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darlingofvalyria · 8 months

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❝Dragons do not seek permission, niece of mine. Dragons take.❞

[ Betrayal clouds your judgement, for when Jacaerys' indiscretion takes the form of a child, your anger lands in the palm of the Rogue Prince. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 3,412 ] | Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen Niece!Reader, Jacaerys Velaryon x Manipulative Aunt!Reader | this set in an au inside of in hightower green. | this is able to be read as a oneshot.

contains— canon divergence to the second power - an au of an au - targcest, use of 'bastard', infidelity, profanity, revenge, violence, pureblood Valyrian bullshit - thinking about death as a revenge but no suicide/suicidal ideation- angst, smut - two wrongs apparently make a right - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - nsfw: rough sex, biting, degradation, breeding kink, smidge dacryphilia, creampie - no kinslayers, no kings, no betas.

a/n— special thanks to @ahristata and @hiraethrhapsody for kicking my pursuit of this thread!! i woke up (almost literally) to this line of inquiry, & though writing for daemon is difficult, i had a way, way too much fun with this one m'fraid. Ihad so much fun I started laughing at the absurdity. + comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

You can't breathe.

You stand there, your daughters by your sides, no more than five or so name days, dutiful as ever, the princess of the realm— the heir's wife, blindsided. Betrayed. Lied to. And you can't show them your grief, your anger, your shock— you smile, not betrayed, not realised, stupid.

Your act of stupidity protects you, for you can just tell that others, sharp-eyed as they are owning of sharper tongues, calculate the similarities between your husband and the child he is cooing at, at the arms of the Warden of the North's sister.

His bastard fucking sister.

You can't blink away as the facts, the threads, make a beautiful web in front of you. The conclusion is unmistakable. Jacaerys' consistent travels to the North, despite the campaigning for his mother's seat had not required the frequent stretches of long travels. How Aemond had remarked that the bastard is doing twice as much work in doing so, "as he should," Aemond murmurs darkly. "He casts a disgusting shadow on the Iron Throne, 'tis the least he can do."

The insistent of personally greeting the delegates from the North, you thinking it is just his wondrously formed friendship with the Lord Stark, had you dressing up and bringing your girls with him. So that your daughters can meet their father's fucking friend, one that occupied his time when he could have been at home, tending to his duties, his heirs.

And the woman who follows after the Wolf, the bastard Snow, his beloved sister. Dyanna had told you beforehand, as Lord Stark adores his only sibling. Their parenthood is unmistakable, dark hair and sharp chins. A Northern Beauty.

And then you stop, as there is a babe in her arms, no more than two name days at least.

And you see Jacaerys in his gaze.

His beautiful, warm brown eyes in the child in her arms, and as he stands there, your Prince of the Realm, too close for comfort, too close for platonic friendship, a familiarity one cannot deny— and that fucking, sweet-edged, tender smile on his face...

The same one he wore when you had given birth to his daughters. Soiled sheets, bloodied babes— it didn't matter. He held them to his arms with the very same smile, thanking you for birthing his babes.

A gut punch, a sharp inhale, an anger that coils and burns and roars.

Your bastard of a husband had fucked another bastard, and made himself a bastard little fucking family.

Life can ever be so cruel as it is humorous.

Daemon could have laughed at the prediction you found yourself in.

He sits to the left of his wife, the Queen who— in enough of itself, the evidence of the turmoil the court is about to get under, amusingly is talking quick with her Lord Hand; Corlys and Rhaenyra had not stopped pointedly looking at her heir, words too fast but unmistakable what the topic is if their gestures, the knot between their eyebrows, and unmistakable sighs and determined noises.

He, on the other hand, is pointedly staring at you.

You, who tries so hard to piece together an armour of stupidity, an air of nonchalance. As if there is no anger in your visage at your husband's attention completely stolen by Wolf's little sister and her son... who looked completely like him. Dark colouring, the First Men blood thick in his nose, his hair, at the curled edges of his baby-cheeked giggles.

When standing so close, faces to each other, there can be no doubt a mirror.

Or the lovesick smile on the mother's face, watching the Prince of the Realm interact with her son.

Together, the trio of them don't hint as much as a bead of Targaryen blood. One is able to pretend they are nothing more than a small... brown haired family.

Daemon presses his lips, trying desperately not to laugh so loudly.

He admired the boy, truly. Rhaenyra loved each child from her bosom with equal fervor, and Daemon was prepared take him as purely one of his own... but after he broke the betrothal with his daughter (though Baela could give lesser of a shit, though mildly dissatisfied as she was to become Queen, and the girl held her duties between canines) to marry a Hightower cunt... he had distanced himself from the boy.

Daemon viewed it as a sign of weakness, for he knew you. You were just like your mother, prodding into softened parts of his family— that green whore with his brother, young as she had been, his good sister Aemma had not been cold in their memories before she had found herself weightily pregnant with new heirs, and then Jacaerys, new to womanly spells, new to cunt, and you had him making vows in the ways of the dragonlords.

Though he can surmise that much of your mother's movements had not entirely been her own... Daemon knew that calculative look you got in your eye. Blink and it's gone, but your gaze sharpens, your mouth curls in a winning, prideful little smirk.

You were Otto Hightower's granddaughter alright, and you had wanted the Heir's Heir.

But now, it seems like, once a vow broken, it didn't really matter if it was a betrothal or a marriage to Jacaerys.

It brings a sick pull of satisfaction in him, that tugs him to look at you. Every time.

You laugh, tither, still evermore the gem of the feast— a feast you organised with the Lord Hand for your husband's absolutely exceptional diplomatic achievements in the North, truly, Daemon is laughing in the sidelines as the jests and songs make themselves — but Daemon is overtly familiar with dragons. And anger. And you simply stink of it. The way your eye twitches, the occasional grind of your jaw to how your fingers dig crescent moons into your palm. He catches blood in one blink then smeared, then gone, in another.

Your hold onto your armour— the Darling of the Realm, curated so painfully by a young, sly girl moving about the cesspit they call a crown's court — is breaking in pieces and tatters at each hour the feast went on.

It snarls. Like a dragon locked in the pits, tugging at reins, wishing to burn cities.

Maybe you aren't just another Hightower cunt after all.

Not purely at least, he thinks in distaste, staring at the dark green of your gown.

It is a childish tantrum, more than anything, for what is your Hightower green will do now? A bastard has been made, worse, a son. And though Jacaerys himself has muddied blood, he is still a Targaryen. His mother is Queen, prepared to make him an Heir to the Iron Throne as he had been legitimised as Laenor's son. A Velaryon. He bears the name, the crest, and the support of its house.

What is stopping him from marrying the Snow Bastard, legitimising the boy as his own, surpassing your own daughters?

Targaryens marry siblings, they also marry multiple wives.

It is a thought that he can see it dancing in your head— raw, enticing rage and bloodlust that tightens his breeches.

It is an interesting thing.

The green is disgusting, but Daemon can appreciate a young, fertile, Valyrian beauty.

Something your mother had ingeniously provided you and your siblings with, reining in her muddied blood to produce unmistakable Valyrian children. And as a smart little tart, you understood what to do with it.

When Daemon first met you, you were just one of the Hightower spawns that his brother had made to further his line. His brother's daughters—apart from Rhaenyra — were quiet things as babes and children. Odd the two of you were, but not really hostile. When you were introduced to him, your fat babe of a twin brother was teary-eyed and clinging to you, a quiet child with round eyes, staring at him inquisitively, as if challenging.

Then and there, Daemon disliked you so.

Even as you grew, the little of what he could see as he paid no mind of Viserys' other children, you grew up a fine royal, a princess of every word and sung note. Mentions of your progressive fight for the small folk, your charitable heart, your sweet nature that even his brother had made a note once or twice—

He thought it had been Otto Hightower who put you up to such machinations. Wouldn't be below him.

The night you bedded Jacaerys Velaryon, he was pleasantly surprised to find out it had been you all along.

And now here you are, betrayed as you had betrayed his daughter, delicious in your righteous anger and ripe (two babes before the year ended, Jace is an inglorious fool) for the taking. And youthful still. Smooth, soft skin, pretty lips and bright-eyed.

All your scheming, going as far as throwing your grandsire to Oldtown, it is obvious no one has wrangled the clever, spoiled little brat out of you.

As he sips his wine, amused and pleasantly hungry, he muses he might do a job or two of being the strong arm to do so.

He snorts, eyes straying back to the little First Men family.

There it is again. The jest that keeps on giving.

It was pride, truly, that kept you for most of the feast. That kept your gritted teeth to yourself, ducking into corners whenever your anger burned at your eyelids, stubbornly brushing stray tears away.

All is not lost, you stubbornly thought. You just had to plot.

But when Jace had taken your daughters, your Daenera and Aemma, gently tugging them to his bastard whore and his actual bastard to meet— finding your eyes, at that very moment as Daenera's precious, pureblooded hand shyly took the hand of her bastard brother, a fool's tender fucking simpleton of a smile on your husband's face —

Something in your head had snapped. A clean break.

And your armour had fallen. Like limestone from a fortress. Caved in ruins at the pool of your feet. Dark, furious loathe unfurled in your chest. Unable to handle it anymore, you had taken your dress and got out of the feast, for you could feel the urge of unsheathing a sword and going on a bloodied massacre, crowns and titles be damned.

You may not have a dragon, but you have its bloodlust.

Just as you are rushing to your chambers, you stop and make a different turn, knowing that if your husband had caught wind of such an ugly expression on your face, he would try and find you, talk to you, and you don't have the patience to cater to him at the moment— you find what you know of is an empty chamber, reserved for guests at the Keep.

It is a simple room with all the usual accruements. Most of the fanfare, the sheets, are in storage.

You start with a candelabra.

Raise it high before you are violently smashing it against the dresser, shrieks and guttural screams out of your mouth as you tear through the room like a typhoon, cursing Jacaerys, the North, and bastards to the Seven Hells.

None will be the wiser, for you had built your network well. Your spiders will pivot guards and strangers from this area, ensuring you a reprieve where your anger and grief can unfurl and manifest.

So you lose yourself, a dragon untethered. You get so into your rage, quiet in your thoughts, that you don't hear an intruder entering until there is a low, amused laugh too close for comfort.

You whirl around, tear-stained and rage-filled, and though the Rogue Prince expects you to fall into stutters, your eyes slit and you grip— when had you picked up a tome? — the tome tighter to your chest, snarling, "Get out."

Instead of surprise, or even offense, Daemon laughs as if you are the most amusing thing to him all night. Jesters and whores alike.

"I shall not." He makes a noncommittal hum around the dark room. "I rather like it here. It seems this chamber holds a much better entertainment than anything beheld at the feast."

You let out a dark, incredulous laughter. "I have no time for your toying, uncle, get out!" You toss the tome with fervour, but he's a warrior and he anticipates your anger, sidestepping easily before he's back to casual prowling.

"I do not have time to play jester for your entertainment," you hiss, unable to stop the hateful tears from spilling, brushing them away harshly as you watch him watch you.

He raises an eyebrow. "I am not asking you to."

"Are you here then for my humiliation? Press a bitter wound while it's still bleeding, is that it? Is that what would make the glory of your night?"

He snorts. "What would make the glory of my night is a warm body and a tight cunt."

Your face scrunches. "You are disgusting."

He barks out a laugh. "Not as disgusting as your brother."

"Aegon is no longer—"

"— or as stupidly naive as your husband."

A sharp intake of breath before you're once more cracking in broken rage and ghastly pain.

"Of course you would notice, who would not, he looks so much like his fucking bastard."

"Watch yourself, girl," he barks. "You are still talking about the Queen's heir."

A beautiful guard dog, you think, you snort. You push past him, gasping into the crisp, cool air, holding onto the balcony for dear life.

"His already diluted blood makes this conversation entirely hilarious to me I'm afraid." You look down and wonder how fast you will fall. How messy would such a death be? How much care there is left in your wake? Will your husband even care, now that he has his heir? Borne out of true love no doubt, despite such bastardly blood— or is that what makes it thrilling for them?

Mangled bone, spread thin blood— if you die such a way, it should be pretty. You hope it haunts the Keep of so many before you.

But if you die now, you will be replaced so easily. So prettily.

And your daughters—who will care for them? Will Jacaerys even care, if his bastards soon no doubt fill your once home, your mother, your brothers— your daughters pushed aside to make way for fucking dogs.

There is no satisfaction in such a plan.

There are many others.

The Rogue Prince makes his presence known by standing close to your back, close enough that you can smell him, that his heat is your own, as he hums, peering below as you have.

"Have you been drinking, zaldrītsos little dragon?" he whispers, tangling his fingers through your hair, running a lone finger down your neck, up and down in a tantalising movement. You can't help it, it feels comforting, leaning close to it despite such a breathy huff out of your lips.

"Since when am I dragon, kepus uncle? Haven't you always likened us muddied blood, filthier than dragonseeds?"

"I see that I am wrong," he says, almost idle as if he isn't devouring you in his gaze. How you feel soft, pliant under one finger after weighted in wine and the ruins of your anger, how you're almost purring and sweet like this, your fire alive but consistent. "Aōha perzys burns jehikagrī. Nyke hae ziry. Your flames burn bright. I like it."

"Hm. You've had sons, don't you uncle?"

"I have," he replies, amused.

"And many a children." You reach for his chin, your thumb rubbing his bottom lip. He's old, sure, but men don't have the same bodily issues as women. You know he could reach your father's age and be able to produce five more brats.

But his shoulders are strong, spry only as a swordsman can be.

And he isn't like he's loyal to Nyra, turning fully to you with a hand caressing your side.

His hand comes for your neck, halting your movement as he tests a squeeze. There is only much hatred as there is lust. And his cock is winning over his mind, for when your free hand, watching him intently, reaches for the hardness straining against his breeches, giving it a stroke, his breath stutters into a groan whilst his hips push into your hand.

"Dragons do not seek permission, niece of mine," he hums darkly. "Dragons take, or do you have too much of your Hightower cunt of a mother that you—"

You curl your hand over his cock until his breath hitches.

"I want a son. Surely you'd rather want for your true blood to sit on the Iron Throne? Your wife would remain Queen, her and her heir none the wiser. Any son of mine would be King regardless." Your voice is barely above whisper, stroking him as your squirm in his hold, his breath heavy by each promise, each tale you spin so tall. "Wouldn't you like that better? I am a Targaryen, as are you. Our blood would be pure."

"I have pureblooded sons, riñītsos little girl."

"But will they be king? With my husband as your wife's heir?" When his hold softens on your throat, you push yourself forward, pressing yourself against him. "Wouldn't you want your family's legacy, your legacy, unsullied with prettier blood?

"I want a son, uncle," you whimper, thickened with need and desire, willing him to bend and fold because men like Daemon are easy, because a loving marriage is one thing, a man who holds his house as his pride in another fist is another. "I want your seed to take root in me."

And it isn't like you're asking him to betray his Queen.

Daemon is surprisingly a soft lover, prone in a way to worshipping you even as you had gotten impatient and tried to get your way. His punishments are quick and precise, a hit on your thigh, a tighter squeeze in your throat, a firm bite in your breast enough to draw blood. He's soft but by choice, almost as if he is amusing you in each caress while one hand is holding you by your hair, fucking you down into the sheets.

His words aren't better, spun in hisses and spits, mocking laughter and groans.

"Do you want my seed, you little whore?"

"What would your husband say now, his pretty wife mewling for another? Or would he even care?"

"Your tears are pretty, if you want my seed, I think you need to be sobbing, hm?"

When he finally spills inside of you with nothing less of a broken, guttural roar, hips chasing the high, meeting your sensitivity once, twice, again— you are shattered in pieces and contradictions, floating and wide awake, pleasured and in pain.

He slaps your face gently after he's cleaned himself up, tucked his flaccid cock back in his breeches as he comes to your eye line. "Come to me again when you want my seed, hm? I shall prioritise your wants for the good of the realm but I dare say—"

He cocks his head with a smirk, feeling stirrings at the sight of your fucked out state, his seed spilling from your pretty hole that he can't help himself as he chases it with a finger, forcefully pushing it back in while your body trembles and twitches.

"— you may be with child soon enough, niece. I shall congratulate you and my son with the happy news."

Your eyes flutter close at the echoes of his disappearing footsteps.

Nine moons later, through a hearty, blood-soaked birth that rocked the keep with your wails of pure pain— much more painful than when your girls had come into the world — a baby boy is born of pure Valyrian colouring.

A fat babe who cried murder in his first seconds of life, and it is Caraxes who snarls and screeches into the high noon sky.

"I shall name him Daemon," you say to your husband beside you as you beheld the babe with a wondrous smile and a full heart.

"After your brother and my father," Jace says, smiling. "That is wonderful, my wife. He does look much like them."

Your smile curls, a finger rubbing your babe's fat cheek. "He does. And he will be strong swordsman." Your lashes flutter to Jace, poisoned vowels in each word that he blinks, startled. "Just like his father."

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darlingofvalyria · 9 months

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in hightower green | the children

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔫— 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔫 𝔩𝔢𝔤𝔞𝔠𝔶 — 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔢, 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔍𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔶𝔰 ℑ 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔔𝔲𝔢𝔢𝔫 ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔬𝔯𝔱.

CONTAINS— canon divergence, canon targcest.

a/n— kind reminder that this is just for fun from a nudge request I got (thanks nudge request!! i was so happy when i got it!! any chance to flex my eager tumultous brain is welcome). some of these hcs might be upsetting to most, but eh, this is in my multiverse & that's the beauty of fanfiction. you can make up stories within a story. honestly, i had so much fun conceptualising and writing these that, as usual, i got a little crazy with it. lol. also moodboards. i fucking love moodboards. + i might update this as the main story (& its addendums) goes on.

LAST UPDATE: 10/05/23.

❝You may defy as you think are owed to, but I know what is mine birthright. I am King Jacaerys' firstborn. I am his heir. Know that I have survived a war as a child, and I will not step back from another. not as a woman grown, and not most as your Queen.❞

❈ Daenera was the firstborn child of the King Jacaerys and his Queen Consort. From an early age, her mother had made sure to educate her of all her current and future titles, rights, and duties as the preemptive Heir to the Iron Throne. ❈ It could be said that this contributed to how 'serene' the princess' personality was shaped. She understood noblesse oblige, and was told, time and again, that she must protect her birthright, and must treat her siblings like a sword; able to protect you when wielded correctly, but to also harm you once poisoned by an enemy.

"She was, as was sung, the best parts of the Queens before her. And most all, the best parts of the Sovereign Kings before her."

❈ Despite such a weighty upbringing, Daenera was said to be the epitome of a royal. She was polite, kind and obliging, but not one to be pushed about and manipulated. She spoke sincerely, rewarded allies, and punished when blood was due. She kept a small private counsel, pertaining her most closest advisors, a few of which, were her siblings. ❈ It is also said she oft found a steely resolve with her brother, Prince Gaemon, who was said to have called himself 'He Who Should Be King', and oft traded sharp and cloying barbs with him. One such sweet insult delivered by her brother had been her lack of a hatchling, for the princess' dragon egg did not hatch, nor two others presented to her before she fruitlessly made trips to Dragonmont. ❈ On the day of their mother's pyre, as she delivered the flames, the princess attempted to bond with Gaelithox (formerly known as The Cannibal), the Queen Consort's mount, but had been refused, suffering burns that lasted four moons. ❈ Instead, she bonded with her mount, Brightfyre, a moon after her mother's death. It is said that the dragon approached her while on her Tour. A pure white dragon with bloodred eyes, scales as if made of stone found in caverns. Sharp and Jagged. It is debated whether Brightfyre is indeed Dreamfyre's mount or Silverwing's. ❈ Daenera is said to have moon-spun silver hair and pale, watery blue eyes. She is said to have feminine features but lacked certain feminine charms (her lack of a voluptuous figure is said to have been the reason for her struggle with child-bearing, but several midwives have already laid false to this claim), but owned the sharp visage of the Warrior Queen, Visenya come alive. ❈ The Princess was said to prefer solid colours to her clothing of the usual House Targaryen style. She oft wore red, black, and white with intricate details, copying her grandmother and wearing her hair in braids. She was always found to be the picture of regality. She oft wore her mother's crowns in the daily, and her father's on important days.

"Thus called to witness that the King did not approve of the match, and had not spoken to his daughter for four moons, breaking her heart so. Yet the princess stood her ground. It is the only known conflict of the King and his Heir."

"Before the Queen passed, she had ensured her brother's loyalty to her daughter by many trials. Maestre Quitar speaks on good authority that it was not by trials, but by conversation that ran for three days. By the end, the Queen looked to be satisfied, and the prince worn and weary but victorious. They were betrothed in a day after."

❈ Her only bout of rebellion had been her marriage to her uncle, Prince Aemond Targaryen (soon whom followed the titles: King Consort and Protector of the Realm).

❝Don't you understand? I am her true protector. She bears the weight of the crown and I bear her shadow. It has always been my duty as the secondborn, and I will not fail again.❞

❈ As the secondborn child, Aemma had been set to be her sister's Spare and Shadow, but under her mother's tutelage, she had been tasked with a more powerful position: The Queen's Spider. Though her brother, the Prince Baelon is the Master of Whispers, Aemma controls the network that her mother started and that fulfilled the peaceful and prosperous reign of her father. ❈ Where Princess Daenera is serious and serene, Aemma had always been called a 'bright child'. She laughed loudly and expressed herself fully, oft was teasingly told to be the opposite of her namesake and named after, the Queen Aemma Arryn who upheld her duty with conducted manner. Though people oft remarked she was spoiled, as she is the Queen Rhaenyra's utmost favourite grandchild, and acted very freely, Aemma is Daenera's shield where Prince Aemond, the King Consort, had been called her sword.

"She pestered him until she couldn't pester him no more. But it is said that upon his wife's insistence, and his daughters' undeniable bond with the princess, it had softened him up enough that he acquiesce. They oft talked about dragons... and when the Rogue Prince passed, The Blood Wyrm took her as his rider." — Maestre Quitar.

❈ She was also said to be the closest to what was called 'The Blacks' side of the family, for her sweet and sunshine personality had won over even the Rogue Prince. It is said, she pestered the prince as a young child to take notice of her, as the Queen brought her almost everywhere. She was closest to her aunt, however, the Lady Baela Targaryen for after her death, Princess Aemma Velaryon was named Lady of Driftmark and Lady of the Tides in her absence of heir and despite the existence of the Lady Rhaena and her four children. ❈ She spent five years at Driftmark before she abruptly relinquished her position to the Lady Rhaena, after what is told to be called 'The Usurpation in the Shadows' had occurred. She remained in Kings Landing evermore, at her sister's side, as the Queen's Spider.

"Mother said that allies will stab you regardless, given enough reason. So why not treat everyone the same? It is also easier to dispatch eyes and ears in their houses when they freely open their doors. Windows are so stuffy."

❈ Though she oft paid mind to the sea, as her outreached as the Spider crossed vassals and neighbouring kingdoms (due, in turn, to her siblings' as well), she remained duly on her sister's side as her greatest counsel. It is also oft remarked that whilst the Queen remained a sovereign figure above all, the princess had made friends with allies and foes alike. ❈ After the death of the King Consort, the Princess is awarded the position of Lord Hand. ❈ Aemma was said to have golden white hair and the deepest violet eyes. It is said that she looked very much like her grandmother, the Queen Rhaenyra, thereafter the queen she was named after. ❈ The Princess wore cloth and threads of those from other cities, just like her mother in her younger years, oft found wearing Myrish lace and fashions more popular in Dorne and the Free Cities. Insignia of House Targaryen, Velaryon, andHightower are oft found in her visage, as well as a necklace her grandother, the Queen Dowager Alicent, had gifted her on her four and tenth nameday. ❈ The Princess married her brother, Prince Laenor Velaryon. ❈ Upon the death of her grandsire, Aemma bonded and rode Caraxes. It is oft talked that she enjoyed riding without a saddle.

❝I follow where she goes. I am her soul and she is my heart. How can I ever part from her thereafter?❞

❈ At the behest of the King, the thirdborn and first son of the couple had been named after Queen Rhaenyra's first husband and the King's father, the late Ser Laenor Velaryon. ❈ But unlike his twin brother for whom he looked very much alike to, their differences are stark; the Prince Laenor had been bigger in built from hours of training— a tourney favourite as well as practicing under various lords and swordmasters (a few to name, the Lord Borros Baratheon and Lord Cregan Stark) — and was knighted before his ten and fifth nameday. ❈ It is said that he is the King's favourite, as not only he was the firstborn son (a full thirty minutes before his twin was born), but that they enjoyed the same things, namely the art of sword, studying histories, and oft agreed on the same opinions of court and council. ❈ Laenor was said to have spoken scarcely, few of which had only been with people he cared about or respected. It became a wonder why he was betrothed to his sister, the bright Princess Aemma, under the guiding hand of their mother.

"It isn't that he hardly spoke, but he preferred to listen. He enjoyed the sound of his sister's voice, the tales his father spun. But oh, my sweet boy has the sweetest laugh if you come upon it! Whenever he laughs, the day gets as bright as noon day sun." — His Lady Mother, the Queen.

❈ The Queen oft called him her sweetest boy, and was oft seen in his mother's court as her Sworn Shield before his marriage to his Lady Wife. His first plate of armour had been a gift from her, made by the best blacksmithy in the Seven Kingdoms. ❈ Laenor is said to have his father's dark hair, strong, shapely jaw, and a knight's pure visage. It was with regard that Prince Laenor looked alike to his uncle, the Prince Lucerys.

"It is his legacy. I will not shame him."

❈ After the death of his aunt, the Lady Baela, Dark Sister was passed to his hands. When his Lady Wife and he came back to reside in Kings Landing, the Queen gave him control of the Gold Cloaks. Under his hand, with the same former owner as Dark Sister, he kept the streets— all the way to Flea Bottom, clean. ❈ Laenor's egg hatched in his cradle, an opalescent, cloudy blue scaled dragon named Kyrxos.

❝I jest, sister, surely you know that? What horrid quim of a brother covets his sister's crown?❞

❈ The second son and fourth born child of the couple took thirty minutes more of labour after his twin brother. According to the Queen and the maestres present, he had the loudest cry of all her children. ❈ Whilst his brother mirrored their father, it is said that the Prince Gaemon took to his mother's smarts and scheming, and took to his uncle, the Prince Aegon the Elder's indulgence of wine and pleasure. Even young, it was found that he enjoyed playing with his siblings' so, and oft made them quarrel until it is revealed that he played apart.

"One thing I will hate for you to do, nephew, is to break your mother's heart. She is our strength, but you, her children, are her weakness. Silence their noises all you like, but once your brother, Laenor, has told you halt. You halt." — His Uncle, Prince Aegon.

❈ The King and before him, his grandmother the Queen, oft scolded and found the prince's manner to be troubling and in poor taste. The King had taken a harder hand at the prince and he only seemed to bite back harder in retaliation. If there were people he listened to, it had been his mother, The Queen, his maternal grandmother, The Queen Dowager, and his triplet sisters. His uncle, the Prince Aegon, found his knave nature hilarious, but always cajoled him to watch his steps lest he upset his mother so. ❈ Gaemon was first 'hastily' married to Lyanna Tyrell, the youngest sister of Lord Lyonel Tyrell. He lived in Highgarden for a time, and his revelries at the Reach had became a widespread phonemena. During a feast he made in honour of his brother Laenor's engagement to their elder sister, Aemma, inviting all his siblings, and the then six moons reigning monarch, Queen Daenera, Prince Gaemon makes an odd comment that quiets the noisy feast. It is said that the Queen's dragon broke through the tiled roof in answer to what is said to be a 'poorly made jest' or 'an adamant declaration of war'. ❈ At the behest of his brother in a missive sent by his lady wife, Prince Gaemon travelled to Kings Landing to make amends with his sister. 'The Usurpation in the Shadows' is said to have begun. The Prince came back to the Reach, and a day after, Princess Consort Lyanna Tyrell died. In his grief, the prince said to have left in the night. Four moons after, the Red Keep is sent a missive that the Prince Gaemon had married a lady of a small house in Dorne. Three years later, another missive arrives in the Red Keep, pertaining the arrival of the prince back in the Reach, the death of his second wife, and his marriage to the Lord Tyrell's widowed mother, Lady Mara Tyrell.

"An absolute cur he may be, no one can deny that the Prince Gaemon is the prettiest of all the brothers. Say, even the princesses."

❈ It is said that though the twin princes were alike in their Velaryon liking, the Prince Gaemon has said to be of princely visage. He wore his hair wavy and lengthen to his nape, with long lashes and pouty, red lips. ❈ The prince is said to have favoured revealing clothing, lengthy and pure silk, reminiscent of cultures in Lys. When he was dubbed 'The Prince of Thorns', Gaemon is said to have enjoyed the title so much, he had jewellers make him thorns for necklaces, earrings, and a circlet. ❈ Prince Gaemon's egg hatched in his second name day, a pure violet scaled dragon, a wyrm with a long neck, and is said to have the night sky in its hard skin. ❈ The prince did not have trueborn children with any of his wives, but had fathered many a bastards.

❝Thread spinner... what a quaint title.❞

❈ Baelon is the first son of the King and Queen to have pure Valyrian colouring. So pure in fact, that it is said he is the most otherwordly of all the children. ❈ And though it is oft spoken that that both the princes, Laenor and Baelon, were quiet, Baelon held a more eerie character than his older brother. Rumours spoke that the prince had been an odd child, a quiet, white shadow who followed his siblings.

"He was like a breathing, living ghost. He stared at you, unblinking with his odd, snake-like eyes and pale lashes and snow-white skin. Once, a kitchen wench had found him in the Hour of Bat at the kitchens, eating uncooked meat."— Maestre Glysell.

❈ Despite odd and frightful rumours about the prince, Baelon was said to care less of the talk of others, once having stared at the Lord Lannister from an uncouth jest until the lord had gone uncomfortable and moved away. Even as his mother answered in fury at each new wagged tongue, going as far as banishing people from King's Landing. The ladies, Lady Maris Baratheon and Lady Anne Follard, among those she barred from the capital for six moons and a day. ❈ Despite the court's unease with him, the royal siblings adore their brother. Spoken of ease as a darling conversationalist, a clean swordsman, and had wonderful taste in fabrics and gifts. ❈ Words made in his defense spoke of the fact that the prince had been born alone. While the twin princes were made and were born to life together, the princesses were born months after another, as if chasing through life to be together. The Prince had no one, for the next children of his parents had been the triplet sisters. Then the two boys, though not twins were still thick as thieves. This is said to be the reason why he also indulged their youngest sibling, the Princess Daella, having born alone. ❈ Still, he continued to shadow his siblings, with his favourite to follow being his sister Daenera, his uncle, the Prince Aemond, his mother, and his grandmothers, Queen Rhaenyra and Queen Dowager Alicent. ❈ His quiet and inquisitive nature proved to be a boon, as well as his deep loyalty to his sister and her ascension, that Queen Daenera made him Master of Whispers.

"He was never far behind, her white shadow. The awful wagging tongues of court could say a lot about the relationship of the Queen and her Master of Whispers, but no one can deny the true loyalty of the prince to his queen.. and yes, even in the face of his marriage." —Maestre Kevan.

❈ It is rumoured that the only mistake the Queen Consort ever made was agreeing to the betrothal of the prince to his sister, Princess Helene. King Jacaerys had grown 'at odds' with Prince Baelon's 'skirt clinging' to the older women in his family, and had betrothed Baelon to his younger sister. ❈ The prince is said to look alike the most to his uncle, Prince Aemond, with a hard, elongated bone structure and wore his silver-moon hair long, past his lower back but is said to have his father's deep-set eyes, the colour a faint violet akin more to a snake's. He followed his oldest sister's choice in fashion with solid colours of black, red and green in leathers and intricately detailed. ❈ Just like his mother, a visit to Dragonstone proved fruitful for the prince on his tenthand one day as he bonded with the wild dragon, Sheepstealer.

❝The oldest sea and dragonfire exists in my veins, and you thought you would be enough to face me? I say your face must be thicker than my scales.❞

TBA.

❝Just because I am kind, does not mean I allow misgivings. An ant hardly has a quarrel with a boot. Nor a sheep to a dragon, milord.❞

TBA.

❝Sacrifices must be made. Duty is all... If I do not live by these teachings, then what is for the existence of monarchy?❞

TBA.

❝Hardly a thing to boast, my good pirate. I'm more pauper than a conqueror!❞

TBA.

❝If I am not a brother then I fear I am lost.❞

TBA.

❝Wondrous a thing is, the wagging tongue of court. You'd think they'd learn better after Driftmark was put into question. All of us are trained in the sword... I just do it better.❞

TBA.

No photo is mine. I am not even halfway through and this nearly killed me. For now I'll TBA the rest. I'm also still musing about their backstories hehe.

#₊˚ପ⊹ hightower green 🕷#im posting this now cos i've finished at least the 4 key eldest(s) lol #-ˋˏ ༻addendums & extras 💮༺ ˎˊ-#🌼━━･❪ requested ❫ ･━━🌻#˚ ༘⚜ requests & to dos ｡˚ ꕥ

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