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cdragons · 2 months

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When the East Winds Blow

Stannis Baratheon x YiTish Second Wife!OC (who also doubles as a childhood friend)

Aka: A WOC fixes all of Westeros' bullshit with a magic flute and is about to whoop a bunch of old white men's asses with a slipper because they need it ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

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Summary: 美灵 (Měilíng) was a young girl from the port city of Shenlong in Yi Ti when she learns that she is the only living child of 徐浩然 (Xú Hàorán), a cruel and powerful merchant in Wan, and takes her to Westeros to expand his company. Scared in a new land, her only companions are her trusty flute and memories of her mother's stories. But she will have a friend who will change her life forever, and she will do the same for him.

Warning(s): MDNI 18+; Domestic Abuse; Child Abuse; Cersei is the worst; Tywin is the worst; Robert is a pig; Měilíng's dad is like 40 years+ her mom's age, and the worst; the story is going to be written like those Ted Ed mythic videos; Robb and the Northern boys and the other OC don't show up for a lil' bit, but it's coming

Author's Note: Please read this post for reference. Exams and ADHD are kicking my ass, and I need a distraction. Please do not repost without my permission. I did not come up with the names for the Yi Ti regions; that credit belongs to the brilliant @anya-snow. If you are interested in the names' translations, it is at the bottom.

From the Beginning:

“As she entered the world and cried out in victory for her survival – the fearsome, dark clouds parted, and the sun’s feeble rays shone only to pool the delivery room as the gentle breeze brought by the sea welcomed Xīwángmǔ’s new child, and the small wind chimes and bells danced in its embrace.”

In the Shenlong province, a young girl gave birth to a young girl. However, the baby was exceptional. As she grew, she showed to have a very cunning mind. She has met thousands of foreigners daily since being born in a port town. Her proficiency in learning foreign tongues alone caught the attention of one of the oldest and wealthiest merchants in Wan. Měilíng did not have much, but she had her mother and her simple life by the docks, and that was enough for her.

Xu Hàorán, an aging but powerful merchant in Wan, was the most important port city in Yi Ti. The merchant was very old, and his wife had long died without giving him any children. At the news of the child’s birth, he ordered the child and her mother to be brought to his home.

After seeing the child’s face, it was clear that this was his daughter. Recalling the time he spent with a girl from a poor fishing family years ago, he realized that Měilíng was the product of that night. Overridden with joy at the idea of him finally having an heir, he immediately ordered Mei to begin her education as he locked her mother in a small, dark room.

Měilíng despised her father. Soon, it became years since she saw her mother, and she missed the lullabies she would sing to her. She would long to listen to the stories of the great water dragons that controlled the storms and the seas.

But still, she decided to continue her education. She showed much promise at a young age for business and trade. She had a keen eye for craftsmanship and a talent for linguistics. Her proficiency in learning foreign tongues made her a vital tool in expanding her father’s company across the Golden Empire to Essos and eventually to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

In return for how rich his daughter made him, Měilíng’s father granted Měilíng one visit to her mother. When the pair reunited, Měilíng’s mother gifted her beloved child a flute from the bones of a basilisk killed by the great Dragon King, who ruled the sky and its storms from his kingdom in the sea.

Because of how quickly she learned Westerosi’s Common Tongue, her father decided it was best to bring her with him on the voyage to Planky Town in Dorne, where he hoped to expand his trading route to the pockets of the high nobility.

On the seas, a cyclone headed directly to the ship Měilíng and her father were on, but only Měilíng was calm.

Taking out her bone flute, she played a simple but beautiful tune to the sky, and the cyclone disappeared, and the winds brought their ships to Dorne in half the expected time. Although this story was kept secret by the crew under strict oath of Hàorán’s orders, she was soon called “风子” or “Child of the Wind.”

“Bewitched were the Martell’s – for they have never seen such finery in all their years. ‘What luster! What radiance!’ they exclaimed. After rigorous negotiations that resulted in a broken vase and spilled wine by thrown glasses, a trade was brokered, and the Xu’s have planted their first flag in the West.”

After reaching Dorne, the Martells refused to meet with the foreign merchant. They believed that any goods his ships carried had long become spoiled and rotten from the sea voyage. But they were shocked to find the fruits fresh and ripe, the herbs and spices’ scents had not dulled, and the porcelain vases retained their glossiness and shine. But what caught their eye the most was how superior their silks were compared to their own. Their roughest bolt alone was far smoother than the Princesses’ finest dresses.

The silks and fruits caught the eyes of a young Princess, Elia Martell, and her younger brother, Prince Oberyn. Fascinated by the riches, their curiosity was peaked by the olive-skin-toned girl, who wore strange braids and smelled of the ocean and wind.

Elia asked Mei if Yi Ti was anything like Dorne. Měilíng replied that only one region in her country matched Dorne, and it was Ren. She wove tales of how the Renii managed to thrive in the deserts and become masters of magi and developing technology and medicine. Although Mei had never personally visited Ren, she told the Donrish princess and her brother all the stories of the province she could recall from her lessons and her mother.

Měilíng asked Elia if there was any magic or dragons in Dorne. Elia laughed in delight. She told the foreign girl that Dorne did not have dragons, but they had vipers with poison so potent that it would instantly kill a ten-foot man. The Seven Kingdoms' only dragons were underneath the Red Keep in King’s Landing. But they were all dead. But there was no magic. This disappointed Měilíng.

Elia asked if Měilíng knew anyone, and Měilíng replied that Elia was the first person in Westeros she had ever spoken to. Amazed by the girl’s fluency, Elia exclaimed that she and Měilíng would be best friends for the rest of their lives. Měilíng thought the young princess strange but agreed nonetheless.

Seeing her children make friends with the merchant’s daughter, Princess Lorenza was pleased to see the strange girl smile. But Hàorán was furious. Greed from his newly gained wealth made him paranoid, and he thought Měilíng was ridiculing him in the Common Tongue. He faked a smile before hurrying his sale to the mother so that he may properly punish his willful brat.

After purchasing their goods, the sewists in Sunspear immediately went to work producing the finest garments for the upcoming ball hosted in the Red Keep at King’s Landing.

Meanwhile, Hàorán grabbed Měilíng’s arm and dragged her to the ship. He locked her in her room and told her she would not have any food tonight. They would leave for Yi Ti after the Martells returned from King’s Landing.

“Silence swept across the hall when the heralds announced the arrival of House Martell. When Dorne’s ruler and her children arrived, a collective gasp was heard amidst the hushed keep – never had anyone seen such pure, unadulterated beauty before their eyes. Every young girl, hoping to catch the eye of Prince Rhaegar and hold his gaze, felt fury flush their bodies. But no other girl was more envious than the little Lioness of Casterly Rock. Cersei Lannister, daughter of the Hand to the King, had come in complete confidence that she would be the most beautiful girl in the Seven Kingdoms. But after gazing upon the young Elia Martell’s dress with silk-embroidered suns and stars, golden rings, and topaz diadems – she felt utterly and completely humiliated. She turned to her father to demand they go home, but his stern gaze made the spoilt and rotten girl stay silent in flushed shame.

Tywin Lannister was not faring any better. He had paid more than enough gold dragons to order the finest Dornish silks for his daughter’s dress – only to see it as a tacky, cheap counterfeit. But even he had to admit that Princess Elia Martell was the only girl whose beauty was worthy of watching the crown prince’s. Seeing how her father’s eyes were no longer on her, Cersei decided that she would do whatever it took for Elia Martell to die a miserable and painful death.”

Nobles crowded the Martells’ daughters and sons. They were driven mad with envy at their beauty– so rare to find silk so smooth and lustrous while remaining thick enough to keep away the chills in the evening sky as autumn chased summer away and winter was creeping on the Mad King’s doorstep.

One noble lady with embroidered turtles on her dress approached the Martell Princess. She was Lady Cassana Baratheon, nee Estermont. She begged her friend to tell her who gifted the princess with such luxury, and her friend revealed that her husband had brokered a deal with an old, wrinkled merchant from Yi Ti, along with his young daughter, who carried an old flute with her everywhere she went. She shared stories about how her little sun, Elia, was quickly won over by the foreign girl’s charms, and now they acted as close as sisters born from the same womb.

Cassana wished to know if they could invite the merchant to her home. She thought it would be cruel for such a sweet girl to be trapped on a boat with no companions.

“‘Oh, how wonderful it would be to have a girl around,’ thought Lady Cassana. ‘Robert has gotten too used to being so rowdy after being fostered in the Vale, and hopefully, the little merchant girl will straighten him out.’

Robert stood beside the table, its surface heavy with meats and sweet cakes. He was only ten years of age and had already managed to grasp the attention of every young man his age in the room. Her mind wandered off, thinking about her youngest son, Stannis, who locked himself away in the guest chambers after the Martells arrived—always studying, her youngest boy. Lady Baratheon adored her two boys, but she longed for the longest time to be blessed with a daughter. She thought if the Gods had blessed her and Steffon with a girl, she would help bring Stannis out of his walls and help reel Robert in. If what the Princess of Dorne had spoken true of this trader and his daughter, then Cassana had no doubt that she would make a truly excellent companion for her boys.

Back in Dorne, Měilíng scratched her ears. Had someone been talking about her? Was it the Dornish Ruler she met a few weeks ago? Perhaps Elia? Měilíng shook her head. Thinking someone would speak of her so much was a silly thought. She was only the daughter of a merchant who played the flute. Still, her ears burned as hot tears streamed down her cheeks. To forget her hunger, Měilíng brought her prized flute to her lips to ease her worries and blew to create a sweet but sad melody.

Back in the Red Keep, a young Stannis Baratheon had crept away from the banquet in the Great Hall. He despised crowded rooms, and Robert’s boisterous guffaws only added to his irritation. Once he entered his room, he opened the window and took out the book Maester Cressen lent him while packing for this trip. He had not begun reading it. But a stream of calm and soft notes entered his ear before he could read the title.

“A flute?” he thought to himself. He tried to remember the instruments played downstairs.

There were lyres, harps, and lutes. But there were no flutes. Stannis lifted his head and heard the sweet, silvery tune from the window. Book still in his hand, he decided it best to read his new book beside the window, where he could continue listening to the lovely melody. He glanced down at the book, finally reading the title.

The Golden Empire of Yi Ti”

Tagging: @asa-do-your-thing, @arcielee, @a-libra-writes, @aphroditesmoon, @valeskafics, @anya-snow, @dreaming-for-an-escape and anyone who wanted more of the worldbuilding of GOT are welcome!

Translations: Mandarin was used for YiTish bc author is Chinese

美灵 (Měilíng) - "美" means "beauty" and "灵" means "spirit or soul"; it can be translated as "beautiful spirit"

浩然 (Hàorán) - "浩" means "grand or vast" and "然" is a conjunction and the author will look further into it; it can be translated as "vastness or expansive"

徐 (Xú) - a common Chinese surname that became popular in the Zhou Dynasty and has multiple translations, but the author chose the translation of "slowly."

瑶池金母 (Xīwángmǔ) - "Queen Mother of the West"; the wife of the Jade Emperor and mother goddess in Chinese mythology

风子 (Fēng zi) - "风" is "wind" and "子" is for "child"; it can be translated as "child of the wind"

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bisquid · 8 months

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How it started:

How it's going:

@systlin made the mistake of adding a couple of quick lines about overpopulation in the King's Landing Kingswood to A Crossing of Fires and then I compounded the issue by doing maths about it and now the entire rest of the fic has been derailed

#mitraka #systlin #sys fixes westeros through the power of love and also fire and also 'power of no more bones'#and now also forest population ecology #fantasy ecology #deermageddon

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visenyaism · 21 days

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in an alternate universe where visenya was the person who became queen of a united westeros not aegon, what would the trickle down effects be? like if targaryens did the whole absolute primogeniture thing etc

well aegon only gets away with having two wives who are also his sisters because he is the king. so the immediate implication of visenya inheriting instead is that rhaenys has to marry someone else or that gay polygamous sibling marriage is legal for targaryens. would change everything.

#would fix daemon and viserys’ situation at least #visenya turning westeros into menzoberranzan #asoiaf

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girly-blogging · 2 years

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daemon’ so messed up, I love him

and I don’t want to fix him

actually, I think I could make him worse

#i can fix him #but i dont wanna #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon x rhaenyra #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemyra #hbo series #westeros #medieval fantasy

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leupagus · 2 months

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Am I writing the Meereen scenes as essentially "1776" with less singing and more threats of burning each other alive? Look,

Just then a group entered the library, arguing at and over each other. They were the most unlikely hodgepodge collection of people Tyrion had ever seen in his life: a young man in the rough spun smock favored by Meereen's freedmen, a tall bearded fellow wearing ornate robes that identified him as a member of one of the "great families," a woman dressed in the silk sleeveless tunic of a prostitute, and a half-dozen others, each more surprising than the last.

"All I am saying, my lord Hizdahr," said one woman, wearing a flowing dress and the choker that signaled her status as a Red Priestess, "is that your ridiculous notion of religious 'persecution' is so broad as to render any religious judgement meaningless!"

The tall bearded one slammed the door shut behind them and followed the group as it meandered its way over to a large oval table near a window, piled high with scrolls and books and half-written sheets of paper. "And all I am saying, my lady Kinvara, is that reducing the population via pyrotechnics is directly contradictory to achieving peace and stability, as well as freedom for all Meereenese!"

"Both of you shut up," sighed the man in the smock as they all settled into what seemed to be their usual seats. Thus far none of them had taken notice of either their queen or of him. One of the group, an old man with a white beard and a limp, got up almost immediately to totter over to one of the bookshelves, pulling out an alarming number of tomes with a thoughtful expression on his face. "And stop calling each other 'my lord' and 'my lady' when you're irritated, it makes my hands itch and I just want to wrap them around your throats."

"And you would be free to do so, were we followers of the Drowned God," snapped the one called Hizdahr as he rose to his feet, striding over to the old man and taking the pile of books. This evidently didn't put much of a damper on his ability to argue, however, as he twisted round to glare at the Red Priestess. "Any blood shed by a faith is fine, so long as it's your own devout you're killing? That seems to be your definition of 'religious freedom.'"

"Does the Drowned God punish its criminals by strangling them?" asked a young person surrounded by papers, fingers blue from ink and scribbling madly. "I thought it would be. Well. Drowning."

This seemed to side-track the conversation for a bit, and Daenerys moved away toward the door at the opposite end of the library.

"Who in the hells are they?" asked Tyrion as he followed her, before remembering his audience and wincing.

"Meereen's new Governance Charter Council," replied Daenerys, looking torn between annoyance and amusement. "They're drawing up a new system of laws and regulations for the city, as well as a system to choose their leaders."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. It still does," she added, somewhat reluctantly. "But tyranny has its advantages."

"For the tyrant, certainly," he agreed, and winced again.

Fortunately, she laughed. "Certainly. But I mean for everyone. A just form of government will still fail its people, after all. And then who do they blame? Themselves, for choosing their own leaders? At least with me, Meereen has someone to hate."

"Do they hate you?" asked Tyrion, somewhat surprised. Granted, he'd not had much chance to mingle among the hoi polloi, but the crowd at the fighting pits had seemed quite approving of their new queen.

"They don't love me."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Well, love. That always fades in the end, doesn't it?"

"Does it?" Daenerys looked thoughtful. They had arrived at the other door and a librarian opened it for them. She did not bow, he noted; simply nodded and closed the door behind them. Daenerys seemed not even to notice, mulling over his question as though it had been a serious one.

#it's very important to me that Daenerys both supports Meereen's adolescent democracy and is totally annoyed by it #like the politics of the books and show are terrible and I'm not gonna be able to magically fix them all #but lbr Daenerys has really good intentions and really terrible execution (so to speak)#and it would be far more interesting if characters loved her for reasons other than 'the plot requires it'#which means that people sometimes *don't* love her and it doesn't send her into a bizarre tailspin #anyway tyrion and daenerys are going to have lots of fun rolling their eyes at this whole democracy thing #joke's on them when they get to westeros #and are like 'actually hmmmmmm'#game of thrones motherfuckers #got: bitches get stuff done

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destroyerofnations92 · 2 months

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"Rhaenyra and Daemon’s rage would be whispered of for generations to come. As would the bloody trail of death and despair that followed in their wake."

Posted the first chapter of my post-Fall of King's Landing fix-it AU, i wake and feel the fell of dark, not day, on AO3.

Go have a read and if you like it, take a detour to my Patreon, where you'll find four (!) more chapters, as well as several other stories set in the wondrous World of Westeros and A Song of Ice and Fire universes.

For only $10 +VAT/month, you'll get access to everything. No tier structures, only one type of membership and thus one price for all (excl. minor differences in exchange rate).

#archive of our own #patreon #fanfiction #world of westeros #a song of ice and fire #house of the dragon #game of thrones #team black #fuck the greens #fix it fanfiction #daemyra #anti team green #daemon defense squad #queen rhaenyra targaryen #king daemon targaryen #alternate universe #anti alicent hightower

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annabrainchase · 7 months

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viserys in house of the dragon: Aegon “foresaw the end of the world of men. It is to begin with a terrible winter, gusting out of the distant North. Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds and whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living … if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne.”

ryan j condal: “That actually came from [Martin] … He told us very early on in the room — just as he does, just casually mentioned the fact that Aegon the Conqueror was a dreamer who saw a vision of the White Walkers coming across the wall and sweeping over the land with cold and darkness. So, with his permission, of course, we infused that into the story because it was such a great way to create resonance with the original show.”

dany antis who evolved into sansa stans who expanded to house targaryen hatred to the point where they go around calling fans neo nazis who are also now alicent capers who lie about dany stans hating female characters like rhaenyra and cersei before hotd came out: PROPHECIES ARE OPEN TO INTERPRETATION WHAT EVEN IS WINTER WHAT THREAT OTHERS WHO???? LMAOOOOOO I HATE MAGIC ALSO ALICENT IS THE MOTHER OF DRAGONS AND HER LOSER KIDS ARE THE THREE HEADS OF THE DRAGON ALSO SANSA IS RELATED TO ALICENT BC SMTH SMTH WHENTS AND SMTH SMTH AEMOND AND HIS WAR CAPTIVE'S DESCENDANTS 👑👌💞

dany stans who've been trying to get the fandom to have an honest discussion about her and other female characters in asoiaf while trying to elaborate on why calling targaryens the "aryan" house and the fans neo nazis is point blank wrong actually and that she might be a contender for azor ahai... like 10% maybe (for starters):

we can all close our eyes to the fact that the threat in the north and the others in asoiaf are 100% real and a problem because nobody reads the books anyway.

#asoiaf #hotd #daenerys targaryen #house targaryen #viserys i targaryen #cut to another post in the tags abt the n*zi dragon family and their evhul colonization of lily white oppressed westeros #nothing can fix you people #*v

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baelorbreakbeds · 1 year

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incel team green/black fans defending their faves war crimes and murders

chad team gaemon palehair fans not having any war crimes to defend because their fave is a socialist king

#hotd #gaemon palehair #he couldve fixed westeros

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teacupofdrpepper · 5 months

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Put Maegor the cruel in a room with otto Hightower and see what happens

#genuinely believe that man would have killed every single targtower and honestly it would have fixed everything #the way that maegor stabilized house Targaryen and reinstated the fear of house Targaryen across westeros is legitimately the most #interesting thing to me #he was not a good person but however #he wasn’t that bad of a leader or at the very least a general #house of the dragon #game of thrones #maegor targaryen #maegor the cruel #house targaryen

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queenofsarcazm · 1 year

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Rhaenys Targaryen fix-it fic

Rhaenys Targaryan, daughter to Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryan, was murdered at 1 year old by Gregor Clegane, or was she? A fic in which Rhaenys grows up in the Modern world only to be brought back to Westeros before it all goes to shit. Who will she save? Who will she kill? Who will she court?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41624250/chapters/104406582

Excerpt from ch 6

Rae had just woken up from a nap and quickly saw she was not alone. “I assume you’re here because you found something at the library?”

“Yes,” the Waif replied, though stayed put where she was sat at the table, watching Rae with great interest.

“Are you going to show it to me?”

The Waif did get up then, bringing a book that resembled a fancy bible to Rae’s bedside, flipping to the right page before she gave it to Rae, who was relieved to see that it had been written in common English and not in Valyrian.

Rae found the small part about the Princess and read out loud, “Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. Daughter to Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Nymeros Martell, of Dorne. Dark of hair hair with white streaks and golden eyes, taking after her mother. Rhaenys was born on Dragonstone and presented to the court by her father Prince Rhaegar while her mother lay bedridden. Hmm...” Rae frowned, reading on, “whilst her grandmother Queen Rhaella Targaryen embraced her warmly, her grandfather King Aerys II Targaryen refused to touch or hold her, claiming she smelled ‘Dornish’.” - “What the fuck?” Rae looked to the Waif, but the woman just shrugged.

Rae went on, “Rhaenys had a small kitten named Balerion, after the great black dragon of Aegon I Targaryen.” -”How is that relevant?” she asked, shaking her head before continued, “Rhaenys, five years old at the time, died during the Sack of King’s Landing, and her dead body was presented to King Robert Baratheon and his court by Lord Tywin Lannister alongside her mother, Princess Elia, and her infant brother, Prince Aegon…”

Rae took a deep breath. People who killed innocent people, and especially fucking children, deserved to burn in hell, so she was glad she’d already sent someone out to murder Tywin Lannister. If it hadn’t been for the fact that his absence would cause chaos, she would have sent someone after Robert Baratheon too. Gods knows he fucking deserved it after allowing the stuff he’d allowed. She was about to close the book, feeling sick, when the Waif pointed further down the page, at a somewhat smudged footnote. “Look here.”

Rae looked, and then read that part out loud too. “The dead body of the Princess Rhaenys that was presented to Court had recently dyed black hair, which led some to believe that the child was a decoy, and that the Princess Rhaenys is still alive.”

Rae slammed the book shut.

#rhaenys daughter of elia #rhaenys targaryen #game of thrones fix it #game of thrones fanfic #Fix it fanfiction #Modern girl in Westeros #Rhaenys Targaryen x Robb Stark #Rhaenys Targaryen x Viserys Targaryen #faceless men

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cdragons · 2 months

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Back in my GOT Era, because my ADHD brain won't shut the fuck up 凸(^-^)凸

Let’s pretend Yi Ti and Westeros have an okay trading relationship with each other, and merchants from Yi Ti are always treated with celebrity status in the Seven Kingdoms. Let's also pretend that the GOT writers haven't completely fucked up all of Stannis' fantastic characterization and complexity.

I love Shireen Baratheon so goddamn much, and the fact she died in the show is such an insult to both her's and Stannis' characters. I decided to blast D & D's canon with a bazooka and make Selyse die when Shireen was a baby. Because Stannis needs to make sure she has a mother figure, he marries a childhood friend, OC, who hails from Yi Ti and owns one of the largest sea merchant companies in the Golden Empire. Oh, and she'll have her own kid, too.

Why am I doing this? Don't I have a shitload of other fanfic ideas to write out? Yes, as a fanfic writer, having incomplete ideas is part of the job.

Do I still have an incomplete Robb Stark x YI Ti!OC story? Also, yes, but I replaced my laptop and forgot to save Chapter 4 in the iCloud Drive. The file is on my old laptop, but that's currently across the Atlantic Ocean in Shanghai while I'm in Boston right now 🤷🏻‍♀️.

🔆Backstory Time🔆

OC’s Name: Xu Mei-Ling & Face Claim: Michelle Yeoh

Mei-Ling's family was on good terms with the Baratheon House, and she was actually staying with Stannis during the Siege of Storms End. She is a few years older than Robert and Ned but is good friends with both boys. Stannis grows a major crush on her because of her support during the siege, and Mei-Ling thinks highly of his stubbornness to hold down Storms End for Robert. After the blockade, she ends up marrying someone in Yi Ti. She ended up giving birth to a daughter in the middle of a major storm.

I'll go into more details when I make the first official post about it, but long story short, Mei's husband dies, and so does Selyse. Mei eventually learns about Stannis' daughter and decides, "Fuck it."

They get married, and Mei moves to Dragonstone. She oversees his daughter's education and prepares her to be an heir worthy of the Baratheon name. She also makes sure Shireen interacts with other kids her age. Shireen gets a badass older sister and a mother who isn't the worst. Hooray!

Also, Mei's daughter will end up knowing Ned's kids and Theon for a good fucking portion of her life. She's Med's and Luwin's favorite because if someone pisses her off, she'll yell out profanities while chasing after them with a broom twice her size. One time, Robb tried to pull her hair, and the next thing he knew, he was pinned face down with his face eating mud and Mei's daughter's knee on his back. Another time, she called Ned a fat idiot for not knowing a basic Yi Tish term, and Ned swore it was being scolded by Mei all over again.

In the end, Stannis and the North will be saved from D&D's shitty writing because two WOC immigrants decided to take matters into their own hands.

I'm still having trouble deciding on a title, so if anyone has any ideas, let me know in the comments!

Tagging: @a-libra-writes, @aphroditesmoon, @asa-do-your-thing, @arcielee, @valeskafics, anyone else who is a fan of Stannis the Mannis, Shireen, the North, etc.

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emilykaldwen · 2 years

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@kingsroad over here being ridiculously feral and supportive because helaemond truthing kicked my ass into gear about maybe actually writing this fic??

I fucking hate the targaryens and yet here I am because those fuckers got interesting on HotD

#random post tag #not me screaming how lyonel strong has the only brain cell in westeros #and also trying not to think about how no one is gonna care about set up chapters #BUT I HAVE A LOT OF SHIT TO FIX OKAY

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targaryen-dynasty · 3 months

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YOU’RE THE ONLY THING THAT I PRAY FOR. (3/3)

Daemon Targaryen x niece!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/Targcest (uncle & niece), p in v, slight degrading kink, slight breeding kink, this is plot with a whole lot of smut at the end, Valyrian wedding, mentions blood

WORDS: 4.6 K

NOTES: So, this Valyrian wedding is somewhat different to the one in Precious Delights. I took the Daemyra wedding for inspiration, and kinda blamed it on Grandmaster Benifer not being that educated on Valyrian customs (Maegor was just keen on marrying his niece and didn't care of the formalities).

Pentos' desperate need for an alliance against the Triarchy has really played into your hands when Daemon and you first arrived in the Free City. Two full-grown dragons descending not too far away from the city's borders didn’t go unnoticed, meaning it wasn’t long after that you’ve been summoned to the flamboyant castle of Reggio Haratis, the Prince of Pentos.

Never before have you had the chance to marvel at Pentoshi architecture – or Essosi architecture in general – and were completely in awe as the gates of the castle opened to invite you inside.

Even now, roughly a sennight after your relocation from the prince’s castle to an equally impressive manse, it’s still as mesmerizing as before; not as monotonous and undemanding as the architecture and tapestries harbored in the Red Keep.

Reggio Haratis is generous enough to host you and your uncle, and has very recently offered to give you permanent residence in Pentos and gift you the manse you have occupied for no less than seven days. It’s a generous deal in exchange for the intimidating presences of your dragons, considering that with the manse also comes its farms, lands, vineyards, and wood.

And of course your uncle hasn’t hesitated any moment to accept it – not if it keeps you away from Westeros.

You know Daemon has his own way of keeping tabs and staying informed of your family’s going-ons. He’s well aware of everything that’s happening in the Red Keep since there are several people lingering in it whose favor he has earned long ago that now are working as his spies and informants.

They are procuring enough information to keep your fluttering nerves at bay, since Daemon is attentive enough to let you in on many of the things that happen in King’s Landing. And hence you know that the court is in a state of uproar, and your father balances between anger and despair, though you’re not aware that he has made it his personal mission to bring you back to the Red Keep sooner or later.

Unbeknownst to you, this is one of the reasons Daemon all but presses to wed you, because it will not only solidify your relationship in an official way, but it also will make it easier for him to keep you safe should the king’s mission succeed.

You’re standing on a tuckaway terrace of the manse, overlooking the gardens and extensive fields that frame and surround it.

Reggio has been generous enough for you to carry out the ceremony in private with not many witnesses, other than the officiant, the Prince of Pentos himself, and the two servants that always tend to your and your uncle’s needs, present.

Ancient robes hug your bodies, and a matching headpiece rests on your head. They are pale white with reddish edges similar to the blood that trickles idly out of the cut on Daemon’s bottom lip. The shard of Dragonglass is still clutched between your fingers, while your other hand holds his chin.

A gentle smile adorns your face, and though you want to watch the blood trickle out of the cut you have just caused, you can’t seem to tear your eyes off of his. The light of the evening sun is caught in the lilac of his eyes, reflecting and making them appear even lighter.

As you hand him the shard, you briefly glance down to where your hands meet, before your gaze is fixed with his again, and as the sharp edge pierces your lip, you’re far too lost in the comfort of his presence to wince.

This is all you’ve ever wanted.

Some of the blood amassing at the cut is gathered by the pad of his thumb, the touch so intimate it sends a shiver down your spine and heat to your cheeks. It is used by him to draw the Valyrian glyph for blood on your forehead, and you draw the supplementary glyph for fire on his.

Knowing the scars that scatter all over his torso, scarring his pale skin, you’re not surprised to watch him cut the palm of his hand without any sign of discomfort or pain. He has endured far worse, and this is just too easy for him.

However, the same can’t be said about you.

You surely have hurt yourself plenty of times before, but it has never been on purpose, and never with something as sharp as the shard of dragonglass is. But that is the last significant step that has to be made to strenghten your one bloodline, to seal your union and signify that you are bound to each other.

Daemon must sense the slight apprehension that spreads through your veins, and tries to comfort you and calm the raging storm of your fears by gently taking your hand in his, before the coldness of the fragment nestles into your open palm. “Issa sȳz,” he hums calmly, bowing his head once in a reassuring manner. It’s alright.

Nodding meekly, you exhale a deep breath in the exact moment the dragonglass pierces your skin. The pain is delayed, and for a brief moment all that clouds your mind is the rush of your warm blood, and the sight of it so quickly filling the hollow of your palm.

“Hen lantoti ānogar,” the priest cites, “va sȳndroti vāedroma.” Blood of two, joined as one.

You tilt your head back up as Daemon unites your hands in a firm grip, and do not dare to look at where your hands meet.

The sensation of your blood trickling out of the cut has already been very adamant, but with Daemon’s blood combined, several droplets all but seep out from your joined hands, gathered in a goblet your soon-to-be-husband holds underneath.

A ribbon in a style similar to the robes you wear is tied around your hands, binding you to one another.

“Mēro perzot gīhoti, elēdroma iārza sīr. Izulī ampā perzī, prūmī lanti sēteksi,” is said in the background, but you’re far too distracted by Daemon bringing the goblet full of your blood up. Ghostly flame, and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires.

He holds it out to you, allowing you to be the first to drink, and you comply.

Capturing the goblet between your fingers, you raise it to your lips, not hesitating one moment to take a generous sip. Daemon follows suit, and though the goblet is lowered by him, you two do not move otherwise.

“Hen jenȳ māzīlarion, qēlossa ozūndesi.” A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness.

There is a thick tension between the two of you, and you gaze longingly into each other’s eyes. Only slowly there crawls a grin on your husband’s lips, matching the impish one that’s draped across yours.

You brush some strands of his silver hair behind his ear, before your hand comes to rest on his cheek, the pad of your thumb caressing it gently.

Daemon’s gaze flickers between yours and your nicked lip, and he only slowly dips his head towards yours just in time with his free arm snaking around your waist.

Despite the seriousness of the moment, there is a slight tint of amusement in the officiant’s tone as he voices the last part of the vow, clearly just as ecstatic about you being newly wed as you two are. “Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo, rȳk kīvia mazvestraksi.” The vow spoken through time, of darkness and light.

It is then that Daemon’s lips finally claim yours, and the taste of copper spreads on your tongue as his swirls around yours. The kiss is shy of being gentle, yet it doesn’t lack any passion or care. You have kissed plenty of times before ever since your arrival in Pentos, but none of them has ever felt as significant as this kiss does.

To state it in the words of the Faith, you’re one heart, one flesh, and one soul now. Each other’s from this day, until the end of your days. And you finally feel whole with that prospect, the large chasm that has clasped inside of you filled by Daemon’s undeniable love.

Reggio Haratis has spared no expenses when it comes to the celebration of your newfound unison. There are a handful of other people present, mostly some friends and acquaintances you both have made during your brief stay at the prince’s castle.

In Westeros, you would have celebrated your marriage with a large feast in the Throne Room with no less than three hundred people present, following the strict rules and customs the Faith of the Seven prescribes.

But in Essos, it seems to be a bit different.

The large dining room is lavishly and opulently adorned by tapestries and ornaments, a goldish hue pervading the entire room with the sun that’s shining through the large apertures and tied-back curtains.

It truly is a wedding for your caliber, though there’s no royal family accompanying you two.

Everyone gathers around the large dining table that stands in the center of the room. They are all dressed in a similar fashion to you and your husband now, having changed into more elegant clothes not long after the ceremony, but the expensive textures and patterns of yours give away that this evening solely revolves around you two.

The dinner and customs are far less formal than the ones back home, and with none of your guests being ill-mannered or impolite, a relaxed and open atmosphere characterizes the evening.

There’s chatter and laughter everywhere while the food is served, quite a few bottles of wine emptied already, and not one thought of a possible bedding ceremony crosses your mind – because there’s no reason for it.

Daemon and you have been on top of each other quite regularly, the Pentoshi way of living probably one of main reasons with your insatiable hunger for each other being the other.

And thus, you’re not afraid of the thought of bedding Daemon once supper is over for your body has had quite a few days to get thoroughly adjusted to his sheer size.

Only as the Prince of Pentos raises his glass does your breath hitch in your throat for a moment, not knowing what to expect from him.

The room falls silent almost immediately, and if not everyone has gathered what’s about to happen, they certainly do the moment Reggio rises to his feet.

“Let us toast to this exceptional match,” he starts with much eloquence, his choice of words bringing a warmth to your cheeks.

Daemon smiles at you, and clasps a hand around your thigh. As you lean closer to him to hide your blush, he chuckles and rests his forehead against the side of your face.

“Behave,” he chastises in a teasing manner, squeezing your thigh once. “Or do I have to teach you manners first?”

Daemon’s words do little to help with the blush on your face, the warmth spreading from your cheeks right down to the apex of your legs, causing you to shift and squirm slightly to soothe the aching.

Your host isn’t oblivious to what’s going on right in front of him, and merely chuckles, “I’ll try to keep this short.”

You take in a deep breath, and Daemon nods, a silent invitation for him to keep going.

The prince speaks of your bravery to leave your House behind, of your undeniable love for each other, and how the Old Gods must have brought you together. He boasts of the strong bond you and your husband have, and how that alone is a testament to the Gods themselves.

Everyone around you applauds as the speech ends, and Daemon raises his cup to toast with your host. “Hear, hear.” Bringing your own cup to your lips, you empty what feels like your fifth cup of the Lyseni sweet red they have procured only for you.

You grab Daemon’s hand when the applause drowns out again, and squeeze it gently. Gazing at him lovingly, he leans in to press his lips to your temple.

“Ivestragī īlva jikagon naejot ēdrugon, kessa īlon?” he mutters against your skin, and you sheepishly bite your bottom lip, bowing your head. Let us retire to bed, shall we?

“Nyke pendagon kesā dōrī epagon,” you reply. I thought you would never ask.

Squeezing your hand back, you follow suit as he stands up from his seat after he has announced your departure and thanked everyone for the lovely evening. A hand of his rests at the small of your back to lead you towards your shared chambers, the lacking guests finally allowing you to catch your breath.

He snakes his arm around your waist on your way, and pulls you tightly against his side, his hand traveling a bit lower than what’s appropriate.

“Daemon,” you scold him, placing your hand above his to put it back on your waist.

As you look at him, you’re greeted by a wide grin adorning his face. “I am sure you can forgive me,” he teases, his hand finding its way to your arse again, groping it roughly enough to make you yelp. “I just can not resist you, not in the prospect of us finally being able to truly celebrate our marriage.”

You shove at his chest on your way into your chambers, chuckling softly, but to no avail as his grip only lets go of you in order to close the door.

And suddenly, there’s a thick tension hugging the two of you.

You briefly glance around the room, noticing the many, colorful flowers the servants have placed on your bed; all of which can only be found in Essos. Everywhere stand lit candles, their flames flickering and dancing in the soft, Pentoshi gust of breeze that sweeps past the lightweight curtains concealing the floor-to-ceiling apertures.

It seems inviting to push the silk aside and step out on the balcony, yet your husband beats you to it and pulls you against his sturdy frame by grasping your wrist, taking control over your movements.

A soft gasp slips past your lips as you find yourself pressed against his body, the heat and his scent emanating from him driving you insane with lust already. You look up at him with half lidded eyes, your desire for him plain.

Standing on tiptoes, you tilt your head up to press your lips to his jaw in a chaste kiss, and trail some more down the curve of his throat, causing a soft hum to rumble in your husband’s chest. The gold, embroidered vest he wears is slowly pushed off his shoulders while the feeling of your lips on his skin distract him, falling to the ground and pooling around his ankles.

“Let us not waste anymore time,” you whisper, your fingers almost eagerly fumbling with the laces in the front of his trousers.

With every passing moment, you spot his breathing growing heavier, his body burning hot with desire. You sigh softly, “let us indulge ourselves in each other as much as we want, even if it means we will not leave our chambers in the morrow.”

His eyes peer deeply into yours when you tilt your head back, the mesmerizing lilac hue completely eclipsed by black.

He brings a hand to the back of your head, holding it steady as the other clasps around your thigh. Your flesh is squeezed harshly under his tight grip, but you can’t bring yourself to care for there suddenly are not more than a few inches separating your lips from his.

But instead of kissing you, Daemon bows his head down enough to press sloppy kisses to your neck, licking the side of your throat. His hand slides up to cup your clothed cunt, and you have to hold onto his broad shoulders for dear life, not risking your shaky legs to be the reason you fall onto the ground.

“My darling wife,” he rasps, and hearing him voice it aloud for the first time sends a shiver down your spine. “I should have taken you to Pentos a long time ago.”

With that, he spins you around and pushes you towards the bed. Toppling forward, you catch yourself and tightly hold onto the wooden footboard of it, crouched forwards and basically presenting him your arse.

Daemon hums, clearly pleased by the sight, and approaches you with careful steps.

You try to catch a glimpse of him from over your shoulder, not meeting his lust-filled gaze for long enough since he is quick to press your head forward again. When his hands fist the neckline of your dress, goosebumps start to prickle on your skin, coaxed by the warmth and roughness of his fingers.

“‘Twas a mistake to wait so long,” he says, but it’s clear he’s speaking to himself.

Then, the laces in the back of your lavish gown tear with an agonizing ripping sound, but the thrill of it doesn't allow your heart to grief the now ruined gift of your host.

The skimpy underclothes you wear follow the Myrish lace just as quick, exposing your whole body to him faster than you could have wished for. His fingers trail slowly along your spine, and he chuckles as he watches your body tremble beneath his featherlight touch with a jolt of pleasurable excitement.

His thick digits inch lower and lower, but never touch where you need him most. It’s agonizing, and your patience runs thinner and thinner. Your breathing is just as heavy as his own, and the tension has you moaning softly.

And then he suddenly drags two of his deft fingers through your soaked womanhood, the ambush eliciting a shuddered breath to fall from your lips. Yet you also welcome it and eagerly buck your hips to chase the friction they grant you, which prompts him to seize your hip with one hand, the tips of his fingers digging into your flesh to keep your body still.

The lack of freedom to move feeds your impatience, and your head bows forwards with a sigh. “I-I can hardly take this any longer, husband,” you breathe, trying to make your frustration not too obvious.

Another ambush overtakes you as Daemon connects the back of his hand with your cunt, the collusion sending a stinging pain through your body. He tsks in a manner that’s meant to scold a child, having heard it plenty of times before when he was around his nephews and nieces.

“You can’t take it any longer? What a shame,” he teases. “If you’re feeling so overwhelmed, then perhaps I should stop?”

Remaining still for a moment, the weight of his heavy gaze pierces through your skin, and you’re glad he can’t see you rolling your eyes. You know that he has no intention of stopping, and he knows that you don’t want him to either.

However, it seems he’s partly forgotten that you two share the same blood, and although he considers himself to be witty, you’re not lagging behind him.

“Oh, you want to stop?” you ask, a mocking edge to your otherwise strained voice. It is clear he’s taken off guard by your words, having expected you to beg and whine for more. “My, what a disappointing turn of events. I was so keen on experiencing you tonight. I–”

The rest of your protest dies on your tongue as he slides two digits inside without a warning, effectively silencing you.

A jolt of pleasure surges through your body that has you clinging to the footboard of the bed, your knuckles blanching from the force. The moan you release is wanton, and brings a blush to your cheeks that’s intensified by the mocking scoff Daemon releases.

Your legs are nudged further apart by his foot knocking against yours, causing you to be off-balanced for a moment in which he’s snaking his arm around your waist to support your frame.

His chest is pressed flush against your back now, and you feel his breath fan over your ear, the heat emanating from him seeping into your skin.

“I would not deprive you of that satisfaction tonight,” he rasps into your ear while his fingers pump into you at a pace that has your toes curling already, making it difficult to keep your composure. You don’t have to look at him to know he’s smirking, his amusement at the little back and forth of your flirting is perfectly audible. “My darling wife is brimming with pleasure already, but I am just getting started.”

Your eyes widen at his teasing, and if anything, it only makes you want him even more. As your head lulls back against his shoulder, you release another moan, dizzy with lust.

With every passing second that you don’t have him inside of you, you grow more and more relentless. “Don’t you dare stop now,” you moan. “If you do, I shall feed you to Silverwing.”

Daemon lets out a breathy laugh at your words. “Quit being a brat, wife, or else I truly need to punish you to stop you from being so reckless with your words.”

You slightly push yourself up against his chest, but don’t manage to do more than hum in return at his words, the jolts of your impending peak coursing through your veins like liquid fire.

There is a brief loss of friction that doesn’t diminish the pleasure that clouds your mind, induced by Daemon’s desire to withdraw his fingers to fill you with his stiff cock instead.

Just in time with him aligning himself with your throbbing entrance, breaching your tightness to stretch you out with one, swift thrust, you topple over the edge.

The spasming and shaking of your body has Daemon’s breath hitch in his throat, a strained ‘seven hells’ slipping past it that you barely register with you losing a little bit of control over your body.

Your back arches against him, and he seizes the opportunity to set up a reckless pace from the very beginning on.

“Well, now, if that isn’t a disappointing turn of events,” Daemon mocks with an amused chuckle, using your words against yourself. “I can… can not believe that’s all you can take, my dear.” There is a strain in his voice, one that tells you his mind is just as fuzzy with pleasure as yours, amplified by the way your cunt is clenching and unclenching around his hard cock.

Daemon has both hands on your hips now, pulling you back halfway to meet the mercilessness of his thrusts. Each time the heavy sac of his stones slaps against your sensitive cunt, you feel it spasm again, bolts of pain and pleasure alike piercing your flesh.

“I thought you would last longer, my sweet wife,” he groans, the term of endearment emphasized by a thrust harsh enough to coax a breathy gasp from your throat. “A sore disappointment.”

At this point he’s all but assaulting your body, using you for his own pleasure like you’re not more than one of Flea Bottom’s common whores, pounding you hard enough that your vision whitens.

Incoherent words and sentences are falling past your lips like a prayer, occasionally interrupted by his name, chanting it as if you’re praying to the Seven.

His grip on your hips is bruising, squeezing your flesh so tight you’re not sure if it brings you more pain or pleasure. But it’s something in his words that makes it all so exhilarating, reigniting the fire inside of you.

Daemon is chasing his own peak with the will to fill you up with his seed, marking you as his and making his claim on you visible to everyone. But his stamina doesn’t seem to be able to handle the tightness of your cunt for any longer, running thin and threatening to burst at any given moment.

It takes all your strength to hold onto the foodboard to keep yourself steady and upright, not wanting to topple over with the weight and intensity of his thrusts. But your slowly approaching high doesn’t make it too easy for you.

Your second peak takes its time, but Daemon can tell it’s on its way, the clenching of your walls and trembling of your legs a telltale sign for him. One of his deft fingers comes to your pearl, and he proceeds to rub the bud with frantic movements that make sure to push you over the edge just in time.

Your mouth hangs open, and there are no other sounds than breathy whines and hiccuped gasps slipping past your lips, the ability to speak completely taken by his cock repeatedly brushing the sweet spot inside of you.

“I will not last any longer,” the man behind you grunts, the damp strands of his silver hair falling in front of his face. He buries the hand that’s not between your legs in your hair, pulling you upright against him.

His hips are angled, allowing him to snap them into yours deeper and more precisely. “Peak for me again… now,” he all but commands, and it’s the sharpness and determination of his voice that eventually has you doing just that.

Your arousal oozes out of your spasming cunt, coating the palm of his hand, the length of his cock and the sac of his stones altogether.

Your head tips back in bliss, and hot streams of pleasure obscure your senses. The way your cunt is choking his cock makes it difficult for him to help you through it all, struggling to keep it together just a few moments longer. He’s brought you to such heights of pleasure that your mind temporarily blanks.

“Please,” you find your voice again, though it’s strained and resembles a whimper. “Put a babe in me. Fill me up with your seed… please.”

It might have been him being on the brink of his release already, or the meaning and significance of your words, but it is the trigger for Daemon to spend himself inside of you with a loud groan.

“Gods be good,” he grunts, connecting his lips with the curve where your shoulder meets your neck as he works himself through the blissful high. Even as it subsides, he doesn’t stop and bites through the overstimulation, determined to fuck his seed as deep as possible and put a child into your belly.

You’ve grown incredibly sensitive and overstimulated by now, and can’t fight against your body’s reaction to squirm out of his grasp to escape the uncomfortable feeling. But he doesn’t allow you to, keeping you flush against his firm chest.

The soft whines you release, however, humor him, and he tilts his head to rest his forehead against the side of your face.

“Let your foolish father come for you. I shall slay every man that even dares to look at you,” he rasps. “I possess you, you belong to none other than me.”

A blush spreads on your cheeks as his words sink into your mind, and you turn your head to meet his eyes for the first time ever since you’ve entered your chambers. The meeting of your gazes is intense, and you swear you can feel his flaccid member grow hard again.

You take his hand and bring it in front of you, placing it on your stomach. Without further encouragement, he starts to rub his palm over your skin as if his seed has already borne fruit.

“Let him come,” you whisper, licking your lips. “I have waited years to be with you alone, and to have you all by myself. And now that I have gotten my will, I will not give it up without a fight.”

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girly-blogging · 2 years

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i am NOT ready for episode ten guys i’ll be needing every single fix-it fanfic that anyone has ever written to fix my broken heart after next sunday

#house of the dragon #hotd #luke velaryon #jace targaryen #house targaryen #daemon x rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #game of thrones #westeros #daemyra #team black #hotd fanfic #fix it fanfiction #fanfic #ao3fic #hotd spoilers

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 4 months

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Ever since that running aemond pic came out I've been thinking non stop about his thighs so... would you like to write something involving riding aemond's thigh? I have no other wishes and I totally get it if you think that's not enough of a prompt. You can ignore this if you want but I'd love to see what you can come up with!

You asked for this back in June, I'm so sorry for how long this has taken me. I am a shambles of a human being, truly. I hope you've stuck around long enough to see this!

Warnings: Thigh riding, smut, me playing fast and loose with canon. Word count: ~1.3k

The candle that rests beside her on the reading table burns low as she sits in her and Aemond’s marital chambers. The book that is spread out in front of her, Coming of the Andals, lays unread; her fingers tap anxiously against its pages, as her eyes remain fixed upon the door.

Aemond had been called to a meeting of the Small Council. They both knew why, it has been a long time coming. The injuries that Aegon sustained during the battle of Rook’s Rest have left him bedridden, he is no longer fit to rule, and their grandsire’s capacity for what he can do in his stead has reached its limit. Westeros needs a Targaryen upon the throne, and Aemond is next in line. It is a position she knows that her husband is all too eager to fill.

He ought to be back by now though, it has been hours. The evening grows late, and she has long since sent away her chambermaids, refusing to be readied for bed. She has no desire to sleep until Aemond returns, so she forgoes the comfort of her nightgown, despite longing to unlace the meticulously fastened ribbons that hold her bodice tightly in place against her ribcage.

Tiredness and impatience pluck at her nerves, making her shift irritably in her chair. She startles at a polite rap at the door, if it was Aemond then he would simply walk in, he would not bother to knock. Her brow furrows in confusion as she rises, walking towards the door to open it.

She looks down into the wide eyed anticipation of one of the Keep’s page boys. He clears his throat before speaking.

“Apologies for the disturbance at such a late hour, Princess, Prince Aemond has requested your presence in the throne room.”

She sighs, nodding and bidding the young lad goodnight, before snuffing out the candle and making her way through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast towards the Great Hall. The walk is long, and she is grateful she has not yet changed into her nightclothes, as the gown she wears does little to keep the chill of the castle air from nipping at her skin. She would feel annoyed at Aemond insisting she come all this way, were it not for the mixture of curiosity and excitement that flutters lightly in her chest.

Pushing open the great oak and bronze doors, her eyes scan the long carpet that stretches the length of the room, up to the high, narrow steps that lead to the raised iron dais. Aemond sits upon the throne. She stands silently as she regards him. His arms rest on either side of the asymmetrical tangle of jagged and twisted blades, long fingers curled around the makeshift armrests.

He is dressed as he was when he had left her earlier that evening; black, leather tunic, black breeches and leather boots, except this time the Conqueror’s crown sits atop his snowy head of hair, the Valyrian steel and rubies gleaming iridescent in the moonlight. He cuts quite the imposing figure as his single eye stares at her impassively.

Slowly, she descends the steps into the Hall, making her way along the carpet, maintaining eye contact with her husband the entire time. His lips quirk, the faintest trace of amusement tugging at their corners as he observes the unhurried pace with which she moves. It is not until she stands before the throne that he bothers to speak.

“It is not polite to keep your King waiting,” he utters quietly.

“Prince Regent,” she corrects him. “And it is not becoming of a King to rouse ladies from their slumber in the middle of the night.”

He huffs through his nose, smirking at her as he leans forward slightly. “You do not appear to be dressed for sleep. I must say, I am disappointed.”

“It is improper for a lady to greet the King in such a state of undress, or is that how you will have all the ladies of the court attend to you?”

“Hmmm. I have not yet decided how I would like you to attend to me. Will you curtsy to me?”

“Never,” she whispers with a playful giggle.

“Such insolence must be met with the King’s justice.”

She takes his hand as he offers it out, gasping as he tugs her forcefully up to him, her knees landing either side of one of his, as she sits against his thigh. Even through her skirts she can feel the unyielding sharpness of the throne beneath them. She steadies herself, placing her hands upon the smooth suppleness of the leather that covers his shoulders.

Aemond grasps her waist with one hand, the other moving to weave itself into her hair, as his eye drinks her in. She allows her gaze to wander to the crown, taking in the way it sinks into the thick silkiness of his hair.

“It suits you,” she says quietly.

“It looks better on me than it ever did on him.”

“And is this what has kept you from our bed?”

“I wanted you to see.”

He flexes his thigh, raising his leg to brush against her clothed core and she sucks in a shaky breath, the sensation causing a jolt that makes her throb with want.

“I would have seen…” she retorts with a slight whine, as the hand holding her waist moves to her hip, gripping it tightly and encouraging her to grind against him.

“Not like this,” he hisses, tugging her head back by her hair and mouthing hotly at her neck.

She moans, her nails digging into his shoulders to ground herself, as she fucks herself against his thigh, aided by the occasional bounce and flex of the muscle from Aemond. The ache between her legs is almost unbearable, the gusset of her smallclothes growing sticky with arousal, as the sensation of his lips upon her flesh makes her shudder.

“This moment is just for us,” he mutters, pushing and pulling her more forcefully against him, encouraging her to move faster. “But we shall have many more like it.”

“Gods, Aemond, please,” she whimpers, insides clenching around nothing as the friction against her aching pearl grows more intense.

“I will fuck a babe into you upon this throne,” he snarls, shifting his hand from her hair to pluck harshly at the lacings of her gown, before tugging down her bodice and wrapping his lips around the peak of her breast.

Arching against him, she buries her hands in his hair, keeping him anchored to her chest. The warmth of his scalp and the softness of the tresses between her fingers are oddly juxtaposed with the hardened coolness of the Valyrian steel that crowns Aemond’s head, but she has little time to dwell upon it.

She cants wantonly against Aemond’s leg, the pressure in her lower belly increasing, aided by the swirl of his wet tongue against her sensitive nipple. When it finally yields, she collapses forward against him with a strangled cry of pleasure, a rush of wetness soaking her smallclothes and leaving a damp patch on the area of her husband’s trousers that she rests against. Warmth cascades over her body, making her feel boneless as she pants for breath and Aemond’s lips release her with a wet pop.

He holds her steady, leaning back to look at her, as a cat might regard a mouse it toys with. His hooded eye roves over her glassy eyes, her parted lips, her bare chest, before he lifts a hand to adjust his crown slightly. “Hmmm. Yes. It makes everything look better.”

614 notes · View notes