, at that moment, preferred to spend time locked in his rooms.

"I was so bad..." — The words that were ready to come out of Jacerys' mouth end up being interrupted. It was a somewhat disturbing surprise for you, to the point that it drew your eyes towards the young man.

It looked like he had seen something that bothered him in a bitter way. The expression that fit Jacerys's face was one of disgust, mixed with anger and you were ready to question what had happened or what had passed through his eyes.

"Mandia." (Sister.) — The thick accent with a weak but understandable pronunciation slips, purposefully, from Jacerys's mouth. He didn't change his expression even when calling you and also, he didn't look away to the specific point that angered him. — And your thought, or perhaps a sign from the gods, left a small certainty about who would be there.

Without questioning, or letting a miserable word escape your mouth, you decided to turn around and find out at once who had angered your brother. — And maybe, who was watching you the whole time.

With his costume made of pure leather and severely sewn and well worked, with its pigmentation of pure black; the young man who was feared by all in the region and recognized by the kingdoms, was present there. — Probably, witnessing his nephew's training but that wasn't why he was there.

Aemond watched, from afar, what looked like a small meeting between brothers, even though you were totally different. And he didn't even make a miserable fuss or try to hide the look he held. — It wasn't easy to figure out the kind of look the one-eyed young man was delivering but you can be sure that when his one eye passed by you, he was left with pure admiration and enchantment.

You were staring back at him but fighting, in a strong and resistant way, a smile that even you couldn't explain. — And it would be so embarrassing to make the mistake of being happy with his presence in front of your brothers, you thought.

Aemond's posture was rigid, more serious than usual, it was as if something had bothered him too and it wasn't the nephew's attempt to subpoena with just the look. — That would never happen. — And he didn't want to appreciate what made him that way, and without delay, he decided to walk to leave the place.

And you knew how to recognize the fury of that dragon and you felt that you had to go to him.

"You'd better stay here." — You uttered an order, but not in a stern tone of voice or so strong as to startle them the wrong way. Jacerys wasn't going to question, or even say anything about, your decision and you understood that. — Lucerys was no different from his brother and remained silent, and only a brief sigh escaped his mouth.

Your eyes swept over the Velaryon brothers, a silent farewell to them for that moment. The anger and disgust had drained from Jacerys's face, returning to his neutral expression but with sensitivity because of you. — Moving your lips, you say "Avy jorrāelan." (I love you.) directly to each one.

"We'll be here for anything, remember that." — Jace warned you with determination

Leaving that part of the woods, your steps, with the joint of your long dress, end up taking some red leaves but not preventing or disturbing you to your greatest focus. — But you fear that the end of your dress might be a little filthy and you try not to think about that possibility too much.

In keeping with your quickening steps, the fewer servants and guards you observed and encountered during your little journey to find your lover. An urge to ask one of them where the one-eyed prince could have gone crossed your mind but you decided not to. — And when you least expected it, your vision has the privilege of finding the image of the oldest's back.

According to the wind speed, which was a little strong, Aemond's pure white hair moved.

There were no guards around that part, and you didn't find that strange; Aemond could have asked for time alone and that was understandable. — And it was a good time for the two of you to have some alone time too.

Your steps weren't as precise as before and you weren't as nervous, not in a bad way but completely different. But your heart was pounding and it was amazing how Aemond's presence, and just one look, could move you and your body. — A lump felt like it wanted to form in your throat but you knew you had to fight it.

"Aemond?" — You beat yourself up, mentally, for the small moment where her voice called out to you with a weak edge. A bad time for this to happen; but for your old lover, your voice came out perfectly sweet and woke him up instantly.

Your voice woke Aemond from all bad thoughts or those that led him to a dark feeling, a feeling where he wasn't recognizing himself in some stupid moments. You brought him back to his consciousness with just your voice. — No one from all the kingdoms conquered by your ancestors, not even the one-eyed prince's own family could know that he felt that way in love with you, his niece.

An uncle and niece in love. House Targaryen, the house of dragons, had seen this for so long and you had compassion to see your parents having the same story and look what happened. — Like parents, like daughter.

"I came to think you were going to be with those boys." — Without completely turning his head in your direction, leaving only a part of his face in your field of vision, Aemond utters those long words trying not to show what, in fact, he was feeling. You, in the same miserable second, understood what was corrupting the oldest

Aemond was jealous and under the circumstances, you were surprised and a little disturbed by what was going on around you. You knew that just questioning or pressing what he was feeling would not work and could make the small situation worse for the two of you. — And Aemond needed your attention and care.

"ñuha jorrāelagon." (My dear.) — Going towards him, you place your hands on the side of his face. You felt Aemond's body shudder with your touch and it couldn't be your hand, which was at a slightly warm temperature, but it was the feeling of being touched by you.

The prince's one good eye not only stared at her but admired you. The way an amethyst-colored eye took in every point and line of your face and claimed you were a painting made, delicately, by the good gods. — The Targaryens were closer to gods than men and Aemond was sure in that moment that he was being touched by an angel, that even he considered you a goddess.

"I hate the idea of having you away from me." — Aemond quickly looked away from her but for a short, brief moment. — "And having to watch those damn kids with you is the worst thing i could ever face in my own house."

When he mentioned his nephews, Aemond didn't think twice about venting all his anger and contempt. He had reasons to feel that way, to corrupt himself like that, and you hated to see him that way. — And it hurt just as much to see your brothers like that too.

And it was right there that Aemond gave up hiding the jealousy that was completely dominating his body.

"I'm here with you, aren't i?" — Your hand, which was being held beside Aemond's face, made a lingering caress to get his attention and regain his focus. Immediately, the elder's single eye meets your eyes again. — "I won't hold back your feelings, Aemond, but i hate to see you like this."

The sincerity in your words calmed him down a bit, letting his posture soften for a little while.

"And they're my brothers, and my duty as an older sister is to care for and protect them." — It was necessary to mention this. It was necessary to disassemble Aemond that he didn't need to feel jealous over that circumstance. — "But you're the man i love, and the man i gave myself completely to."

The last words that came out of your mouth, filled the void that was starting in Aemond's head. An emptiness he was beginning to understand there was no need for. — He might not understand or at least care about the mention of his nephews but that statement of you, was all he needed most.

"I love you and i will always love you." — You ended with your sweet statement. The words of pure honesty were carefully directed towards her lover, always being interrupted.

In the blink of an eye, in such a quick moment of time, Aemond wasted no time in bringing your lips to his. The kiss was formed in a surprising way for you, not only by the quick movement he implanted but you felt the mixture of feelings that Aemond was going through during the act. — Passion, admiration, a little anger, were in the middle of that kiss. It was easy to feel.

One of Aemond's hands roamed around your waist and lingered there, only a brief grip was left by him. It was a delicate, honest moment with pure passion, so it wasn't necessary to turn it into something more illicit at that time. — The hand that was left was glued to the side of your face, as you were doing to him.

Aemond didn't want to take his hands off you, he didn't want to lose you between his fingers. The sensation of touching you, your face, or even your waist covered by the long garment, was fascinating for the feared prince. — If you count, the feel of your sweet, so soft lips against his.

Aemond is the man you loved, and no one could tell you otherwise or try to stop your burning passion for him. The man who made you discover what the word "love" meant. — And he was the dragon who would die and kill and face anything and everything for you.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x targaryen!reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond the kinslayer #aemond one eye #prince aemond #aemond #house of the dragon #hotd x reader #game of thrones

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sincerelyourswhistledown · 1 year

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Okay, but the idea of Lucerys inheriting his mother’s looks through and through. Yes, I adore the dark brown curls and eyes but just think about it.

Lucerys is born with the Targaryen hair and eyes. Everyone literally has to take a double take whenever Luke passes by because they could have sworn it was a young Rhaenyra. Lucerys being called the Realm’s Delight and Viserys cried the first time he was presented to him because he looked exactly like Rhaenyra as a babe.

Lords moaning over the fact that Lucerys was born a male because it was such a crime for a pretty face to not be female so they could marry him and whisk him away to their castles. Jace inherited their mother’s personality but Luke has always been softer, kinder, and that makes him all the more popular in court.

Alicent can’t even bring herself to call the boy a bastard because he looked so much like Rhaenyra in their youth and with his hair and eyes surely he couldn’t be anything but a legitimate son. Even Daemon has a soft spot for Lucerys. Let’s just say Lucerys has everyone putty in his hands.

No dance here because I said so.

Aemond screaming and crying because why was everyone trying to steal his favourite nephew away from him. Every time Aemond has to go away to fight in some battle or something, he’d return with so many trinkets for Lucerys. His favourite one is the Valyrian steel necklace and when Rhaenyra saw she nearly had a heart attack.

People tend to forget that Lucerys was very much like his mother and they’re reminded once they find out he and Aemond snuck off to Dragonstone and got married. Viserys is still very much alive when this happens and instead of getting angry he keels over and dies of laughter (No really, that’s how he goes. Just dies after laughing so hard on the Iron Throne) at the horrified and stressed faces of Daemon and Rhaenyra. Karma’s a bitch.

#lucemond #lucerys velaryon #aemond targaryen x lucerys velaryon #aemond targaryen #hotd #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targeryan #alicent hightower

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pendragora · 1 month

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Placing Dimensions and Eye Directions Analysis for Season 2 Posters

Disclaimer: before we go forward, I want to remind everyone that I am a random person on the Internet and this is a simple interpretation that I created using my knowledge on composition, dimension plains and perspective in drawing. If you choose to add input – please, be respectful about it, it’s an open discussion; as the creator of this take, I am not going to take any insults, hate or negativity over a simple fandom post, so be warned that I will block such on sight. If you find my ideas and analysis unpleasant for your perception of the characters – please, disengage and feel free to block me as well. Let’s all be civil :))

In this post I will talk about the placing of each team individually, towards team members and then each other. Along with that, I will be analysing characters’ poses and line of sights for each of them individually since it is telling a pretty compelling story. As a reference I will be using a merged image of all posters together in one (credits to @liv-cole for the image that I saw here and @ara-meyy for showing it to me when it first appeared on Reddit)

Let’s first take a look at Team Green and their stance:

The far back is taken up by Criston Cole and then Aegon on the Iron Throne. First and foremost, the farthest in the whole plain. He does not line up with anyone in the picture and his placement makes the most sense – in the canon of next seasons, Criston will take the position the Hand, which does put him so close to Aegon with his sword at the ready. He the final line of protection for the king, however, his eyes are not directed to the side – in the direction of Team Black.

However, he is placed slightly behind Aegon and his throne. His eyes are also looking forward at the angle that makes him look beyond the banner of Team Green and, in order, is directed at Aemond, not Team Black. The sight is not the one you would describe as of certainty. I could go off about the shot being not the most pleasant, but I could also theorise that Criston’s sight is telling us about the caution with which he could potentially treat Aemond in further seasons.

Aegon’s position on the poster is slightly closer to the viewer than Cole’s but still is further than Aemond’s or Alicent’s. His figure is quite interesting and, in all honesty, contrasting to what we saw in the sneak-peek of the second season. He looks both relaxed and tensed on the throne. The general language of the way he is seated is aloof, he is not wearing his crown, but is holding it as a window into his future. He comes off as the transition period between the man we saw in the sneak-peek and the previous season. He is tensed by his duty, by the Iron Throne, but his hedonistic nature has not left him yet.

What is most interesting is his line of sight. If we look at his eyes, they are not directed at anyone at all. They go straight throne the circle of his crown and off into the distance. He is not on the same field to look at Rhaenyra or anyone else. His look is one of absence. Being the king on the Iron Throne, he is isolated from the conflict by his posing. The reasoning for it might be 1) his transition period into an active participant of war (before Blood and Cheese), 2) his present reluctance to be in this conflict that was established in previous season or 3) mostly his absence in the season after his character goes through dragon fire. Perhaps, we would see more of his struggles as the king and, if lucky, even the progression from an unwilling heir to the king that takes charge and makes decisions.

Interestingly enough, his line of sight goes beyond all of Team Green members and out the frame before it reaches Team Black members. If it is not his future he is looking at, it is like a prison cell’s window at the freedom he could have, perhaps?

Next comes Aemond, who is in the most front of the picture. What’s important to note here, his figure is the closes to the viewer and is actually on the same dimension field as Rhaenyra. He is stood between her and Aegon which makes sense since Aemond will be a driving force of the war (which also affected the number of episodes we will see him in). He is not the focus of the conflict, but he is the line of defence for his family and a force to reckon with. His hand is above the hilt of the sword, he is at the ready to draw it and, unlike Criston, his stance is not cautious but confident. He also has his lip corners up in the poster, enjoying the thrill of war, the hold of power that he has.

His line of sight is directed straight into Rhaenyra’s face, not anyone else. She is his primary concern or, perhaps, a target, because she is the main threat to his family and his brother’s ruling. Among his team, he looks like the most natural and merged into his role of protector. Note that this does not oppose Aemond and Rhaenyra, and, if it does, it is a one-sided conflict in which Aemond is involved while Rhaenyra is not an active participant.

The last in Team Green and the closest to Team Black is Alicent.

It is clear why she is stood in front of everyone in the team, but she is much further in the background. The placing of her dimension makes her stand a layer above Aegon but two layers deeper than Aemond. She looks reserved and worried, and such placing shows that she is not Rhaenyra’s main opposition. She, as was shown in the previous season, would stand in front of her kids to protect them, which places her front-line in team’s order, but it is no longer her conflict, no longer a rivalry between her and Rhaenyra. Unlike the book version, show!Alicent is not the mastermind, but a scared and devoted to her cause mother, and when the time comes for war – she gives way to her children (being placed in the background) but still shows that she is present and protective of them (being the first in line).

Her eyes are terrified and teary, looking at Rhaenyra. It shows very well her stance in the show, that her motivation was the fear for the life of her children before Rhaenyra.

Now off to the Team Black.

Since we are going from left to right, I’m going to start with Rhaenyra, who is also the representative of Team Black.

Surprisingly so, her and Alicent have similar poses, but the position translates a different message. While Alicent is one of resolve and acceptance of her position in the background, Rhaenyra’s pose is showing her leadership. She is showing herself as the queen in this poster and, it is really hard to miss, but in a way her stance reminds me of 8th season Daenerys (I personally dislike the parallels because I think Rhaenyra would be better off as a stand-alone character, but hype train is a hype train).

She stands tall, she wears her crown, she is dressed as a ruler and as a dragonrider. What is interesting, though, is that her line of sight is directed forward. Since she is on the same plain as Aemond, they both are the closest to the viewer and share dimension, she is not looking at him. She is looking forward, past him. My ideas for this are 1) she is looking at the Iron Throne in the background, not even Aegon, but the throne itself; 2) she is looking into the future, since, in Western culture, the idea of looking forward is associated with the future. Her sight shows determination and readiness for battle or her looking forward for her victory. The entirety of Rhaenyra shows here that she is the rightful heir in her own eyes and she is going to take what is hers.

The idea that her sight goes through both Aemond and Aegon and ignores them, in a way, reinforces the narrative that they are irrelevant to her, they are not the threat and, because of that, be the things the other way, she would not have them executed because they simply do not matter to her this much. It is not a battle between her and her siblings here or her and Alicent, but it is a story about her battle for the throne, as it seems.

What also caught my attention is that both Daemon and Alicent stand distant from Rhaenyra, practically within the same distance from each of her sides. It is purely my take here, but perhaps it is showing the relationship that she lost or is going to lose (given the rift that awaits her and Daemon?).

Now moving along to Daemon. Personally, I expected him to placed closer to his queen, given the establishment of their relationships, but in the poster, he is one a layer deeper into the background than she is. His overall posture of, not protectiveness towards his queen, but rather protectiveness of himself gives mixed signals as if it is not him being Rhaenyra’s shield, but her being his. Given what happens in canon between them, it might be foreshadowing.

However, what drives the point is his line of sight. He is looking up and forward, and, unfortunately, the way he is placed behind Rhaenyra makes it seem that his eyes are directed not at her, but at the crown. His general expression is not of a man that is preparing to protect his loved one, but one of a man who is scheming a way out for himself, there is a fleeting concern and calculation in the way he looks. For the sake of not hurting anyone’s feelings, it is purely my take and my reading of his character in the poster, take me as biased.

Daemon is ready to strike, but strike who?

Following figure is Rhaenys.

Rhaenys has a reserved pose and a look that is peeking at someone or something. Given the background from the show, there isn’t much to say about her in the poster. She strikes me as an unwilling participant of the war, but a participant that is going to do her bidding and show her strength. Rhaenys stands tall, truly like the Queen Who Never Was, and her stance shows that she will be a force to reckon with too, considering she is a dragonrider and a skilled one at that.

Her eyesight can indicate two things: she is looking forward, with a tilt of her head, which potentially places Alicent at her line of sight. It makes sense in a way given their confrontation in two instances in a previous episode. It feels as if she, as a mother who lost both of her children, asks her how far she is willing to go to protect who’s dear to her. It feels like in this there is a conflict of two mothers that is established: the mother that lost everything and now fights for what is left of her children (since Baela and Rhaena are indirectly pulled into the war as well) and the mother that will lose everything in the future. Alternatively, Rhaenys could be looking at Aegon and the Iron Throne, but at this point of her development as a character, that makes little to no sense.

Lastly, Corlys. Just like Aegon, he looks isolated from the conflict, but for different reasons. Initially, I had a thought that he was looking forward, and, considering that he takes place further in the background than anyone on Team Black, he could be looking at Aegon and the Iron Throne, but upon close inspection I concluded that Corlys is most likely looking outside the window. It perhaps is foreshadowing for him later on searching a way out of the conflict or out of the list of Rhaenyra’s supporters.

Now, to the parallels between the characters.

Aegon and Corlys are literally the last men standing of both their teams – both on the poster and in canon. They will be the last surviving men of their respected teams, having only Alicent outlive them both.

Daemon and Aemond being opposed only by their placement as the second from the centre of the poster – perhaps, a foreshadowing for a battle that they will clash in; Aemond is looking forward and, like in canon, anticipates the fight and goes in confidently while Daemon is looking out for himself specifically and does not acknowledge Aemond as a threat for himself.

Rhaenys and Alicent – a conflict between two mothers that already lost everything or will lose everything, the Queen Who Never Was and the Queen in Chains, both trapped in this conflict because of their children or what is left of them (grandchildren).

Aegon and Rhaenyra and the way they treat their role – Rhaenyra merging into her role as a queen and wearing her crown proudly while Aegon looks through in as if a window outside his prison.

Overall, the teams display different attitude.

Team Green looks like a well-established line of defence around Aegon: his Hand is by his side; his brother is the main force of protection and then his mother who would sacrifice herself to save him. Their placement is to protect Aegon from the threat of Team Black.

Team Black appears, to say the least, not as the protection for Rhaenyra, but people who hide behind her, which surprised me. It looks rather fickle, with Daemon and Corlys being anywhere but present to protect their queen. They also form a perfect line from the back to the centre that shows that it is not only Rhaenyra’s fight, but it is also not them fearing Team Green, but having a goal to get back the Iron Throne.

#hotd season 2 #hotd season 2 posters #hotd critical #team green #team black #rhaenyra targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #alicent hightower #daemon targaryen #aemond targaryen #corlys velaryon #criston cole #rhaenys the queen who never was #rhaenys targaryen #poster analysis #house of the dragon #hotd meta #lena goes off

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justinalovee · 9 months

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𝑴𝒚 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏

Pairing: Alicent Hightower × Reader

Word Count: 787

Warnings: Oral sex, fingering,swearing, masturbation, scissoring

Summary: Alicent enjoys her lady-in-waiting

A/N: All characters are 18+! minors DNI

“My queen.”

Alicent continued to pace back and forth, mumbling to herself, completely unaware that you’d entered her chambers. Your queen had worked herself up into a tense state again, becoming more frustrated than before. You pour two cups of wine, and taking one for yourself, you move to sit at the edge of the bed. You take a small sip before speaking more loudly, “Alicent.”

She finally notices you, her eyes scanning your body as she takes in your naked form. “My apologies; I never heard you come in.”

“Hmm, I noticed.” You take another sip of wine. “Remove your clothes, and I’ll let you make it up to me.”

A smile pulls at the corner of her lips. You smirked watching her remove each piece of clothing until she was completely naked. Once she completed the task, she stood beside her discarded green gown. Your eyes linger on the faith of seven necklaces that remained hanging around her neck, resting just above her perky breasts. “I did what you asked, my lady.”

“You did; now come here.”

Alicent stands in the spot in front of you. You pinch one of her nipples with one finger while sucking on the other, causing her to let out a moan. You let her breast out with a pop, admiring the way your saliva coats it. “Get down on your knees and stick your tongue out. I want you to taste me.”

Obediently Alicent goes onto her knees and sticks her tongue out, sliding it along your folds before swirling it around your clit. Your relationship with the queen was complicated; you loved Rhaenyra like a sister, you knew about her affair with your brother Harwin, and you never once judged her for it. Your lover Alicent was another story; despite the queen being the biggest hypocrite you knew, you were still drawn to her. Being her lady in waiting, you’d observed her behavior for some time and saw a completely different side to her. A side you couldn’t get enough of—a side that caused you to become addicted to her touch. Alicent attached herself to you since she could be herself and give all control over to you without feeling ashamed. Not long after your first sexual encounter together, Alicent confessed she wanted to be bossed around in the bed chamber, which admittedly was difficult for you to get into the swing of at first.

Alicent pushed her tongue inside you; her wet tongue felt amazing rubbing against your tight hole. “So good; you’re doing such a good job.”

At your praise, Alicent moved her mouth to suck on your clit, then slid two of her slender fingers inside you. Your fingers tangle in her hair, pulling her closer to your wet cunt and holding her in place. She speeds up her actions while gripping your thigh with one hand to keep her balance. When the coil in your stomach snaps, you cough on her fingers, which she licks clean. Alicent leans back with a proud look on her face. “You taste divine.”

You shuffle further back onto the bed, reaching for Alicent’s hand. You pull her on top of you, clashing your lips together. Playfully, you smack her behind before groping her ass cheeks while considering your next move; eventually, you decide. “You have such a beautiful cunny, my queen. I want you to show me how you play with it when I’m not here.”

Alicent gets off you and lays on her back, knees bent and legs wide open to give you a full view as she starts touching herself. She squeezes one breast while her other hand snakes to her silky folds as she begins to finger-fuck herself. It was a marvellous sight to see, but you did long to watch something other than fingers stretch her tight little hole. Perhaps that was a fantasy to discuss with her another time.

You rub at your own clit.

You open your legs wider and say, “My pretty queen, I want to feel your cum on me.”

Alicent removes her fingers and settles herself between your legs, the wetness from her cunny dripping onto your own as she looks for the right position. Finally, she lowers herself, brushing her wet clit against yours. Wet slapping sounds and moans of pleasure fill the room as she keeps up the rubbing motion. It doesn’t take Alicent long to reach her peak, her breasts swaying with each movement as she does. Seconds later, you come undone for the second time.

When she collapses onto you, you kiss her softly and stroke the back of her hair. “Did I do okay?”

“You did amazing, my perfect little queen.”

#Alicent Hightower #alicent hightower smut #alicent hightower x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon smut #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #alicent hightower x you #Alicent Hightower/you #Alicent Hightower/reader #Alicent Hightower x reader smut #hotd alicent #queen alicent #alicent x reader #alicent smut #Alicent Hightower x fem reader

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arabellasleopardcoat · 4 months

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We light the way (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: House Hightower doesn't have dragons. But they have a magic of their own.

Warnings: Canon typical violence and language. Dialogue lifted from the show. Strong!Reader

A/N: I intended to finish the bingo, so I prompted myself: Aemond + witness + friends to lovers.

The magic had always been there. It was in his blood. It had always been. When Aemond was four years old, he had woken up in the middle of the night, screaming in terrible agony. Years later, with greater pains to serve as reference, he would compare it to the loss of his eye.

The wet nurse that tended to him and his siblings had burst into the room to find him clutching his arm to his chest, but was unable to identify what was wrong with him. She had called for help, and soon, the Queen and the Maester had been roused.

“This is most unusual.” The Maester pressed down on the inside of his forearm, and it had felt as if a thousand needles were digging on his skin. Aemond screamed. “I can't see any wound, nor has he have a fever.”

His mother stepped closer, a grim expression on her face. Her eyes were worried.

“Aemond, love. Tell me what's wrong.” She gently cradled his face, examining him frantically.

“Mother, make it stop! Make it stop!”

Alicent's gaze drifted downwards. On Aemond's inner arm, in green ink, there were letters appearing in a pretty, feminine handwriting. Aemond did not know how to read yet, but whatever it said, it was not good. It wasn't normal. Words did not suddenly appear on people's skin.

“Out! Everyone out!” She yelled, so forcefully for the normally polite Queen, that the Maester and the wet nurse scrambled to obey without questioning her decision. When they left, she brushed his hair back from his face and hugged him very tight, until the hurt went away.

Aemond looked down. The letters had stopped appearing on his skin, and now, words in green ink remained.

“What does it say, Mother?”

“Stop hurting my brothers.” Alicent’s face scrunched up, as if about to cry. She took a deep breath.

“Why is it here?” Aemond pointed angrily at his arm. Like any boy of four years old, pain and tiredness made him cranky. “What is going on?”

His mother looked at a loss for words. When he was older, she would tell him she was not too sure how to explain it, and had merely used her own father's version of the tale to make Aemond understand.

“Our family is different, love. Do you remember our words?” She gently scratched his scalp in the way he liked.

“Fire and blood.” Aemond nuzzled his face on her stomach, hiding.

“My words. Grandsire's words.” Her voice held a certain degree of annoyance.

“We light the way.”

“That's correct. We light the way, just as the Seven do for House Hightower.” She gently grabbed Aemond's forearm, and traced the letters. He shivered. “For some of us, the special ones, they light the way towards our destiny.”

“My destiny is hurting someone's brothers?”

“No.” Alicent laughed. “Your destiny is the person who will say those words to you. The words are how you will identify your soulmate. No one else, except us special Hightowers can see them.”

“Not even her?”

“Not even her. But she will have a mark like yours.”

“And she won't be able to see it?”

“No.” Alicent smiled. “You are very lucky, you know? Other Hightowers get less clear marks.”

“What do yours say?”

“I have no words, but a red thread.” And she lifted her finger, showing how a string of wool wrapped around it, and pooled, crimson red, on the floor.

During the coming weeks, Aemond watched. His mother's red thread twisted around hallways and stairs, passing over torches and bathing rooms, like blood flowing down the walls of the Red Keep. His sister, Rhaenyra, held the other end. Aemond realized then that if he wanted his soulmate, he would have to tie her securely to him, for a mark did not ensure anything.

Aegon and Helaena had no marks. Nor did anyone else outside his mother and Rhaenyra.

♧

The first thing Aemond noticed about you, upon meeting you, was that you were loud. You came into the world crying. No, wailing. As he stood near the birthing chamber, by his mother's side, he felt confused.

“Are all babies this loud?” He asked her. Alicent frowned. The cries sounded much more pained than it was normal for a babe, but Aemond did not figure that out until he was older.

His father had ordered that every member of the family had to be present during the birth of Rhaenyra's first babe. On the floor, Helaena was chasing a caterpillar, as Aegon played dragons and knights with one of the guards. His father was silently praying.

Aemond and his mother were sitting by a window, trying to ignore the screams. After enduring almost six hours of Rhaenyra’s agonized sounds, and now hearing the babe, Aemond had come to a decision. He would not have children once he found his woman, for it sounded hurtful to her and if she was meant to be his, then Aemond could not allow any harm to befall her.

“Not always.” Mother answered, with a wince. And then, another wail could be heard, joining yours.

“The Princess has birthed twins!” The midwife announced, joyfully. “A girl and a boy.”

King Viserys stood, clapping.

“Can we see them?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The midwife opened the door a bit further, allowing them to step in. Aemond, curious about the babes, was the first to approach. They were so tiny but…

“Your hair is brown.” He said to one of them, perplexed. Aemond carefully rubbed the babe's hair, trying to get the grime out. Then, he turned towards the midwife, accusingly. “You didn't clean them properly.”

His father's and Rhaenyra's smiles froze.

“She is not dirty.” Rhaenyra said, shortly. “She is like that, and she is perfect.”

Aemond frowned. He wanted to ask his mother how it could be, that the babe had hair different from her parents. But his mother squeezed his hand, harshly, and Aemond understood that she did not want him to ask that.

He looked at the babe. At you. You were rather pretty.

“She is pretty. Though she is tiny. I expect she will grow.” He gave a questioning glance towards Rhaenyra, who looked unsure. She didn't seem to like Aemond's questions, but he was at that age.

The terrible twos had turned into the horrible threes, and the curious fours. Right now, he was just entering the questioning fives. It would be an affliction that would follow him for the rest of his life.

“Of course she will. And you will protect your niece, won't you?” His father ordered, and Aemond nodded solemnly. He would.

Aemond failed to notice then, but on your arm, in childish black letters, the proclamation of the color of your hair was plain to see.

♧

Lady Laena's funeral had put you in a melancholic mood. Just like Jace, you were old enough to see the truth of your parentage and were mourning Ser Harwin. You thought it stupid, having to attend a funeral for a woman that you never met, while your father's charred remains were put to rest at Harrenhall without even his brother's attendance.

If it were you burying one of your brothers, you would have been inconsolable. You didn't understand why Lord Larys wasn't.

Watching Lady Laena's remains go back into the sea made you think of your father, and it was all so sad, you had started crying right along with Baela and Rhaela. Your uncle, Aegon, had laughed at you, commenting on your weakness for crying for a stranger, which only made you sob harder.

It was only natural that you had sought the comfort of your other half during the night. As of late, your mother insisted that Jace and you should be in separated rooms. She had said something about how improper it was, since you were growing older. You had not understood that either.

You had gone to him in the middle of the night, and fell asleep hugging him close. Jace was a source of comfort despite being younger than you. Your mother often said that you had to protect him, being the eldest, but Jace always said that he was going to protect you because he was going to be King.

“Jace, Jace.” A voice interrupted your slumber, and you felt the warmth pulling away. You held it tighter, refusing to let go.

“Jace, wake up. Wake up.” The voice insisted, and you pried your eyes open to see Baela's face staring down at you. The sight confused you, and you squinted at her. She was starting to tear up, and Jace still gave no sign of waking up. You shook him hard.

Jace mumbled something.

“Someone stole Vhagar.” Baela said, more urgently. It prompted your brother to sit up fully, jerking you upwards too.

“What?”

You did not hesitate. You jumped out of bed, put on your slippers and went to wake Luke.

After that, it was chaos. Vhagar's roars could be heard clearly in the distance, and you ran into Aemond slipping inside the castle, fully dressed. You did not need further explanations.

The girls and Aemond traded insults. Then, they were coming at him and they were rolling on the ground. Aemond made mention of your parentage, egging on Jace and Luke. You were too horrified to do anything but scream. You would have done nothing, four against one already seeming unfair without your intervention, if Aemond had not started choking Luke.

“Stop hurting my brothers!” You screamed, launching yourself at him. Then there was a rock, and a dagger, and you had given Luke an opening, and Aemond was screaming in agony.

The sight of his maimed eye made you shriek louder. There was so much blood, and you pressed your hands on it, as you had seen the Kingsguard do when someone was injured. Aemond slapped you, wailing.

“I am trying to help!” You said, stubbornly. Your tiny hands went to grab for his eye again, but Ser Harold was entering and removing you from him. For the first time, you looked down and realized your nightgown was soaked in blood. You started sobbing harder.

You had to be carried back into the hall, nearly catatonic. When your grandfather took in the sight of Aemond and you, he demanded answers. He started to yell, and gesture at the Kingsguards, only frightening you more.

Finally, your mother appeared, and you rushed to her, grabbing fistfuls of her dress with blood soaked hands.

“What happened?” Your mother picked you up, examining you closely. “Why is my daughter not being tended to?” She asked the Maester.

“Luke and Jace are hurt.” You cried.

“Show me.” Your mother said to the boys. Then, she scowled and repeated. “Why are my children not being tended to?”

Queen Alicent laughed. It was an ugly, grating sound.

“Who did this?”

“They attacked me!” Aemond complained.

“He attacked Baela.”

“He broke Luke's nose.”

“He stole my mother's dragon!”

Everyone was talking at the same time, making a terrible noise that didn't allow the King's words to carry. Even the Queen was screaming, until…

“He called us bastards!”

“Aemond… I will have the truth of what happened. Now.” Your Grandsire said, creeping towards Aemond. You felt a bit bad for him, being reprimanded by his father after losing his eye.

“What else is there to hear?” Queen Alicent sounded exasperated. “Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible.”

You flinched. She sounded so angry. Your hand reached for Luke's, holding him close. You were afraid he might be hurt by the Queen.

“It was a regrettable accident.”

“Accident? The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush.” The Queen pointed at Luke, harshly. You whimpered. “He meant to kill my son.”

“It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them.” Your mother stepped in front of Luke, Jace and you.

“What insults?” The Queen seemed distracted by something Aemond was muttering to her. They were too far away for you to hear, but by the way his lips moved, you thought it was something similar to “Mine… She… mine.”

“The legitimacy of my children’s birth was put loudly to question.”

Queen Alicent was starting to turn very pale. You doubted it was because of your mother's words. It was no secret to anyone that Jace, Luke and you were not Velaryons. You did not look the part. At all. It was no wonder that someone had finally said it to your face.

“What?” Your grandsire's eyes widened. Had he not known? You didn't understand why he was so angry.

“He called us bastards.”

“My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace. This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.” Your mother quickly interjected. Queen Alicent looked about to lose her mind.

“Over an insult?” Alicent sounded odd. Her mind was clearly elsewhere, but she kept arguing. “My son has lost an eye.”

The King started interrogating Aemond, but you were focused on something else. The Queen, despite still defending Aemond, had her eyes fixed on you. At first, you thought she was looking at Luke, but then you realized she was focused on your arm. Or your sleeve. Uncomfortable, you tugged your sleeve down. She was probably looking at the blood in your hands.

Slowly, very slowly, she was creeping closer. Her hand reached forward as if to grab you when Aegon spoke. “We know, Father. Everybody knows. Just look at them.”

More recriminations were to follow. Your mother, noticing Alicent's attention was on you, shoved you back behind her.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” The King proclaimed, loudly. His eyes darted from your uncles towards you and your brothers. Even at such a young age, you could feel something was irreparably broken between your mother and the Queen. Luke and Aemond too had broken their bond beyond repair. “All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!”

Jace looked perplexed, as did Aegon. To them, the request sounded as unreasonable as it did to you, despite their short ages. You knew then you would never be a family again.

“That is insufficient. Aemond has been damaged, permanently, My King. Good will cannot make him whole.” The Queen complained, her brown eyes narrowing.

“I know, Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye.” Your grandsire sounded exhausted.

“No because it’s been taken.” Alicent answered. You shifted in your place, ignoring Jace's hands urging you to stay as you were. You felt dirty, hands and sleeves covered in Aemond's blood. It was sticky and it smelt bad.

“What would you have me do?” The King’s tone was exasperated, but cautious. He could sense there was something else at play, that the Queen would not allow the slight to go unpunished. Aemond, in the corner, was unusually quiet.

You squirmed even more into place. Jace squeezed your hand in warning. The Queen looked like a wolf about to pounce, and it scared you. You feared of what she could do to Luke.

But instead, her eyes darted to you again.

“There is a debt to be paid.” You felt as if her words were being spoken directly to you. “I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.

You gave a horrified gasp. Your mother looked ready to gut Alicent. Murmuring broke out across the room, everyone speaking at once. Luke hid between Jace and you.

“My dear wife.”

“He is your son, Viserys. Your blood.” Alicent's eyes were watery with just indignation. She was about to cry out of sheer frustration.

“Do not… allow your temper to guide your judgment.”

“If the King will not give me his eye, then I want her daughter. Who will marry Aemond like this? It will mean the loss of his ability with his sword, ladies will not want him.” She spoke hurriedly, as if afraid that if she let anyone get a word in, no one would listen to her. Alicent's voice raised. “I want her betrothed to Aemond. She will return to the Red Keep immediately. I do not want Princess Rhaenyra to find a way to damage that too.”

“My King, surely no one would reject a Prince of the blood.” Your mother said, weakly. Her hand clutched at your shoulder, fisting in your nightgown. You risked a look at your grandsire. He looked thoughtful.

“Ser Criston… Bring me the girl!” The Queen ordered, and Ser Criston took a step towards you. You cowered.

“That will not be necessary.” Your grandsire said. “Girl, come.”

Your brothers cried out. Aemond's face stretched into a satisfied smirk. Aegon looked bored, and your cousins horrified. None of that you took notice, but your mother. She was making a wounded, hurt noise. It sounded much like a wail. Her hand around your shoulder tightened. Daemon leaned in and whispered something to her, making her grip loosen.

“Go.” Daemon said, shoving you slightly. “Go to your Grandsire.”

And so you went. Up close, King Viserys was much more intimidating. There was a certain stench around him, of flesh rotting, that not even the medicine could mask. You lowered your eyes, staring at your slippers.

“Do not be afraid, child.” He gently tilted your chin up with a finger. “Look at me.”

You obeyed. He examined your face curiously. One of his hands grasped your forearm, and he looked at your hands as well. Self-conscious about the dirt and the blood, you made your hands into tiny fists, before relaxing them.

“Why are you covered in blood, but your cousins and brothers are not?”

“I tried to help him, Your Grace.” You answered, truthfully. You had thought you were really helping then. The answer seemed to please him.

“You are a good girl. You wish to help, and you will.” Viserys smiled. He seemed glad to have found the answer to his troubles almost accidentally. “Your marriage with your Uncle will unify both sides of the family. Go with him.”

Without any other choice, you went to stand beside Aemond. His eye was swollen and shut by stitches. He stared at you with his good eye, before his hand shut like a vice around your wrist.

Like your grandsire, Aemond forced your arm up. But instead of examining your hand, he looked at the inside of your forearm. You didn't see anything, but he seemed pleased. He grabbed a handkerchief and wiped your hand clean. Then, he grabbed your other hand and cleaned it too.

“You are mine. Mine, you understand?” He squeezed your wrist, sharply.

You nodded, eyes filling with tears.

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Do not mourn me, Mother.” Aemond said, slipping your hand in his. He looked at Alicent, evenly. “It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye… but I gained a dragon.”

“This proceeding is to an end. Whoever questions the legitimacy of Princess Rhaenyra’s children again will lose their tongue.”

And then, Queen Alicent was leading you out of the room with her family, a firm hand between your shoulder blades and the looming shade of Ser Criston behind you. You tried to look back, go to your mother, but you only managed to see the desperation on her face as Daemon led her and your siblings out of the room.

She would fight for you. You knew she would. This was only temporary.

♧

Alicent sighed, tiredly. She had just put you to bed on the loveseat inside her rooms. She was too afraid of Rhaenyra whisking you away in the middle of the night to do otherwise. You had taken a long time to settle. Poor thing that you were, you had been crying silently as the maids made you bathe and found you a clean nightgown.

Alicent was sharply reminded of when she was told she would marry the King. She had been afraid too. Terrified, in fact. Back then, Viserys had seemed like such an imposing man, and he had not been kind to her. As the sickness got the better of her, Alicent felt a secret pleasure at seeing him humbled. She actually enjoyed doing her duty and caring for him, if only because she could remind herself he was weak. The cruel man who had hurt her now had started to rely increasingly on her. Her stomach twisted in dark satisfaction. Not so great now, huh?

That was not the point. It was for the best, Alicent tried telling herself. You would be happy with Aemond. This was nothing like her situation. The gods had made Aemond and you perfect for one another. You just had to get used to him first.

Alicent had been older, though. You were a girl not yet flowered. And she had her father at court. Alicent had never wanted to go to him, but she had had the option.

You had no one. And you knew it. You had sobbed quietly into your pillow as Alicent whispered reassurances and rubbed your back. When you had finally calmed down, you had given her big pleading eyes and asked for her to allow you to say goodbye. She had felt as if she was the worst person in Westeros.

“The Hand, Your Grace.” The voice startled her. She looked up to find her father already in the room.

“Say your piece.”

“Now, what piece is that?” Her father raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve conducted myself in a manner… unbefitting my station. I lost composure and made a scene.”

“All true.” But despite his words, Otto sounded amused.

“I disgraced myself.” Alicent went on, unsure of what he was thinking. She disliked that he was so difficult to read. She could never tell if he was about to reprimand her or congratulate her. “But it was necessary. The girl is…”

“I have never seen that side of you, my daughter. I even doubted its existence.” Otto's reply was calm and measured, but there was a hint of pride in his eyes.

“It was an ugly thing. I regret it.” Separating a mother from her daughter, no matter how wretched the mother was…. You would need Rhaenyra, in the years to come. You would flower, grow, need to be told about heirs and taught womanly things. But Rhaenyra would have never allowed you to come, if Alicent had not forced her hand. She would not understand. She was not a Hightower.

This was best. No matter how lonely you got, you would always have Aemond.

Yet Alicent remembered her own maiden years without a mother, and her heart hurt. You would be lost at court. You were a child. But just as Rhaenyra had not spared Aemond, she could not spare you.

“We play an ugly game. And now, for the first time, I see that you have the determination to win it.” Her father spoke, and it was then she realized they were having two different conversations.

“No, Father. That's not why…” Alicent sighed. Sometimes, it was better that certain things were seen rather than told. “Get up. Come.”

She led him towards where you peacefully slept. Her father remained puzzled.

“Alicent…”

And it was then that you rolled onto your side, showing the inside of your arm. In scraggly, black letters, the insult remained exactly the same as it had been spoken aloud. “Your hair is brown.”

Otto staggered back.

“You see, now?” Alicent asked him, voice wavering. “I had to take her. I had to, Father. Right? She is Aemond's. Rhaenyra already took so much from him, I couldn't let her have her, too.”

“You did the right thing.” Otto squeezed her shoulder, as he bent down to cover you more with the furs. “She is his, yes. But she will also prove invaluable in the years to come.”

“How so? Preventing war?”

“She will sit on the Iron Throne. Why should a man rule, if she was born first?” Her father smirked. “Keep a grip on your passions. And I promise you, in time, you and I together will prevail. What that rogue Aemond has done in winning Vhagar and her to our side… The boy was right. It’s worth a thousand times the price he paid.”

♧

Aemond had found he did not like his soulmate very much. You were shy and easily frightened, and you spent most of your days crying in the corners.

You were little, his mother said. It was normal that you were taking your time to adjust.

This was nothing like Aemond expected. You being his seemed like a great jape. You cried at everything and managed to be more annoying than Aegon. Then, there was the fact of your parentage. Why would he be cursed with a bastard for a soulmate? Had he slighted the Seven in some way?

“Stop crying.” He snapped at you. “You look like a fool.”

You sniffled, quietly. Helaena had invited you to go catching bugs with her, but you had started sobbing when the first caterpillar was placed on your arm. Aemond had to intercede, pulling you aside, but you had only cried harder. If there was something in which you resembled Rhaenyra, it was in the fact that you always made your displeasure known.

The only time you seemed at peace was with a book in your hands. His mother had noticed that particular miracle when one afternoon, upset at Aegon tugging on your dark braids, you had disappeared. Alicent had been frantic, sending servants to turn the Red Keep upside down in your search. She had found you by accident, sitting in the library with a book open on your lap, comically large for your childish body. The attempt at self soothing had been noted and tucked away to ruminate later on.

“Aemond.” His mother said, sharply. He sighed. It wasn't like he tried to scare you on purpose. Just that Aemond was not too sure what to do with you. Girls were not his primary concern, but he supposed you were to be endured.

Later that day, his mother pulled him aside.

“If you treat her cruelly, she will grow to resent you.” He was too young to catch it then, but there was a glimmer in Alicent’s eyes that indicated she spoke out of personal experience. “This is not how you win her over.”

“She is mine, though.” Aemond scowled. There was no need to win you over. His father had already ordered your marriage to him. Not even Princess Rhaenyra could oppose it.

Besides, you were a bastard. It was obvious to anyone with eyes. You should be grateful Aemond paid you any sort of attention, even if it was negative. When you grew older, and your strong features made themselves even more known, no one would want you.

You were the lucky one. Not him.

“Soulmarks do not ensure anything.” His mother said, her tone turning slightly less patient.

“But father gave her to me.”

His mother looked up, as if begging to the Seven Heavens for fortitude.

“Betrothals and marriages can be annulled by a King.” Aemond frowned. Why would his father change his mind? “Or a Queen.”

“Oh.” Aemond had not considered that possibility. He would have to ensure the two of you were married by the time your mother took the crown. And hopefully, if he could manage, get a babe too. That would be much harder to annul.

“You need to make her want to stay.” His mother had a point there. It was a much simpler solution than what Aemond was concocting. There was only the issue of how. Aemond had no clue what to do with girls, and you cried so much it was off-putting.

“How?”

“Be kind. She is lonely here. She needs a friend.”

He found you crying again the next day. You had scrapped your knee on the dragonpit, after visiting your growing dragon. You were inconsolable, face covered with snot and eyes swollen from so much crying.

Aemond would have scoffed at your weakness, were it not for the lingering memory of his mother’s words.

He fetched water and a clean linen, and kneeled in front of you. Big, teary eyes stared down in confusion. Your dark eyelashes, clumped together with tears, and another reminder of your bastardy, fluttered. You gave a few harsh blinks.

“The King gave me you.” Aemond enunciated, slowly. He wanted to make sure you understood his meaning. “You are mine to guard and protect. And to care for.”

Your dark eyes, pretty for a bastard, widened. You pulled your leg back, but Aemond made sure to hold your knee firmly, and continued tending to your injury.

“Nothing bad will happen to you. I ride Vhagar, the biggest dragon in existence.”

That didn't seem to reassure you much, either. You flinched as if hurt by the thought of Vhagar. Probably scared, remembering exactly how he had won her.

Aemond tried to recall what normal girls liked. Helaena was no use, but of the few times he had crossed paths with his other nieces, he had a lasting impression of romantic gestures and delusions.

“When we are older, we will marry, and I shall be very kind. You will love me very much and you will never be alone again.” Aemond rubbed your kneecap, gently.

Your jaw was hanging open, but you didn't even make a peep. He sighed, exhausted again. You were stubborn, so there was no point in expecting you to… Aemond was unable to finish the train of thought. His mind had gone blank.

Your arms were around him and you were not letting go.

♧

It spirals, after that. You are quiet, the consequence of a childhood spent near Jacaerys, Aegon and Lucerys. They seemed to have much louder voices than you. Yet, at the same time, you are always making yourself known.

Be it a hand curling around his wrist to drag him to the kitchens to try the newest lemon cakes, or a swift tug to his jerkin to get Aemond to pay attention, your feelings are loud and clear.

Aemond has never been particularly playful or fond of the outdoors. He much prefers studying philosophy and history. At two and ten years of age, it is a bit late for him to take part in childish games like monsters and maidens or come-into-my-castle, but you are younger than he by a few years, so he accepts his fate easily enough. You will grow out of it, Aemond muses, and it's not entirely unpleasant to be the one that causes you to shriek in laughter.

Besides, it's not like the two of you only do things that please you. Often, you curl with him near the fire, a book in your hands, while Aemond studies his lessons. Aemond finds your weight against his side comforting, and he feels a vicious sort of pleasure at enjoying something you used to do with your twin.

He might not be able to take Lucery's eye. He might never manage to hurt Jacaerys. But Aemond will take their sister, make no mistake. Soon, the day will come that they visit the Red Keep and something will happen, and you will run to Aemond's arms for comfort. Not theirs. And it will be all the vindication he needs, watching those stupid Strong boys gape at their beloved sister’s preference.

You have been growing well. He is satisfied to notice that you have intelligent eyes and that you take well to your lessons. You curtsy and dance as well as a lady of twice your age, your manners are pleasing, and you know the Seven Pointed Star by heart. Once could almost forget you are a bastard and not a miniature copy of Alicent, with how often you have taken to following her around.

Aemond is not a fool. His grandfather has taken an unusual liking to you, and is frequently imparting lessons. His mother pays you more attention than she does to Helaena. It may be guilt on his mother's part, but his grandsire does not have such qualms. He is no woman. They are grooming you to rule.

“Aemond!” You run towards him, excitedly. “I want to go riding. Can we?”

“I don't know, Princess.” He smirks. One thing he likes about being older than you is the ability to lord his knowledge over you. You get so huffy and pouty, it makes him understand why Aegon enjoyed teasing him so much. He would never be as cruel to you, though. You are too sweet for it. “Can we?”

“You know what I meant!” You scowl at him. Your limbs seem to be vibrating with the force of will it takes not to stomp your foot like a commoner.

“Of course we can. You have a dragon and I do too, we are both very proficient…” Aemond teases, enjoying the way your face scrunches up in displeasure at the knowledge you will have to bend.

“May we!” Your voice raises slightly. “Mean!”

Aemond waits a moment, letting the suspense build. Your lower lip trembles, fighting the urge to pout.

“Please?” You say, brown eyes pleading. It doesn't bother him as it used to, your darker features. Aemond has found there is a certain beauty in your hair and eyes. Besides, Aegon has told him that the women at the Riverlands are much more pretty than those of House Targaryen. If he was not jesting, you would grow into a beautiful woman thanks to your Strong blood.

“Fine. We will go.” He is careful to keep his tone gruff, as if he was doing you some great favor. In truth, Aemond enjoys the activity as much as you do. He has to be careful, with your dragon and you being smaller than Vhagar and him, but it is fun to race you. He even lets you win, sometimes.

Sometimes, though, you win fair and square. It's very troubling. You have started to become distracting, and too often Aemond thinks of how pretty you look with the blue backdrop, riding a dragon like a true Targaryen. It's then that you take advantage and push your dragon further, faster, until you surpass him and Aemond shakes himself out of the spell you cast on him.

He wonders if kissing is as pleasant as Aegon says it is. Your clever mouth looks soft, and Aemond knows you would yield to him easily. He is very curious about how your hair would feel on his hands, and how it would look coming undone from your braids.

A joyful little sound brings him out of his contemplation. You are hiking up your skirts and breaking into a sprint.

“Last one there carries the books for a whole week!”

“Oh, you are on.” And he is running after you, hot on your heels, as if he were a boy once more.

♧

Alicent can't sleep. The storm raging outside keeps her awake, pacing. Viserys is getting worse with every day that passes, and she fears she is living on borrowed time.

Will Rhaenyra kill Aegon? Even with the betrothal of Aemond to you, Alicent doubts she will stand down. The letters that have come are few and far in between, getting even more spaced out now that you are happier and Rhaenyra is having Daemon's children.

Jacaerys is the only one who keeps a steady stream of communication with you. Alicent is guilty of reading his letters. She has committed that particular sin various times. Among the tales of your week and the recounting of how much you miss your other half, there are some troubling thoughts. Has mother replaced me? Does she not love me anymore? Will you too forget about me?

He tries being reassuring, but he knows the truth. Just as Alicent does too. Rhaenyra hates being anything but the center of attention. She had been a regular mother to you, but she cannot stand the influence Alicent is having on your life, nor can she tolerate that you are happy with it. If you wrote tales of your unhappiness, of your unwillingness to marry Aemond, Rhaenyra would be loving and supportive. But you are too honest for that.

At first, Alicent had taken to mothering you as a way of atoning for her sins. She had dragged you away from home when you were a child. She had gifted you to Aemond. It had been her fault that her father decided you would sit on the Iron Throne after Rhaenyra was dead.

But now, caring for you comes naturally. You were an easy child. Sweet natured, and starved for affection. You were not like Helaena. Instead, you enjoyed placing ribbons in your hair and trying on new dresses, and you were actually interested when Alicent spoke of the Faith.

Most of all, though, you loved Aemond with all your heart. You followed him everywhere, be it cheering for him in the stands as he trained, or helping him get to his chambers when the pain in his eye turned into a migraine. It made Alicent love you even more.

There were times, though, when your love for Aemond turned problematic. Suspecting tonight was one of those times, Alicent decided to stop her senseless pacing and go check on you.

The guards stationed outside your hallway squirmed in their posts when confronted with the sight of Alicent.

“Let me guess.” She said, tiredly. “The Princess is not in her rooms.”

“No, Your Grace.” One of them said, lowering his head in shame. Alicent fought the urge to scream at their incompetence. How could one girl, barely two and ten, manage to slip past two guards? Alicent loved you like you were her own, but you were just too much like Rhaenyra sometimes.

“Thank you.” Alicent inwardly was cursing up a storm. She knew exactly where you were.

It was not long before she found herself outside Aemond's chambers. This set of guards looked more grim.

“Do not tell me. The Princess is inside.” Alicent asked, flatly. The guards only stepped aside, curtsying to her.

The bed was too small to hold both of you comfortably, so you were laying on your sides. Aemond was not wearing his eye patch, and Alicent thought him asleep. Your head was resting on his shoulder, half squeezed against his arm in a position that could not be comfortable for your neck.

Both of you still had your nightclothes on. Alicent could have danced in relief. She had enough as it was with Aegon to add you two to the list.

“Mother.” Aemond whispered, very quietly. He had you hugged to him, and now that she looked more closely, Alicent could tell he was rubbing your back up and down. She wondered how long he had been standing guard.

“You are five and ten. She has already flowered. This has to stop.” She whisper-shouted.

“I am not going to dishonor her, mother, for the Seven's sake! I am not Aegon.” Aemond whisper-shouted back, being careful not to move you.

“What are you doing, then?” She placed her hands on her hips and looked down at your sleeping form. While it was true that you were entirely dressed, the way Aemond held you lately was less friendly and more of a lover's embrace.

You sighed in your sleep, sweetly, and hid your face against his neck. Both of them went quiet for a few seconds.

Only when you were settled again, Aemond dared to speak.

“The same as always. She was scared. She used to climb in with…”

Alicent rolled her eyes. She had heard the same excuse too many times to count.

“Prince Jacaerys, I know. Just as I have known since you were ten, but neither of you is a child any longer.”

“Mother…”

“What will the maids think come the morrow? The guards? They will see her coming out of your quarters. You can't keep doing this. I have tolerated it far too long.” The guards already knew. Used as they were at keeping their King's secrets, no one had thought to speak yet. They, too, believed it was harmless behavior. But both of you were getting older and Alicent feared the day when Aemond's hands turned from consoling to groping, and your soft little hugs turned into passionate embraces.

“It's entirely innocent, Mother, I swear.” Aemond looks vaguely offended by the thought and Alicent has to steady herself because of the audacity of this child! No, she was surely atoning for all her past deeds with the two of you. Aegon was sent to taunt her with her failures as a mother, and the two of you were destined to remind her of Rhaenyra and her failures as a friend. Thank the Gods Helaena was normal, in comparison.“I wouldn't touch her like that. I don't intend to hurt her.”

Alicent stopped her complaint before it left her mouth. Surprise made her eyes go wide. Then, with her softest voice, she tried to fix this.

“It's… Oh, Aemond. It's not meant to be hurtful.” Poor child. Who had told him intercourse was meant to hurt? Alicent had kept her woes in that area strictly to herself. Aegon and Rhaenyra flaunted loudly that they enjoyed it very much. So why was Aemond so afraid?

“But it hurts you. It hurts Helaena. It hurts the girls Aegon…”

She deflated. So worried had Alicent been about precocious youths, she had never stopped to think about how she had never explained to them what the marital duties were. Painful. Hurtful. Alicent could not deny that. Men did not care for the pleasure of women and were it not for the fact that she had been friends with Rhaenyra once, Alicent would think it hurtful by nature too. It was not meant to be that way, even if she herself had not experienced the pleasure people went on and on about.

Alicent had to reassure Aemond. It was vital that once he married, he produced heirs. His grandsire's plan depended on it. That would not be achieved if he was afraid of touching you. Besides, your situation was different. You were marrying your soulmate. Your other half.

She felt utterly unable to help Aemond realize it was not meant to be hurtful, but magical and blessed by the Gods. Her father was better suited to giving this talk than her. He was the one who had actually married his destined partner.

Sometimes, she wondered if you two were a way for the Seven to fix history. When you did willful, reckless things with no care for your reputation, she could see Rhaenyra running around the Red Keep, despite the different coloring. And when Aemond, dutiful, serious Aemond, got all uppity about the topics and scandalized himself, it was as if looking at herself during the past.

Alicent would never say it out loud, but she liked your coloring. When she looked at you from a certain light, she could pretend you were Rhaenyra and hers. And when Aemond chased you around, long silver hair at his back, she could almost pretend it was the two of them again, racing in the hallways of the Red Keep.

We light the way indeed. The Gods could be very cruel.

No, Alicent thought bitterly, she had lacked the necessary parts to keep her soulmate by her side. Let her father take this one.

“It does. But you will not be rough with her. It will feel pleasant, and that is why it is so dangerous. She will not want you to stop, you will not want to, either.” She keeps her tone reassuring. Aemond looked fully offended now, a fierce scowl on his face. As if he were being accused of a terrible crime.

“Of course I wouldn't be rough with her. She is mine.” He scoffed, all haughty. Alicent fought the urge to laugh. Boys. Always so dramatic. She much preferred mothering Helaena and you than this. It was almost easy in comparison.

“And you are hers?” She teased.

“I am.” Aemond seemed amused by the reference to wedding vows, lips twitching with the urge to smile. He fought it because Gods forbid he let his mother know he thought her witty.

“Good.” Alicent smiled. “Have you kissed?”

“Mother!” Aemond shook his head, turning red as a tomato.“I am waiting for her to be ready. She flowered so recently…”

“That is very kind.” More kindness than she had been afforded by her husband. Aemond must be smitten.

Alicent decides then she will speak to Viserys about expediting the wedding. And get her father to teach the both of you about marital duties. She does not want to risk the both of you siring a bastard. Not on her watch.

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asumofwords · 10 months

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. PTSD, mentions of assault, flashbacks of assault, anxiety, anger, trauma, hypersexuality as a trauma response, possessive behaviour.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello my pretty petals, here is the next chapter as promised, we are full speed ahead from here, and I may post the next Aemond POV installment either today or tomorrow, currently undecided. Please remember to read the trigger warnings before reading the chapters.

Thank you all for the love and support as always, you guys are so sweet! Makes my heart very happy.

Enjoy <3

Chapter 77: Confessions

Aemond sat in the arm chair in front of the fire in your shared chambers in silence, staring into the flames. You had both been in a daze as you were sent back to your chambers, escorted by three King’s guards.

Helaena and Lucerys had been waiting for you inside when you arrived.

Always there.

Aemond did not speak as he walked, nor did he reach out to touch you as you were walked speedily through the corridors, his hands still curled in fists, and lone eye ablaze. His anger set you on edge, and the fear you had forcefully pushed down and away, slowly rose to the surface again in the prospects of not just one of your uncles wrath, but two.

The young Prince's violet eye never left the flames of the fireplace, even as you stood in front of it meekly.

“Aemond.”

He did not reply.

“Aemond.” You said again, his gaze still not lifting from the fire, lips pulled down into a hard sneer.

Your eyes flicked down to his hands, which were fisted atop the arms of the chair, blood beginning to dry on his tightly clenched knuckles.

He needed a Maester.

Stepping away from the fireplace, you moved towards him, Helaena and Lucerys’ bodies becoming shadows behind you. Your shaky hand reached out as you whispered again, and touched his shoulder cautiously, “Kepus.”

Slowly, Aemond’s head turned to look at your hand upon his body, not reacting to your voice or touch, simply looking at it. It sparked a moment of apprehension through you, and so just as slowly as you had placed your palm there, you took it off.

Aemond’s gaze finally moved up your wrist, following the path of your arm, your neck, and then finally to your face, jaw still tightly clenched.

“Aem…”

“You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother. His own nephew.”

You reared back as though you had been slapped.

Broken.

He watched as your face crumpled, lip shaking as tears welled in your eyes again.

Aemond was hurt.

And so he was lashing out to hurt you.

He had not changed.

He was the same as he always had been.

He was just the same.

They were all the same.

A lone tear slid down your cheek as your breath stuttered in your chest, hands curling into fists beside you.

Aemond, realising what he had said, had a moment of clarity and reached a hand outwards towards you in regret, trying to grasp the hand that was closest between you.

“I’m s-“

Dracarys.

You shook your head roughly, “Don’t.”

“Y/n, I-“

The thread of resolve that had been frayed inside of you, snapped.

“I am surrounded by vipers! I am alone in this Keep.” You hissed, the heat of anger rising with no sign of stopping. You stepped away from your uncle angrily, catching the enraged face of Lucerys as you moved, who continued to utter beneath his breath.

“Your brother raped me, and where was my husband? Off fucking his whore in Harrenhal like the dutiful Prince he so claims to be. Your mother knew and did nothing.”

Aemond looked away at the words, which lit the sparks ablaze, more anger flowing through you that you did not know you possessed, resolve feeling more frayed and distraught than ever, your body bursting with wrath.

“Aegon was inside of me, whilst you left me here. He fucked his seed into me with he hopes of a bastard.”

Aemond breathed an angry breath through his nose, face snapping to yours.

“You call me broken?" You sneered, "You took Lucerys. At night I dream of him, of his small face.” A tear slid down your cheek, “I cannot escape the visions in which you took him from me, of where I watched in horror as Vhagar tore him from the sky. I see him everywhere.” You took a step towards him, hand moving to violently jab a pointed finger at your own chest, nail pressing into the skin.

Dracarys.

Pretty petals.

“You call me broken? My mother had her throne taken from her, and my sister born still. I am trapped in a Keep surrounded by enemies. My only solace is a man who has raped me just as his brother did.”

The more you spoke, the more you could not stop the words that flew from your lips, watching as Aemond’s chest rose and fell angrily.

“I was forced to marry a man who has sought nothing but pleasure in my anguish!” You screamed at the Prince, coming closer until you stood in front of him, his face still as he watched you.

“Helaena threw herself from Maegor’s Holdfast to be impaled on spikes below, because she couldn’t bear another day. My own husband leaves me to fuck his bastard whore before the whole court, knowing that his brother would defile me! And you think me broken?”

Aemond did not answer.

“Say it again. Call me broken.” You sneered down at him.

Silence.

The only sound the crackling fire, and whispers of Helaena and Lucerys behind you.

“Am I only broken now that your brother has been inside of me? Am I no longer a toy you wish to play with? ” Tears slid from your eyes as you shook with anger.

You were furious.

You were horrified.

You were grieving, and tired, and scared, and alone.

“Tell me.” You demanded.

Aemond blinked.

“Tell me!” You screamed at his silence.

Still, nothing.

Your hand flew through the air, slapping him roughly across the scarred side of his face, the sound of the hit breaking the rooms quiet.

“Tell me.” You seethed looking down at him, his head slowly turning to look at you, blood on his lip resurfacing as your slap reopened the cut from Aegon's fists.

And yet even after your outburst, even after your demands, your screams, your cries, and the hit upon his face in which you knew would hurt him deeply, Aemond sat still, looking at you heave angry breaths, tears filling your eyes, as the side of his face blushed red from your hand.

The dam spilt over.

“Tell me.” You begged, a sob slipping from your lips.

Before you could blink, you were engulfed in Aemond’s arms, your head tucked beneath his chin as you stiffened. You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he held you tighter, your arms stuck by your side.

You inhaled deeply, trying to dispell the tide that rose inside of you, but it was no use. The wave crashed over you, and you sobbed loudly into his chest, arms coming to grip onto his shirt in front of you.

You stood as he held you, sobbing into his robes, his grip never faltering.

You cried until you felt you could not cry anymore.

You felt so defeated.

So tired.

So angry.

Perhaps you truly were broken.

"You are stronger than you think.” Came the whisper of Aemond atop your skull, finally breaking the silence, “I think you are the blood of the mighty House Targaryen.” His chest vibrated against your face as you cried.

Stronger than you think.

Then why do I feel so weak?

“The blood of Old Valyria. Iksā se kostōba issaros nyke gīmigon.” You are the strongest person I know.

You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother. His own nephew.

With a surge of anger, you pushed away from him, separating yourself from the arms that had held you as you cried.

“Then why do you tear me apart?” You sneered.

Why?

Aemond stood, hands limp by his side as he looked at you.

Silence again.

You shook your head and fled, leaving the chambers and the man inside them behind you. Moving past the guards who looked at you peculiarly, tears still running down your cheeks.

You needed comfort.

You needed solace.

You needed familiarity.

And so your legs took you to a place where you could find all three, down to the Godswood.

As your feet moved across the soft grass, you tilted your head backwards to look up at its crimson leaves, dancing in a soft breeze that swept through the Keep. Your tears flowed as you moved towards the place you always sat beneath its trunk.

Why do you punish me, Gods?

What have I done that I need to repent for?

Is this because I am acursed as a Kinslayer?

Is this my atonement?

The Gods did not answer your questions as you laid you back against the trunk, exhaustion seeping out of you and into the earth below. You wished for the ground to open up, and for you to fall through the cracks and be swallowed whole. To be done with such a life. To be numb to the pain.

I know I came here to help, but I find the strength I had dwindling. Was this how it was always to be? To suffer the sins of man? To suffer the sins of my uncles? Please Gods, give me the strength to do what I must. I am losing hope. I am losing myself to madness.

To grief.

Please.

You shut your eyes as you prayed.

Please, help me on the path I must take. Let Aegon die. Kill him for what he has done. By my hand or another. By his own hand. By wine or ales hand. By the slip of his foot, or the hoof of a horse, or the fault of his dragon.

Let the Stranger take him.

The prayers did not stop as you sat under the branches and leaves of the Godswood, praying for help, from anyone, promising that you would do anything.

To have them take Aegon.

For the war be over.

To help you.

Your eyes stayed shut, and the exhaustion that never left your bones swept you away to a light sleep, prayers following you to your dreams as you sat beneath the trees branches even there, its face blinking at you as you begged and pleaded for guidance.

But the dream was ripped away from you as the Godswood had opened its mouth to speak, and you woke to the gentle whisper of your name.

Your eyes shot open to see Aemond standing above you, looking down at you with a soft face. His knuckles were washed of the blood that had dried upon them, and there now sat scabbed cuts and pinkish bruises upon his pale skin.

His hand came out, as it had before, palm up in offering to help you stand. Yet as you looked at him, all you could think of was his last words to you.

You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother.

His own nephew.

Sniffing you ignored the hand, and pulled yourself stiffly to stand. Your uncle watched you, the sky around you darkened, and it was only then had you realised you had slept the entire day away.

For the first time in days, you had slept a decent sleep.

Aemond continued to look at you as you dusted down your skirts, before his chin stretched upwards and he cast his eye to the leaves above you. The crimson in the evenings light looked almost black.

You realised his lips had moved before the words followed them. His voice was so quiet, so soft, gentle like the leaves that continued to rustle above you.

“I used to sit here, when we were young…” The air around you was tense as he whispered, eye still cast upwards to the leaves he watched as he reminisced, “I would listen to you read. It was not often that I could get away from him, or your brothers.”

You kept your gaze on his face.

“It was always you.”

Aemond's gaze moved and his eye settled back on you.

“It has always been you.”

It has always been you.

The worlds curled around you like the serpent in your dreams.

It has always-

“Please,” Aemond broke the spell, “Come dine with me.”

His voice was so low, that you almost had to strain to hear him.

Your stomach clenched at the thought of food, the realisation that you had not eaten at all dawning on you. You searched his sharp features before giving him a shallow nod, and following him back through the Keep to your chambers, where the three guards still sat stationed outside.

It has always been you.

You ate in mostly silence as tension filled the air of the chambers. The maids had come with your meal and had watched you closely, waiting for you to ask or command them for something should you need it.

But you didn't.

And so to quell the pain, and anxiety, and anger that continued to turn about inside of you, you drank from your goblet of Dornish spiced wine, not honeyed Essos wine, and let the warm burning of the alcohol distract your thoughts and give you something to focus on.

It has always been you.

“Is the food to your liking?” Aemond asked, his hands lowering to the table as he waited for your response.

Your approval.

“It’s fine.” You replied, voice clipped.

Why was he asking you that?

“Is there anything that you need?” His tone held uncertainty in it, as though he was tiptoeing around you. Around your anger.

Broken.

The fire that had been tamed roared back to life, everything about him irritating you in that moment. The way he sat, the way he looked at you. The way his face bruised on one side of his cheek, the cut on his lips, the cuts on his hands.

“The mundanity of these questions aren’t going to change what happened. What you said.”

Aemond blinked once, placing the cutlery on his plate, “I don't know what you want from me.”

What you want from me.

What you want from me?

You scoffed, “Do you want me to pretend that Aegon hadn’t come into these chambers and rape me on our bed? Do you want me to pretend that I am okay with what you said to me?”

“You didn’t have an issue with pretending before.”

The sound of your hands slamming your own cutlery down cut through the room.

"If you think this marriage is anything but a political one,” You sneered, patience gone from your body, “A truce to end bloodshed between our families, you are sorely mistaken. You have been twisted into a man I do not recognise by the ambitions and obsessions of your mother.”

Aemond’s lips pursed, “Don’t speak about my mother.”

“Why? What has she done but start this war. What has she done but push, and push, and push others to do her bidding for her. What has she done but start the pieces that fell, the pieces that led to this war.” You leant forward into the table and hissed, “Her actions took your eye, not my brother.”

Aemond’s violet eye twitched, and you felt a sick sense of satisfaction at seeing his composure break.

Why were you the only one to suffer?

You opened your mouth, “You cont-“

“You betrayed me!” Aemond screamed, shooting up from his chair.

“What?”

Betrayed?

“We were close once you and I, when we were young, and when your brother took my eye you sided with them. You sided with the one who blinded me!”

“We were all children!”

“I loved you!”

The air left the chambers.

The room fell still.

The both of your chests rising and falling.

A confession.

“I loved you, and you betrayed me.” He growled, standing tall by the table.

Loved me?

Betrayed him?

“Betrayed you?” You scoffed, “And what have you done to me, hm? You killed my brother. You killed my dragon. You have taken everything from me. You have raped me, and humiliated me, and hurt me beyond repair. I am covered in the evidence of your demented love. Any love that I held for you died when I was a child.” You spat, heart racing in your chest.

Aemond laughed mockingly, “We both know that is a lie.”

You turned away from him, huffing a laugh back at him, “You think I could love a man who has attacked me? Tormented me? Haunted my dreams for years? A man who has slain my brother? Raped me?”

Your hand flew to the table and ripped up the goblet of wine, drinking greedily from it as you slowly rose from your chair, looking your uncle up and down as he stood before you, eye crazed.

“Once I had loved you,” You confessed, “You were sweet, and kind.” Your heart clenched, it ached to know that those days were gone.

“A boy who’s devotion to his family was strong. A boy who I could turn to when I needed. A boy who I grew beside and dreamt of our future together. I would have gladly wed you. But you’re not him. You’ve taken too much from me.”

“I have.”

You stalked towards him, snatching a small knife from the table beside your plate as you moved in front of him, his eye never leaving your face.

“And yet you expect me to love a monster? To forgive you of all of your sins?” You walked forward until you stood before him, your chest bumping his, neck craned upwards to look in his eye.

You rose the blade to his face, the feeling of deja-vu curling around you, holding its point to his seeing violet orb as he stood still, face unreadable, looking down at you.

You let the blade rest on his cheek sharply as he still did not react.

It made you seethe.

Swiftly you moved the blade onto his throat pushing against it, not breaking the skin.

You watched his face as you tested him.

“You think I could ever love you?” You sneered, rising on the tips on your toes to look at him, anger fuelled by the wine and all that had happened.

The knowledge that more was to come.

The knowledge that you were too trapped to do anything about it.

Aemond’s hand slowly came up to touch your elbow on the arm that was poised to hold the blade against him, and pushed it harder against his throat. Tempting you.

Encouraging you.

He held your arm steady as it began to shake, his long fingers gentle against your skin. Warmth burnt through you at his touch and you shifted your gaze to his lips, watching as his pink tongue came out to wet his lips.

You wished to tear his lips apart with your teeth.

“I know you do.” He told you, “Though you have two eyes, you still don’t see.”

The Prince watched you intently, breath caught in your throat as you felt a familiar warmth begin to pool into your stomach, desire moving its way around your body. Desire to hurt him. Desire to be held by him. Desire to feel a touch that wasn’t pain. Desire to feel hands that did not bring you terror.

Desire to feel loved.

Cared for.

Protected.

The need to be in control again.

To have control of your body.

You swallowed thickly, still looking at him as you leant yourself closer, blade pressing harder against his neck as you crashed your lips against his roughly. A grunt slipped through his mouth into yours, surprise catching him off guard as your other hand gripped onto his arm for purchase.

You kissed him intently, angrily, still pushing the blade against him as his lips sought yours.

Aemond pulled back with a hiss.

The blade on his neck had slipped, a bead of blood pooling to the surface before it began to trail warmly down his neck. You watched the blood travel down the pale expanse of his skin.

You had cut him.

You had made him bleed.

And it made you feel good.

Leaning forward, you let your tongue chase the crimson stream, letting the bitter iron liquid spread across your tongue, trailing up to the source and placing a rough kiss there. Teeth nipping the skin and relishing in Aemond’s low whine.

For the first time in days, you felt powerful.

Aemond groaned beneath you, and the blade clattered to the floor.

His hands gripped your waist and pulled you tighter to him as you nipped along his neck, teeth biting into his cut meanly. You wanted it to hurt, and as you bit and nipped at his flesh, Aemond continued to groan and whine from above.

Yet despite it all, his hands did not move any further to touch you, instead simply holding you against him.

Growing tired of his inaction you uttered to him, 'Touch me', begging for his hands on you as you continued to lap the blood on his neck, working your way back to his lips.

Your uncles hands softly held the small of your back and behind your head as he let you guide the rough embrace, your teeth biting down roughly on his lips, nipping at the cut there as you pressed your body against him, the feeling of his hardened member throbbing against your stomach.

The memories of Aegon sprung to your mind and you paused, gasping, pulling away sharply as disgust and terror wound its way around you.

It has always been you.

Aemond pulled back searching your face with a hooded eye, small patches of blood on his swollen lips and a smudged trail of the crimson on his neck.

“Zaldrītsos,” He began to utter, his hands moving away from you, to push you back.

To give you space.

“Don’t.” You blurted, “It hasn’t stopped you before.”

And it hadn’t.

You crashed your lips back against him.

It was over.

It was not Aegon.

It was over.

It was Aemond.

It has always been you.

It has always been Aemond.

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sapphire-writes · 1 year

Text

The Au Pair (modern!HOTD) part 1

Part 1 ~ Part 2

pairing: Daemon x fem!Reader x Rhaenyra

summary: You take a new job nannying for a family on the Upper East Side. You find yourself intrigued by both parents.

warnings: 18+ (slight power imbalance as they're your bosses, sensual themes), language

word count: 3.1k

note: I've been in a Daemon x Rhae mood and this idea came to me and suddenly it is here, enjoy my loves!

When you looked up at the high-rise apartment building, you felt your stomach drop. You had always been that way with heights, whether looking down or looking up at something tall, the feeling of intense vertigo washing over you. You took in a deep breath to steady yourself, draining the rest of your coffee before walking in.

Throwing the cup in a nearby bin, you popped a mint into your mouth to hopefully disguise your coffee breath.

You’d nannied before but never au-paired. It seemed to be a little more intense, having you live with the family, and become a part of the family. But you had to get out of your current living situation, and the website was too tempting to pass up.

You didn’t even think you’d get a response when you sent in your resume. You recognized the family name; old money, the backbone of Wall Street. It was too good to be true when you received an email inviting you in person for an interview.

Still, the thought of caring for three boys was nearly overwhelming.

“You’ll only truly be a little help,” Rhaenyra had told you, after leading you through the foyer, giving you hot tea in a cup that felt so delicate it might break in your small hands.

Rhaenyra had ushered you to the sofa, before sitting in the one directly across. She crossed her ankles, clad in a dark maroon suit, her silver hair striking against the wine-colored fabric. She was ethereally beautiful, the kind of pretty that takes your breath away.

“Luke and Joff are the littles, they require the most attention,” Rhaenyra explained.

You take a sip of the tea, warmth flooding through you.

“How old are they?” you ask, blowing on the tea.

“Jacaerys is the oldest, he’s nine, then there’s Luke who is seven, and little Joffrey is only four,” Rhaenyra tells you.

“No girls?” you ask and she shakes her head.

“Daemon’s daughters Baela and Rhaena sometimes visit during the week, they’re nine as well. They live with their mother mostly, and often spend the weekends with us.”

“You have a full house,” you comment, smiling.

“Several,” Rhaenyra answers, mirroring your smile, “We have two apartments here, in the city, during the weekends we go to our house, outside of the city.”

“That’s wonderful, that you’re able to get away,” you tell her, “the city can be overwhelming.”

“I agree,” she says, “it’s nice to have an escape. So, tell me about yourself,” she cocks her head to the side, “what made you want this position?”

You sigh, deciding it's best to be truthful.

“Well, I’ve worked with kids before, on and off,” you begin, “some babysitting, nannying, I was a camp counselor for one summer.”

Rhaenyra nods, her violet eyes warm and inviting.

“I also, just recently lost my apartment,” you tell her, “it’s a long story, but I need to be out by the end of the month, so a job that comes with a place to live was very tempting.”

Rhaenyra smiles, and you nervously play with the rings on your fingers.

“I can be really good with the kids, I think we’ll get along great.”

Rhaenyra looks you up and down as the door opens. The most beautiful man you’ve ever seen walks in, throwing his briefcase on the counter. His silver hair falls in front of his eyes as he leans against the counter, tapping his ring-clad fingers against the black marble.

“Daemon,” she calls, not turning around, “meet our guest.”

Daemon simply glances at you, busy with something on his phone.

“He’ll warm up, don’t you worry,” Rhaenya says, standing.

“I won’t let you down if given this opportunity,” you tell her, placing your teacup down and standing to leave.

“I know you won’t,” she says, taking your arm to lead you to the door, “let me discuss with my husband, and we’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, truly,” you tell her at the door, “It was nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Rhaenyra,” she insists.

“Rhaenyra,” you say, and she leads you out.

Rhaenyra sighs, returning to the couch and flipping through your resume once more.

“I’m shocked you let her leave,” Daemon says, dropping a kiss on Rhaenyra’s head, and squeezing her shoulder with a ring-clad hand.

“She’ll be back,” Rhaenyra assures him, “I’m taking it slow.”

“Surprising,” Daemon says, “with her calling you ma’am so sweetly.”

Rhaenyra merely glances up at him, smiling coyly at her husband.

“I’ll give her a call this evening then,” Rhaneyra says, kissing the back of his hand, “officially offer her the job?”

“Call her now, if you like,” Daemon tells her.

“She’s probably still in the building,” Rhaenyra says with a chuckle.

“Even better,” Daemon says.

Rhaenyra hums, pulling out her phone.

“Someone’s eager,” Rhaenyra teases, earning a low growl from her husband.

After celebratory drinks with your girlfriends and packing all your shit into boxes, a car picks you up bringing you to your new home. You’re shown to your room by one of the housekeepers. It’s perfect for you, with large windows and a private bathroom. The bed feels like heaven as you lay on top of it. You can’t believe your luck.

You’re introduced to the boys when they come home from school. While Jace is apprehensive, Luke warms to you right away, insisting on showing you his collection of Lego model sets. Dragons are his favorite at the moment. You spend the afternoon with them, and the day flies by.

Only when you’re in your room later, fresh out of the shower and dressed for bed do you realize you’ve lost something rather important in the move. You silently curse, and pad down the hallway toward the home office Rhaenyra uses.

“Mrs. Targaryen?” you ask, knocking on the office door.

Rhaenyra beckons you in, smiling, removing her blue light glasses and looking away from the computer.

“I’m so sorry to bother you-”

“Nonsense, darling, what is it?” Rhaenyra says, lacing her fingers together, “and what did I say about addressing me?”

You blush, forgetting yourself. You find it easy to get flustered in Rhaenyra’s presence.

“I’m sorry, Rhaenyra,” you correct yourself.

“You don’t have to say sorry,” she tells you.

Her tone is so sweet, so kind, and loving that it almost makes you want to apologize again. You release a breathy laugh instead.

“I seem to have lost my hairbrush in the move,” you tell her, “you wouldn’t happen to have an extra one lying around?”

Rhaenyra stands, walking out from behind her desk and toward you.

“Of course, come here,” she tells you, reaching for your hand.

It's warm and soft as she interlaces her fingers with yours, pulling you out of the home office and down the hallway. You haven’t yet seen Daemon and Rhaenyra’s room, though you realize this is about to change. She opens the door and brings you into their room.

You can’t help but gawk at windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling revealing the New York City skyline. The curtains are still open, revealing the sparkling city below. Daemon is already seated in bed on top of the covers reading, looking up as you enter with Rhaenyra.

“Already?” he asks, and Rhaenyra shushes him.

“Our friend is without a hairbrush,” she says, releasing your hand and moving to enter the master bathroom.

Daemon hums at her response, returning to his book. The bed is huge, big enough to comfortably fit the whole family if they wanted. The sheets are a deep gray, and look like they’re made of the softest silk. You almost want to reach out and touch them, feel the softness when Rhaenyra reenters the room.

“Sit,” she tells you, motioning to the bed.

“That’s okay,” you assure her, “I can-”

“It’s the least I can do,” she interrupts.

You want to argue with her. They’re letting you live in a gorgeous highrise on the Upper East Side and essentially want for nothing, and yet they’re the ones who are grateful? You suppose it just shows what good parents they are, wanting nothing but the best for the boys. It warms your heart knowing you can help support them in that way.

Rhaenyra motions to the bed once more and you sit down on the edge. You know immediately that sleeping in that bed would cure any problems you’ve ever had. It’s so soft against you and you run your hand over the sheets. Rhaenyra sits next to you, crossing her legs.

“Turn for me,” she says, and you move so your back faces her.

She takes your hair, still wet from your shower, and runs her hands through it gently. You can feel her nails against your scalp causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. She moves the hair from your neck before gently beginning to brush through your hair. It’s so relaxing your eyes flutter shut.

Daemon is watching now, closing his book and leaning his head back against the headboard. Rhaenyra meets his gaze and his eyes narrow. She flicks an eyebrow at him, continuing. Daemon sticks his tongue against his cheek before rising from the bed. You open your eyes as you feel him move, watching as you walk by you, stopping to press a kiss against Rhaenyra’s cheek.

He heads into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door as you hear the shower turn on. Rhaenyra places the brush on your lap.

“There you are,” she tells you, placing her hands on your shoulder and squeezing.

“Thank you,” you tell her earnestly.

Her kindness brings tears to your eyes and you find yourself wanting to hug her, bury your face in the crook of her neck, and have her lavish your face with kisses. The thought brings a blush to your cheeks. She’s your boss. Still, as you get up to leave and bid her goodnight, you find your gaze falling to her lips. You look away quickly.

“Thank you again, Rhaenyra,” you tell her, “For everything. I’m really grateful for this opportunity.”

Rhaenyra smiles, smoothing some hair from your face.

“We’re happy to have you,” she tells you, “Goodnight, my dear.”

“Goodnight,” you tell her, leaving the room and heading to your own.

Daemon reappears with wet hair and a towel around his waist. Droplets of water cling to his chest and shoulders. Rhaenyra smirks at him.

“Enjoy your cold shower?” she teases and he chuckles in response.

The following week is a test run, seeing how you handle the boys and their schedule. It’s easy enough-no scarily easy. The boys are a dream, so well behaved and respectful toward you, and enjoying the attention that is devoted to them while their mother and stepfather are busy working.

Your schedule is simple. Wake up, make sure the boys get their breakfast, escort them to school, and then the rest of the morning and early afternoon is yours. Rhaenyra has assured you that sometimes she shall give you some errands to run, but for the most part, you’re free to ponder around different coffee shops and bookstores and attend your university classes.

You pick up Joffrey first, as his daycare releases him in the early afternoon, and bring him on a walk. Then you wait for Jace and Luke to end their school days and escort them to their afterschool activities. You almost feel bad for Rhaenyra and Daemon, like you’re taking advantage of them somehow. It shouldn’t be this easy, right? It can’t be this perfect?

You’re still lost in your thoughts while you sit on a park bench watching Joffrey toddle about on a play structure as someone sits down beside you. You blink, pulled from your thoughts, giving her a kind smile.

“You’re the new Targaryen AP, right?” the girl asks, smiling at you.

“Yeah!” you answer, telling her your name.

“I’m Shae,” she tells you, “The Lannister’s Au Pair.”

You nod. You’ve heard that name before. Shae points at a little girl with golden curls on the swings.

“Cerelle Lannister, one of the little lions I look after,” she says chuckling.

She motions for your phone.

“Here, let me put in my number,” she tells you, and you smile while handing her your phone, “We have to stick together, you know?”

“Thanks,” you tell her, “I’d love to get coffee sometime and get some advice. This is my first time being an Au Pair.”

Shae raises an eyebrow as she adds her number.

“Good luck with the Targaryens,” she tells you chuckling, “they can’t seem to hold onto an AP for more than a month.”

Your brow furrows and you glance at the boys. You can see Jace running across the soccer field and Luke on the other side with the younger boys. Joffrey plays on the playground, staying in your line of sight. You can’t help but smile.

“I don’t see why,” you tell her, “the boys are great. Very well behaved, impressive manners. Better than me.”

Shae laughs.

“It’s Daemon and Rhaenyra I’d be wary of,” Shae tells you, voice lowering with the nature of the conversation, “the last girl they had was doing fine until suddenly she’s signing an NDA and being shipped out of New York. I never spoke to her again.”

A chill rolls through you.

Jace calls your name, running over to you.

“Did you see what I did!” he says, a huge grin on his face, Luke trailing behind him.

“You were so awesome Jacey!” you tell him, ruffling his hair.

They’ve warmed up to you immediately.

You keep thinking about what Shae said all night. When you join the kids for dinner, Rhaenyra and Daemon do not, as they ended up having to work late. When you tuck them in and return to your room you find a small box on your bed.

You open it, revealing a small necklace. Dainty, and expensive, with a small pearl hanging off the chain.

A gift.

You pick up the card that goes with it.

For all your help, xx

There’s no signature. Though you suppose it must be from Rhaenyra. You blush at the kind gesture before retiring to bed for the night, curling up in the soft sheets with a book.

The next few weeks go smoothly, and without any fusses. The boys are lovely as ever and easy to drag around to different parks, activities, and school functions. They’re starting to feel like your little brothers, like your own children even. You journey with them to the weekend house, an hour outside the city, roasting marshmallows, swimming in the gorgeous pool, and taking them to get ice cream. It’s paradise, it’s a dream.

You see Rhaenyra more than Daemon, though she was right. He does seem to be warming up to you, glancing at you more, checking in on you. Sitting with you when you’re at the counter for breakfast. Letting a hand drift across your back as he passes by.

You keep finding gifts. A silk robe, a new purse, a pair of earrings that match the necklace given to you. Fresh flowers by your bedside. It’s very sweet of them, to be so welcoming. Almost romantic.

Later one night during the week, you can’t seem to find sleep.

You make your way to the kitchen, feet padding softly down the hallway. Rhaenyra had said to help yourself to anything, what’s theirs is yours. You’d been craving something sweet since dinner. Since moving into the highrise your palate has begun to adjust to the rich, expensive foods the chef makes and has begun to spoil you. You’re starting to wonder how you’ll ever go back to living normally when this job ends. It’s not something you want to think about. You’re determined to stay as long as possible.

You open the fridge, the light bathing the floor in front of you. You look around, moving things trying to find a treat. Their fridge is crazy stocked, full of fresh fruits and vegetables, and green juices. Things that sound good any time but now. Now you need chocolate.

“Looking for something?” a deep voice calls and you jump.

“Shit, you scared me, sir,” you say, holding your hand against your chest.

Daemon moves toward you from the shadows, silk pajama pants hanging low on his hips. He’s shirtless and you make a point to look at his lavender eyes. They’re almost black in the low light, a smirk dancing on his lips.

“I was just looking for something sweet,” you tell him, biting your lip.

“Something sweet, hmm?” he echoes, reaching around you to open the freezer.

You back up, suddenly very aware of your choice of pajamas. Another gift you’d found waiting on your bed, a silky red set. The tank top hands low, the shorts hugging the curves of your ass and thighs.

“Try this,” Daemon says, holding out some gelato.

You let out a breathy sigh.

“What?” Daemon asks, tilting his head curiously.

“Everything here is so fancy,” you tell him, “even the ice cream.”

“Isn't it nice to have expensive things?” he asks, unscrewing the lid and throwing it on the black marble counter.

“I don’t know if I’ll like it,” you tell him, nose scrunching.

He chuckles, cocking an eyebrow. Daemon reaches for a drawer, pulling out a long silver spoon, perfect for ice cream. He dips it into the gelato before bringing his violet eyes to yours.

“Open your mouth,” he murmurs, holding the spoon out to your lips.

With his seductive tone, the roughness of his voice floating over you like silk caressing your skin, you instinctively part your lips, accepting the sweet treat. It’s cold and sweet as it moves across your tongue, sliding down your throat. A bit dribbles on your lips as Daemon removes the spoon from the confines of your mouth. A small remnant of the cream lingers on the spoon and Daemon places it between his lips.

Your eyes are wide, watching him suck on it, and you can feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. He removes the spoon, licking his lips. You bring your hand to your lips wiping away the trace of cream that remains.

“Do you like it?” Daemon asks, voice gruff, eyes hungry for more than gelato.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He smiles and then places the container in your hand.

“Enjoy,” he tells you, before walking out of the kitchen.

You stay still, standing dumb for several minutes after he leaves, feeling the container of gelato begin to soften the longer you hold it. Snapping out of your trance, you hurry back to your room, closing the door behind you.

note: hope you enjoyed my loves! 😘

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 9 months

Text

darilaros (princess) │ Chapter 2: Dolls

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: As the second daughter of King Viserys, you experience firsthand what it means to belong to the House of the Dragon. You attend your very first tourney in celebration of your brother or sister’s impending arrival.

Hello! My apologies for the wait. There was a whole mess of stuff that killed my drive to write for a few days. BUT, I’ve managed to write this one, featuring baby!Babey as a POV character! I’ve tried hard to keep it in a ‘small person’ voice, which got real old real fast, lol. Keep in mind that she’s around 3 years old in this one, so she’s not hella mature or anything. My thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for reading this asshole over, lol.

TRIGGERS: child doing child things, child narrating Episode 1 of HotD, character death.

“Ah,” Mama says. “Rhaenyra!”

From your place on the floor in the corner, right in the middle of a patch of sunlight, you see that ’Nyra has come. It’s not nice to have your story interrupted, but ’Nyra’s visits are always fun, so you don’t mind. She is dressed the way she does when she goes to visit Syrax, which means she will smell funny and make Mama cross.

“You know I don’t like you to go flying while I'm in this condition,” Mama adds.

“You don't like me to go flying while you're in any condition.”

Alicent, ’Nyra’s best friend, stands in the doorway. She is very very pretty, you think, with red hair like Hana’s and a blue dress that makes her look like a girl from one of the old stories you like to listen to. “Your Grace,” she says, smiling.

“Good morrow, Alicent.” Mama sighs. She sounds very tired. She has put her coat back on, even though it’s so hot in the room and she’s fanning herself to try and dry the sweat on her cheeks and her brow.

“Did you sleep?” ’Nyra asks.

Mama laughs, quick and soft. “I slept.”

“How long?” ’Nyra takes a seat on the stool beside Mama’s feet.

“I don’t need mothering, Rhaenyra.”

“Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants, all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you.”

That is when Mama’s eyes go to you. “I have my own right here, so there is no need to fear.”

’Nyra turns to look, too. Her frown goes away and she smiles, wiggling her fingers at you to say ‘hello’. Even though she’s your sister and that means you love her, you don’t go over to her. She is older, so she doesn’t care very much about dolls or stories or little sisters who don’t have dragons.

Mama keeps talking to ’Nyra while you listen. “You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the Realm.” None of it makes sense, but you like the sound of their voices.

’Nyra makes a rude noise. “I'd rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory.”

Mama laughs. “We have royal wombs, you and your sister and I. The childbed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip.”

Why would a child’s bed be a battlefield? My bed is nice and big. And what is a stiff lip? Is it something that Maester Mellos should give his herbs for? Are there bones in a lip? Can those bones break like big bones can?

You have lots of questions, but you don’t say what you’re thinking out loud, of course. The Maester only said you could be in here if you were good, so you mustn’t talk unless Mama asks you something or starts saying things to you.

“Now,” Mama says to ’Nyra, “take a bath. You stink of dragon.”

’Nyra stands up and bends down to kiss Mama on her head. Then, she comes over to you and gets on the floor so she can give you a hug and a kiss, and she is warm and smelly like Mama said she is. You like the smell, though, because it is what ’Nyra always smells like.

’Nyra leaves with Alicent, and for a while it is very calm. Mama takes a nap by closing her eyes and leaning with her head back, so you make sure to be very quiet when you continue telling yourself the story.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl called Hana. Hana was the prettiest girl in the whole kingdom, and she wore fancy dresses with gold and silver necklaces and rings, and she had a pearl hairnet in her red hair. There was also another girl called Marya who was very pretty too, but not as pretty as Hana. When Hana and Marya were little, they were best friends, and they played dolls and sang hymns and learned their letters together. But when they became older, they started to fight.

Marya was jealous of Hana. Lords from all over the kingdom wanted to marry her because of how pretty and how kind she was. That meant that not many lords wanted to marry Marya, even though she had lovely dark hair and knew all the names of the Houses and could sing even better than Hana did! So, Marya thought and thought about how she could make more lords want to marry her. She decided to hide all of Hana’s nicest dresses and shiniest jewels.

Naughty, naughty Marya. That’s not how proper ladies act. It was very nasty of you to—

“What are you and your ladies up to?”

You don’t like being interrupted for a second time, but it is Mama who is asking. Everyone’s been using soft voices since ’Nyra came to make a fuss and then left to wash the dragon-stink off. Mama’s question is louder than them all, so it must be for you.

Turning your head, you see that she is looking at you with a small smile.

“Marya hid Hana’s dresses and her best necklace and rings,” you say, holding her up high so Mama can see. You frown at the doll. “She needs to say sorry, so I’m telling her to.”

Mama laughs, but you don’t know why. “Oh, dear. How unkind of her! Why did Marya do such a thing?”

“All the lords want to marry Hana,” you say, “and not Marya. She’s very angry, but—but it’s not Hana’s fault. So I’m going to tell her that, too.”

“My, my.” Mama looks tired, like she has ever since baby Baelon-or-Visenya started growing in her belly, but she still seems happy that you’re here. Her eyes are warm the way they get when she sees you. “Quite a responsibility, you have.”

You nod. “I’m her Mama, like you’re mine. I have to teach her to be good.”

This makes Mama smile even wider. She holds her hand out to you, so you put Marya down beside Hana, making sure they’re not too close together. It would be bad if they started fighting after you’ve been busy telling Marya off so much. Making sure your skirts are neat like a proper lady, you go to take Mama’s hand, letting her pull you close-close so that you have to get up onto the daybed with her. Her skin is hot like fire is when you get too near it.

“Are you going to teach your little brother or sister to be good, too?” she asks, bringing your hand to her belly. When you touch it, you feel the kicking. It’s like a tapping from under a very thick blanket.

“Yes, Mama. I promise. I’ll sing all the hymns so they learn them, and make sure they eat all their supper, and—and say ‘no running’ and ‘no hitting’ and give them lots of hugs and tell—tell them they are naughty if they don’t liste—”

“Well,” she says even louder, smiling so wide you can see her teeth, “you already sound like a wonderful big sister, my dearest.”

Then, a new voice speaks out from the doorway, catching your interest. “Hakorje mandia kesā, sīlāvose.”

It’s one of your favourite people in the whole world.

You scramble out of Mama’s hold, nearly tripping over your dress. “Kepus!”

He chuckles as you race toward him, arm out so that he can catch you and lift you up. Mama hasn’t been able to do that since her belly became big, and Papa is too busy now. Oh, how you’ve missed it!

Uncle Daemon sits you on his hip so that you can stare straight at his face, at the way his eyes scrunch up with how much his mouth stretches. “What about you, Princess? Have you been a good girl since last I saw you?” he asks.

“I’m always good, kepus,” you say, pushing out your bottom lip to show how rude you think his question is. “But—but you haven’t. You’re naughty. You’ve been gone for so, so, so long!”

Even though his brow raises, he sounds like he finds you funny. “Ah-ah. A moon’s turn, nothing more or less, is all the time I’ve spent away. I was here for your name day celebrations, was I not?”

“That was ages ago!”

There were lots of people in the Keep for the party, and you don’t think you really knew most of them. But, because Papa is King and you are a Princess, they were invited to come and wish you a happy name day and give you gifts and eat and drink lots. It was nice at first, but the more they ate and drank, the louder they got, and soon you had to sneak off and find Uncle so that he could take you back to your rooms where it was quiet. He sang a song in High Valyrian, the language that your House has spoken for thousands of years, so that you could fall asleep even after eating so many little frosted cakes. Soon, you had to say farewell to him because he had to go back to Runestone and visit his lady wife, the one he hate-hates but Mama says he has to see.

Thinking about High Valyrian makes you stop. You can’t speak it, but there are some parts you know. Kicking Uncle in the side for being rude, you say, “And—and I’m not ann—annoying. I’m good!”

He looks sorry when you say that. “Of course you are. And I hope you’ll forgive me for returning after such a long time.” Behind his back where you can’t see is his other arm. He brings it out, showing you what he was hiding in his hand.

Oh! A new doll! And this one is special because it has pale hair and purple eyes just like you!

“Please accept this as a token of my apology, sweetling,” Uncle Daemon says, offering it to you. “Perhaps—Marya and Hana, was it?—could do with another friend.”

“Thank you, kepus!” Keeping your new doll pinned between you and Uncle, you wrap your arms around his neck so so tight and squeeze so he can feel how happy you are! You kiss him on the cheek, wiggling very close and smiling when he squeezes you back just as tight. “Thank you, thank you! I missed you so much!”

“Silly girl.”

Uncle pats you on the back once, twice, and then crouches down so that you can stand on your own two feet again. Sometimes, this makes you sad, because his hugs are your favourite and you wish they would never end. But he has to say ‘hello’ to Mama, too. Besides, you have a new lady to introduce!

“How about you play,” he says, “while I speak with Mama?”

“Okay!” You’re already thinking about it anyway.

When you go back to Marya and Hana, you can see that they’ve been good girls and not moved at all. You rearrange them both so that they are sitting, and place your new doll—Alysanne, you decide, after Papa and Uncle’s grandmama—between them, fussing with their hair so that it lies neatly. They are very pretty, you think, red and dark and silver all together.

“And how is Lady Rhea?” Mama is asking, brow lifting.

Uncle makes a noise and curls his lip meanly. “Who the fuck—who cares?” he says, rolling his eyes when you gasp. He said a bad word. “It’s not as though we spent any time in each other’s presence. Think I’d rather the company of sheep, anyway.”

“You were there for an entire moon’s turn, Daemon”—Mama frowns the way she does when ’Nyra says something rude, and ’Nyra does that a lot—“and you refused to even speak with her? She’s your wife.”

“Not one I chose. You would know that all too well, cousin.”

Mama goes quiet, looking to you. Uncle does, too. Then, she starts whispering to Uncle, and Uncle whispers back, and you return to your game.

Dolls make far more sense than people do.

You don’t like tourneys. You don’t like them at all.

It’s loud, and hot, and there are too many smells—of different perfumes all swirling around and clogging in your nose, of dirt and manure from the ground below, of something sharp that clings to the walls that box you in and shield you from being able to see anything interesting. The horns ring out and so many people cheer that it feels like a buzzing in your head. It makes your teeth hurt.

“Be welcome!”

Papa looks happy today, so much happier than he was the last time Mama said a babe was in her belly. That babe was dead, she told you. It went away from inside her and never came back. That’s what death is, and everyone is very, very afraid of it all the time. But you didn’t know that babe like you know Mama and Papa and ’Nyra and Uncle, so you weren’t sad or scared. You wonder if this babe will go away, too.

The sound of clapping is like thunder. “I know many of you have travelled long leagues to be at these games,” he says. “But I promise, you will not be disappointed.”

You watch from beside Papa as ’Nyra sneaks to her seat, but she is not so sneaky because she is wearing a bright red dress that looks beautiful. She sits beside Alicent, her friend and Lord Hightower’s daughter, and tries to make herself small in her chair so that Papa won’t get angry.

After a pause, he keeps speaking. “When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories. And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news that I am happy to share—Queen Aemma has begun her labours!”

There is so much noise that you have to hold your hands over your ears to quiet it just a little bit. Brella pats your shoulder, trying to make you feel better.

“It’s alright, Princess. We can play in just a moment—how about that?”

“I want Mama,” you say sadly, your bottom lip wobbling and your eyes feeling hot like they do when you really want to cry.

Mama has been locked in her chambers since last evening, when the Maester said the babe was nearly ready to come out. You asked and asked Papa, but he wouldn’t let you in to see her. When the door had opened and you tried to go inside, you were too surprised to move at the sound of her yelling. You think that the babe must have been hurting her very, very much. It makes you afraid. But then, Uncle took you away to your rooms and read you a story in High Valyrian, which sounded nice even though you didn’t understand it all.

“May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!” You are not listening to Papa’s words very closely.

“Soon, Princess,” Brella says, stopping for a moment when the horns echo out again. “You must wait for the babe to be born, first. How exciting—a new little brother, all for you!”

You don’t want a brother if it means that Mama has to be in pain. Papa would be very happy—you are three whole name days but you still know he wants the babe to be a boy and not a girl, that you were supposed to be a boy and he was sad you were only a second daughter—but you are happy with the way things are.

It would be very rude to say so in front of Papa, so you keep quiet and nod, letting your nursemaid bring you off your seat and down to the floor so that you may sit amongst Alysanne and Hana and Marya.

It has been very difficult to teach Marya to be nice to Alysanne, because she doesn’t like it when Hana makes new friends and Alysanne is a very pretty new friend. But she has decided she rather likes Alysanne after all, and so you can serve their tea without being scared of anyone being silly or bad to each other. Brella is very helpful in braiding Marya’s hair to look like ’Nyra’s does, and then she pins Hana’s back like Alicent’s. You decide that Alysanne should have hair that looks like yours because you look nearly the same, like she is your baby and you are her mama.

You are interrupted very quickly when Septa Marlow bends forward to speak straight into Brella’s ear. “It is unseemly to coddle her so. She is nearing the end of her infancy—you ought to be preparing her to pass over into my care, not indulging in frivolities!”

You shiver. Septa Marlow is mean. The last time that ’Nyra said something rude to her, she was rapped across the palm by Septa’s willow switch. It left a bright red mark that made you cry when you saw it, but ’Nyra only muttered something nasty under her breath and smiled in a not-very-kind way. You wish you could be as brave as her.

“When she is five summers old, she will pass into your care,” Brella says. It is polite, but the way she looks at Septa makes you think she is not being so nice after all. “Until then, I shall do as I see fit. And that means allowing the Princess to indulge in these frivolities while she can.”

Septa wants to say something rude back, you can tell—but then, the whispers start. It makes you look out onto the field so that you can see what’s happening.

“… of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!”

Uncle rides out on his horse—a great stallion named Varlet that you sometimes give apples to if he is very, very good and doesn’t buck anyone out of the saddle—wearing his nicest armour with the tail of feathers that comes out of the helmet. You think it makes him look a bit like a bird from one of those old books in the library. Uncle takes Varlet up and down the line of men on their own horses, but you don’t know why. You cannot see his face.

Your dolls don’t seem very exciting anymore. You pass them back to Brella and move past Papa to where ’Nyra sits at the very front. Even though there is an empty seat next to Alicent, you go to ’Nyra anyway.

All you have to do is hold up your arms to her and she smiles. “Do you want to see Uncle’s bout?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. You can hear the sound of hooves on the dirt, which means you are missing it, so you stamp your feet and wiggle. Maybe she will hurry up if you do. “Please, please!”

“Oh, alright.” She rolls her eyes and lifts you up so that you can sit on her lap, tucking her head next to yours and wrapping her arms tight around you so you don’t fall off. She is warm like Caraxes and Syrax are, like a dragon, only this time she doesn’t smell like smoke and rotting meat but like flowers and soap. “Can you see?”

You look down. Uncle is at one end of the field and the man he has chosen—Ser Gwayne, you think, from the green he has on and the funny shape of his helmet, like a tower—on the other, their jousting poles held out in front of them. “I can see,” you say.

When Uncle and Ser Gwayne start riding, you really do try to keep your eyes open. But, as they get closer and closer, you cannot help but shut them because you don’t want to see anyone get hurt, or worse—the horses. Sometimes, it happens. All you can see is the insides of your eyelids when a big CLANG happens, but ’Nyra doesn’t clap so you think it might not be finished yet. Then, you hear a horse neigh and a big thud, and lots of applause. This time, ’Nyra does clap, so you open your eyes and see that Uncle is still on Varlet but Ser Gwayne is on the ground.

Your sister stops clapping when she sees Alicent with her hand over her mouth. Ser Gwayne is her brother, so she must be very worried for him. You reach out and pat her arm, which makes her stop and stare at you for a moment before giving you a small smile. ’Nyra grabs at her hand, too, which seems to help.

Uncle brings Varlet right up to the balcony with his jousting pole all the way up high, so ’Nyra puts you down and grips your shoulder to steer you forward. You are still very small, so the railing is too tall for you to reach, and that means you could fall very easily if you lean too far down. You grab onto your sister’s skirts.

“Nicely done, Uncle,” she says, holding onto the rail.

“Thank you, Princess.” Uncle looks at you, and his face changes—he is friendly now where he wasn’t exactly when he was looking at ’Nyra. He doesn’t say anything to you, but he does wink, which makes you giggle and him smile. He turns to Alicent. “Now, I’m fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favour would all but assure it.”

She goes toward the table where two wreaths lay, one for her and one for ’Nyra. You are not old enough for your own yet, or so Papa says. Taking the green one in her fingers, she comes back to the balcony. Instead of putting the wreath on the jousting pole, though, she holds it out to you. “Perhaps your niece would like to give you my favour?”

Beaming, you accept the wreath and let Alicent pick you up under the arms. It doesn’t feel very nice, but it makes you tall enough to put the favour over the pole and watch it slide all the way down to the bottom, near where Uncle is holding it. He grins, then rides away to have another bout.

’Nyra takes you back to where she was sitting, placing you back on her knee. “Are you going to thank Alicent? She was very nice, letting you give Uncle her favour.”

“Thank you, Alicent,” you say.

She brushes some of your hair out of your eyes. “You’re welcome, Princess.”

You find it strange when Papa rises from his chair after something Lord Hightower says in his ear, a troubled look on his face. He was the one who had been the most excited about the tourney, so why is he getting up to leave?

’Nyra doesn’t notice, holding tight to you when you start squirming. For a while, you stay with her—but the jousting starts to get frightening. When the knights knock each other off their horses, they start using swords and axes and maces and trying to really hurt each other, striking and kicking so hard that it makes your heart race really fast in your chest and your belly rock like it does when you need to be sick. To take your mind off it, you start listening to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys talking to each other.

“…and we expect them to act with honour and grace,” the Princess is saying to her husband. The sound of her voice makes you shiver a little. Whenever she stares at you, it is unkind. You don’t think she likes you very much. “It’s a marvel that war didn't break out at first blood.”

Everyone gasps when the knight below brings his axe down on the man below him, hitting him over and over so that blood sprays everywhere. The man twitches at first, then goes still, the dirt below him turning dark red very quickly.

You cry and cry, loud and ugly. You don’t like it here anymore. You want to go back to the Keep and find Mama and let her hug you until this cold, awful feeling goes away and warmth and happiness comes back.

“Nurse!” ’Nyra says, but you aren’t really listening. You can see that people are pointing at you from the stands and whispering, which makes you even more upset because you truly tried to be good and quiet and not make a fuss this time.

“Oh, Princess.” Brella lifts you off of ’Nyra’s lap and carries you to the back of the royal box, past Papa’s Councilmen and all the lords and ladies that are gathered, heading toward the stairs. “Come now, my sweet. Time for a nap, don’t you think?”

“I want Mama,” is all you can say. “I want my mama!”

It is darker than normal when you wake up from your nap. Usually, the sun is still up, the colour of Papa’s crown as it shines through your window, hot and blinding even though supper is not far away. But now, you have to blink a few times before you realise that you cannot see because night has come.

Your chambers are empty, save one other.

“Papa?” you ask, rubbing your eyes and yawning. You can just barely see him through the shadows. “What—what—”

There is a sharp clack and a fizzle of orange fire, which Papa cups in his hand and takes to the candle beside your bed. As he lights a small flame, you look at his face. Even in the darkness, you can see how sad he is, the shine that forms lines down his cheeks and the red puff of the skin around his eyes.

Oh, no. Something bad has happened. Something… something terrible.

“Whe—where’s Mama?” you ask, voice wobbly. It feels like a hand has reached down through your throat and your stomach to peel your insides out, to turn it all over so that you’re bleeding and broken where the Maester cannot see. “Mama—”

“Sh, my girl.” He is trying to sound soft and kind, but you hear how he cracks a little, how the words seem almost stuck on the tip of his tongue. “Listen to me. Come here.”

You still don’t know why it is, but the rule of life is that you obey ’Nyra who obeys Mama who obeys Papa, which means that you have to obey Mama and Papa even when the others aren’t there. So, when Papa asks you to do something, you have to listen. You’re a good girl, after all.

Kicking away the covers that have made you too-too warm, you crawl on your hands and knees to the edge of the bed where Papa sits. He is solid and real under your fingers, smelling like the Maester’s medicines as always, but also like something sour. Like metal.

He grabs you and puts you on his knee like ’Nyra did before, during the tourney, only the hand on your back is large-large, almost covering from your neck to your bottom. You can feel his thumb moving up and down as he speaks, up and down, up and down.

“Something… something has happened. To Mama,” he says, taking lots of pauses and shaking under you like he is cold. You reach up to pat his face. Your hand comes away wet.

“Is she okay?” you ask. That horrible feeling comes back, and you have to swallow so that you don’t get sick all over Papa. “Where is Mama?”

“Mama… she couldn’t bring the babe out. A boy—Baelon.” This time, you can hear him cry, but it’s quick, not long and loud like yours.

A brother. I have a baby brother. It doesn’t feel very special or interesting. Maybe meeting the babe will make you more excited?

“Where is he?”

Papa cries more. “He… he lived for three hours. Three. Then he—”

“—died.” That’s the word for when someone goes through death. Papa didn’t look like he could say it, but you can. “Sorry,” you tell him quietly. You know how much he wanted a boy. “Mama must be sad, too.”

“She—she—Mama didn’t survive the birth.”

You frown. What does that mean? “So… she is sick?”

Papa shakes his head, eyes scrunching. “No.”

“Where is she, then? I want to say ‘sorry’ to her, too.”

“She—died. She’s dead, my girl. Only, she passed before Baelon.”

You have to stop and really think, think so hard that your head hurts and you feel dizzy from holding your breath. Being dead means going away and never coming back. Mama is dead. Which means…

After Papa says those terrible, awful, horrible words, he pushes his nose into your hair and hugs you so so tight until you feel his tears sliding over your head. You hug him back, pressing your face to his chest and letting his shirt soak up all the crying from your eyes. You don’t know if you understand it all—but you know one thing for certain, one thing that makes you cold and sick and afraid.

Mama went away. Mama will never come back.

Mama is gone.

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themotherofblood · 11 months

Text

Want A Drink?

Vampire!Daemon x Reader x Vampire!Rhaenyra

masterlist | Bloody Baby Series | Vampire AU

synopsis: Rhaenyra finds a doe eyed thing for her and Daemon to drink from, however she has a bad habit of playing with food.

warnings: dub-con? Kinda non-con? Feeding, blood drinking. threesome, oral (F), riding, compulsion.

a/n: I will take requests for this series :)

A masterful event, truly. The rooms of this old castle filled with enough free booze, loosened inhibitions and stumbling younglings draped in what they would consider cool clothing. This was a rather fun way to hunt, the days of random strangers in the forests had long dwindled decades before, this, this was chique - a classic way of finding a pretty someone to feed on and a hell of an excuse for party.

Rhaenyra, leaned against one of the many high tables, her senses working to find the one, if there was one. She shook her head, watching Daemon stumble and dance along with one the many girls that were fawning over him. Even with the wedding band glinting on his ring finger, these young broads didn’t care. Hands in the air as he moved to the beats - if only they knew what he was.

You tore through the thick crowd, all smiles and huffs as you came to rest your head on the table Rhaenyra stood by. The air so thick within, you needed to pull away for a minute. The smell even beyond the sweat and the booze, she could smell you. Even more so hear the running blood under your skin, lavender? No jasmine, that’s what you smelled of. You took deep breaths, trying to find air within the thick ambience of this room. You couldn’t - tequila, it had to be the tequila making you feel this way.

“You doing alright, love?” Rhaenyra’s voice boomed over the music in front of you.

You looked up, confused and a little dazed. Gosh, she’s so pretty you thought dumbfounded “I- yeah, it’s hot in here,” you replied, you looked up once more trying to breathe through your mouth this time as you lift your hair in your palm to ease away the heat.

“Come with me,” this time you hadn’t realized that she came to stand next to you, her frame towering over your as you came to stand straight. You looked back to where your friend was dancing with her boyfriend, just go, you nodded, taking her hand as she led you outside the grand room.

You mindlessly followed her, such naivety - crawling along with her to the monster’s den. She led you to a balcony, the crisp air of the night prickling goosebumps against your skin as you took yet another deep breath before your lungs fully let your chest to clear. You leaned against the balcony columns. Below in the courtyard, people stumbled over to trimmed shrubs, chatters and giggles echoed with the muffled thud of the music with every door opening and closing.

You giggled, shaking your head as it turned to chuckle. You had forgotten about the pretty woman still standing against the other column. She looked at you quizzically, what sweet sounds the corners of her lips up turned, wondering what intoxicated thought had you musing so. “What’s so funny?”

“This palace,” you coughed to halt your giggles “whatever fat lord had this made, I doubt he envisioned rowdy peasants fornicating in its bushes.” you laughed one more, pressing a hand to your belly.

“I’m sure he had many debauched plans, sweetheart.” Rhaenyra smiled, this time approaching you. Her little words of endearment didn’t go amiss as your cheeks flushed.

“He had three wives,” you blurted, the only thing you could do under the intimidating gaze of her purple contacts.

Rhaenyra’s brows waggled, she looked curious, a little knowing. “history student, are you?” She tucked a piece of your loose hair behind you ear.

“Hobby really,” you shook your head, feeling sandwiched between the marble column and this - this angelic lady dressed in maroon.

“What else do you know,” she whispered, her thumb still grazing over your cheek.

“There lived a Queen here, once, with her husband and his three wives,” your breath hitched as she grew closer “he died for her and she died in grief.”

“How terrible,” Rhaenyra murmured, you’re so pretty your mind began to scream so loudly that your actually said it. She pulled back looking amused, her thank you?

She finally closed the space between the two of you, one hand snaking around the small of your waist as the other held you cheek. The smell of vanilla and wood was hit against your nose as her lips moulded against yours. You squeaked into the kiss, frozen for a moment until you gave in. Letting her lips melt your to putty in her hands as she explored your mouth. Breathe, breathe - so overwhelming as you gasped breaths of air within the short pause.

“Enjoying without me, my love?” A man’s voice tore you away from the daze Rhaenyra was lulling you into.

A man with silver hair stood leaning against the glass paned balcony door, his cream shirt unbutton to his sternum, “Isn’t she just a beauty, Daemon,” Rhaenyra chides, before pecking your lips once more.

You looked between both of them confused, were you a home wrecker now? “I’m sorry- I- I didn’t know you were married,” you said eyeing the ring on the woman’s finger.

“Shh- sh It’s alright, Daemon doesn’t mind. Do you honey?” She began nipping at the expanse of your neck.

“My…you really are pretty,” Daemon said approaching you. Your mind seemed to have been in a trance, the way they looked at you, smelled, the hold of their fingers in each wrist.

“You are going to be a good girl for us, aren’t you?” Daemon asked, his thumb grazing your lip. it felt like a demand, your on consciousness slipping. You nodded, letting his thumb push in as your suckled around it.

You were in and out after that, but mostly you were warm. So very warm, perhaps it was the giant fireplace in their bedroom, the only warm yellow light of the room. There were spurts your remembered.

“Such a good girl,” Rhaenyra moaned as you kneeled between her legs, lapping away at her cunt with your nose pressed up against her clit as she rolled her hips against your tongue “just like that.” Daemon’s grip on your hair was tight as he kept your face against his wife’s pussy, admiring the scrunched look on her face you licked away at her needy bundle of nerves.

The mere moments of lucidity passed once more as your mind dwindled to the warmth, the next you were straddled and Daemon’s hip. His cock deep within you as you rolled your hip and bounced on his cock, “can we keep her? I want to keep her?” Daemon groaned, feeling the vice grip of your cunt milking him.

“Hmm, she would make a fine pet. Look at her.” Rhaenyra whispered from behind you, she hands pinching and rolling your nipples in between her finger as you pleasures her husband.

You felt her pressing kisses onto your neck as you weight fell back against her, exhausted and wanting as Daemon yet agains began rubbing your clit, hood pulled back as he flicked against the reddened bud. You felt a sharp graze, maybe the woman’s fingernails. You whimpered, dazed as your felt the warmth in your belly stir, you were close and all three of you knew it. Daemon thrusted his hips upwards, his fingers unrelenting as you played with your bundle of nerves “that’s it darling, come for him.”

Rhaenyra sounded desperate, her eyes blown as she watched Daemon face scrunch up. She was hungry, she wanted to taste you against the blood rush. You squealed once more, a moan stuck at the back of your throat and Rhaenyra gave in. Sinking her fangs into your jugular and moaning when the thick crimson liquid hit her tongue. Blood dripped from the opened wound down your torso as you thrashed against their tight holding. The initial scream still ringing in your ears as you felt Daemon’s tongue flatten on your sternum and lick up the dripping blood. The fear has blown your eyes wide, tears polling around them.

Your heart thudding as you tried to fight against them, barely making any headway “Shh- you’re alright,” Daemon wiped at your tears, his eyes dilated and then calm, your heart was no longer thudding “you are safe.”

“I am safe,” you mumbled as Daemon lifted your wrist to his mouth before he too sunk his teeth in deep.

When you woke up next morning, messed hair and aching in a soft (too soft) bed, one unlikely to be yours. You groaned pulling yourself up, a gentle sting running down your body as you took in the silk pink nightgown your body was dressed in. Your mind wavered for moment until it focused in on their faces, the silver woman and her husband Da- Daemon. Your friends would surely freak out when they find out you fucked two people in one night. Your fingers grazed at your lip and then it all came crashing back.

Teeth, your neck. The bandaging on your wrists, heart thudding against your heart, praying that perhaps it had been a bad dream. You stopped at the giant body length mirror, multiple bite marks down your thighs and legs. One on each side of your neck, what the fuck, you winced ripping the bandage from your wrists. Yellowing bruise and two distinct wounds sunken into you skin, still bleeding. You had to get out of here, you had no idea where your phone or your clothes were but all you did was run.

Rhaenyra and Daemon sat in their dinning room, the cleaners already having returned their palace to its pristine nature. They looked rather pleased with themselves and the events that took place last night. “We should have dried her out,” Daemon groaned, eyes fixated on his glass of scotch.

“We should have,” Rhaenyra agreed, “we could just keep her.” she repeated Daemon’s words from the night before. It had been nearly a century since they shared a companion together. The end wasn’t so pretty for the last one but perhaps this time it would be different, Rhaenyra had become far more capable at curbing her blood thirst.

Daemon dryly chuckled “What? Should we just ask her to be our human blood bag?” A stale joke since they had much other plans to be within your company. You were far too warm, to sweet to let go. “Looks like Ms Blood bag is awake.” Daemon notes the distinct sound of footsteps hurrying along the grand staircase. He downed his cup of scotch before signing.

You were running, unsure which way to go at first but the hallways were organized enough to lead your straight to the enterance. Barefoot and naked another this flimsy night gown, you didn’t care you just ran. Just as you were about to reach the main door and push past it. You crashed into a hard body, stood looking unimpressed at your little attempt at escape. You screamed as he held onto you.

“No! No no- please let me go.” You yelled “Let me go!”

Daemon just stood there, hoping your outburst would heel on it’s on, unwanting to compel you once more. He needed the fear to subside on its on. Rhaenyra walked along calmly from the dinning room to the enterance, watching your frame thrash as your screams echoed through the palace. Daemon sunk to the floor, trying to shush you but looking extremely irk. Rhaenyra bent to your level as she pushed your hair away from your face. She too didn’t want to compel this away.

“Please, please don’t kill me,” you begged “I’ve barely lived.” Tears fell past your eyes that she wiped away.

“We don’t want to kill you, darling.” She hummed.

“No?” You whimpered, confused at her soft demeanour.

“We want you to be ours.”

I’m thinking of making this a Dark! AU, like eventual Stockholm Syndrome kicks in vibes and maybe she is actually happy. I will take requests for this AU right now. So if you have any ideas with Ms Blood Bag and Daemyra don’t me afraid to send a request ;)

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated :)

#daemon targaryen x reader x rhaenyra targaryen #daemyra vampire au #vampire au #daemyra x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x rhaenyra targaryen #house of the dragon smut

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