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hilarychuff · 8 months

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josie and the pussycats in my asoiaf au graphic series

Sansa dreams big. She can’t help it. She always has, always lets her romantic imagination run away with her. Whether it’s about a boy or about her band, she can be single-minded in her focus, pouring her all into a song and hustling to perform it in front of as many people as she can get to let her. It’s always been who she is, always been what she’s done, but it’s so much better now that she’s got the rest of The Direwolves. Growing up, she and Arya hadn’t always seen eye to eye on things (OK, that was pretty much the understatement of the century, they’d practically never seen eye to eye on anything), but these days things are different. Time and common enemies and shared heartbreaks have brought them together, a fierce and unwavering loyalty forged between them in the few years since their dad died. After nearly a decade of being one of the things that came between them, music finally bonded them together, too, and Sansa has discovered that she likes being part of a girl group more than she’d ever enjoyed being a singer-songwriter on her own. Plus, Arya’s taste for angry alt and punk rock complements Sansa’s pop sensibilities just fine these days instead of clashing with them, and it’s been fun and freeing to let her sister show her how to shake off her good girl image and just get mad. She’d already started dreaming of them touring, traveling the world together, playing sold out shows in all kinds of countries, and so it had only felt right when Robb decided it was his responsibility to be their manager. Who else would do a better job of fighting for them, after all? Do the heavy lifting of calling venues and booking gigs and negotiating fees? She hadn’t expected him to insist that his girlfriend join their group — she hadn’t expected him to have a girlfriend at all, but it seemed in the same moment Robb determined he needed a new career, he’d also decided he was ready for his first serious relationship. Sansa and Arya had only barely met Jeyne Westerling before Robb had informed them she would become the third part of their trio, but now she was as good as their sister, too. She was incredible at the drums, a blast to watch on stage, and she was always able to help them just have fun when they performed, always able to keep the peace when the sisters occasionally still butted heads. Plus, she’s the best at delivering subtle little digs at Theon’s expense, innocuous little one liners he can never quite decide are mocking instead of earnest. Still, making it big is taking… well, a little longer than Sansa had hoped. She’s happy to put in the work, however much it takes, but it’s getting hard to feel grateful for bowling alley gigs that cost them almost as much as they make. And while Sansa learned to stop blindly idolizing Margaery Tyrell years ago, it still stings to hear her and her cousins mock their music, their outfits, the furry ears and tails Sansa and Jeyne spent hours hand-crafting for their shows. So even though it feels too good to be true when Petyr Baelish appears out of nowhere to offer them a record deal, Sansa can’t help but jump at the opportunity. She wants it, after all. She wants to be the next big thing, wants to be able to play her music for the world, and Mr. Baelish says he can make that happen if they just move fast. He has to find the next Du Rocher after the band made up of blond Lannister heartthrobs disappeared in that tragic plane crash, and if it’s not going to be The Direwolves, he’s going to find someone else. So when Mr. Baelish tells them he’s got a limo waiting for them just as soon as they sign their contract, all they really ask is, “Where’s the pen?” It helps that he lets them bring everyone along with them. It’s not just her and Arya and Jeyne, it’s also Robb as their amateur manager and Theon as his fake assistant and Jon as her pretend guitar tech, all of them on a private jet as Mr. Baelish flies them out to New York City. If she’s honest with herself, Sansa has to admit that Jon is the most exciting addition. She’s been crushing on him for — god, it feels like forever now, but she’s not sure he’s ever seen her as anything other than his best friend’s little sister. Even if he had, his self-image always used to be way too low for him to even think about asking anyone out. Romance had been entirely off the table as he focused on music of his own. Sansa’s been determined to change that this past year, though, dedicated to building his confidence back up, and now if she could just get him to see her in a new light, she’s sure he’ll finally realize that they’re supposed to be together. Heading out to the big city, standing center stage seems like the perfect way to do that. She’ll happily put up with Theon tagging along if that means Jon gets to come with them, too. (Arya, however, is less forgiving. “You know what? I still don’t understand why you’re here,” she tells him point blank. “I’m here because I’m the only one who could pull off Missi Pyle’s skunk stripe from the movie,” he quips back.) Only, things start to get a little weird as soon as their flight touches down. Suddenly, their music alone isn’t enough, and the three of them are undergoing various makeovers big and small. They’ve got a whole new wardrobe picked out for them, clothing assigned not just for video shoots and performances but for parties, too. Their songs are all run through some fancy technology so the Megasound 8000 can make them perfectly produced, and Petyr’s even insisted on changing their name. They’re not The Direwolves anymore. Now, they’re Sansa and the Direwolves, and that’s how they’re being introduced to the industry at record company president Cersei’s palatial apartment. Petyr says it’s what they have to do if they want to be successful, though, and given that he already got their first single to the top of the charts, made their faces so well-known that Sansa and Jon couldn’t even sneak off to the aquarium without getting mobbed, Sansa figures he knows what he’s talking about. Hell, even Margaery and her cousins had shown up at their hotel door, insisting that they’d been converted into Sansa and the Direwolves’ biggest fans. Plus, it’s not that big of a deal. She is the lead singer of the band, isn’t she? She’s the one who writes all of the songs. She was the only one taking it seriously in the first place, dreaming of something bigger than bowling alleys back home in Winterfell. If Arya and Jeyne aren’t on board, if they can’t see that this is the only way forward, that’s their problem, because they’re the ones glomming onto her talent and her success in the first place. And then she literally stumbles onto the realization that something isn’t just weird — something is wrong. When she trips, falls, and smashes her CD player while strutting around the city, Sansa discovers that Mr. Baelish — Cersei — has been putting hidden messages in the demos the label’s been giving her. They’ve been driving Sansa and her bandmates apart, setting the stage for her to go solo, trying to brainwash her into being the perfect little performer while limiting their liabilities down to just one person. When she drags Robb and Theon with her to the studio to investigate further, she discovers it’s even bigger than that. They’re not just trying to brainwash her. They’re trying to brainwash everyone, using The Direwolves’ music to do it, all so they can sell clothing and makeup and music and sodas and sneakers and anything else they can possibly think of. Sansa knows she can’t go through with the big stadium concert they have planned for her, knows she has to put a stop to Petyr and Cersei’s plans — but when it turns out they’re not just trying to kick Arya and Jeyne out of the band, they’re holding them hostage to ensure Sansa’s cooperation, things get a lot more complicated. Somehow, she’s going to have to save them, get them to forgive her, take down a major record label and expose Cersei for the power-hungry criminal she is. She can’t do it alone, though. Thankfully, she won’t have to. At the last minute, Du Rocher reveals they didn’t die in that plane crash. They may be a little worse for wear after they managed to land the plan in the middle of a Dornish heavy rock concert, all but one of them bundled up in near full-body casts, but little Tommen had been the one left mostly untouched (“And I thank the seven everyday that my sister taught me the words to ‘Enter, Red Viper,’” he’d told them), and he’s been trying to warn Sansa and her sisters all along. With the distraction Du Rocher’s appearance provides, Sansa manages to free Arya and Jeyne, and together they’re able to take on the record execs, smash the Megasound 8000, and even get Cersei and Petyr arrested thanks to another surprise appearance from the United States government, one so impressive it prompts Robb to consider joining the army. In the end, there’s nothing left for Sansa and Arya and Jeyne to do but take the stage, pick up their instruments, and find out if any of it can ever actually be real. If people might actually like them, their music, what they have to say. And maybe, just maybe, Sansa can get the guy, too.

ft. sansa as josie, arya as valerie, jeyne westerling as melody, jon as alan m., robb as alexander, theon as alexandra, littlefinger as wyatt, cersei as fiona, and the lannister boys as du jour

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memswritesfics · 7 months

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I'll Be With You

Summary: Did Daemon wish to abandon his wife never to give a sh*t about her ever again? Did Rhea think she would have to endure this treatment from her absentee Lord husband all her life? Would they ever find a way to live without having to deal with one another?

Or would fate change in the blink of an eye and somehow bring them closer together despite their painful past?

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen & Rhea Royce

Set after the stepstones battle, this is the first part of an AU series that explores what could have been between Daemon and Rhea. This is also loosely based on an ongoing AU roleplay with my friend angree_baratheon over on AO3 and I've written it with slight variations here and there.

Chapter 1: Duty and Honour

Rhea had made an effort to avoid being around while he was indecent. Especially whenever the maester insisted that the prince should take a bath. Which was something he had considered necessary for two reasons. First, it was a means to shed his fever body sweat. And second, it gave Maester Purell a chance to inspect the wounds that the prince had gained from his battle at the Stepstones. Purell had informed the lady of the Runestones that her lord husband's wound had finally been able to close properly after days of it not doing so and that the effects of infection had also significantly reduced as well. Now it seemed that whatever fevers would happen would not be as bad nor as life-threatening as the days they had just passed.

This was a relief to Rhea. Because even if she did not have much fondness for her lord husband, she did not wish him dead either. It also meant that she would not have to be a widow. She was going to ignore the fact that their marriage was as good as dead for now and simply rejoice that her husband was going to live. The maester then added that the fatigue of having to fight off his infection for the past weeks and the bouts of fever he had suffered these nights was unlikely to leave any time soon. He also proceeded to advise her that the prince should remain strictly on bed rest. At least until his appetite was to return or the wound to his flank -- which had been the source of his concern -- was too close.

She was glad to know that at least he was not at risk of having his guts fall out of him. Or even worse, have them turn black and in threat of decaying away while the rest of him was still alive leaving him in a state of agonising life until he well, eventually did die. His guts were fine. His muscles were intact. And sure, he had several scars from gashes and burns but none of them had been as life-threatening as this wound that had given the maester much trouble in healing. She had heard of the manner in which her husband had conducted himself. As though he were a one-man army sent to rain hell on Craghas Drahar of Myr and his men. And how he had ultimately marched into the cave himself and slew the Crabfeeder with his mighty sword Dark Sister.

If one thing was certain about Daemon Targaryen, it was that he could be a fearsome force to be reckoned with when he so chose. She was well acquainted with that side of him. Well, at least the watered-down version of it anyway. Since they had been at each other's throats from the time they had been wed, he was ten and six while she was a year younger.

Much to Rhea's scruple, she had opted not to correct the maester in his thinking that she had absolutely any authority over her husband's state when she really didn't. If he were awake right then she knew he wouldn't want her here much less giving her opinions about what was right for him and what wasn't. She was simply here because she needed to be. Out of her sense of duty of being his wife. That was all it was. Or at least it was what she had told herself since she had been raised in this manner. To honour her duties no matter how unfavourable they might have seemed.

Rhea sighed as she sat down by the table full of reports and missives she had been working on since her arrival. She couldn't help but think about their past and how they had ended up in this current situation. It wasn't just the fact that they had been forced into this marriage, but also how Daemon had treated her over the years. She had tried to make it work, in the beginning at least. But as the months and years went on and his negligence became apparent. It seemed that no matter what she did, he would always find something to criticize or belittle her for. Rhea remembered the countless times he had insulted her looks, her intelligence, and even her family. It was as if he enjoyed making her feel small and insignificant.

But as she looked at him now, lying in his bed, weak and vulnerable, Rhea couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity. Maybe he wasn't as invincible as he had always made himself out to be. Maybe, just maybe, he needed her help now. Rhea shook her head, pushing the thought away. She couldn't afford to be naïve. She had seen how he had treated her before, and there was no guarantee that he would change. No, she had to stay strong, for her own sake.

As she got up from her seat, Rhea made a mental note to speak to Maester Purell about any further developments in Daemon's condition. She needed to stay informed, especially if she was going to take care of him. It wasn't something she wanted to do, but it was the right thing to do. For now however, she needed to take care of herself. She didn't wish to grow ill while looking after him since it wouldn't do either of them any good.

With a heavy heart, Rhea left the prince's tent, closing the flap softly behind her.

When she had returned several hours later, it had not been her intention to go in so soon since she was aware her husband had completed his daily bath and examination. But to her surprise, he was standing there. He was actually standing instead of lying in bed as he'd been these past days.

But he was standing and in only his breeches. his white wet hair cascading in droplets over the width of his exposed chest. She was taken aback by his appearance and did not instantly pull her gaze away or excuse herself from the chamber. Instead, her attention was drawn to the partially healed scars on his shoulder and chest, as well as the infected wound.

Rhea swallowed, recognising once more that her husband was a magnificent warrior: such strength, power, and tenacity to survive - like weeds, she thought blandly to herself. She grew more and more bitter as he came closer, invading her space as she found him suddenly drawing closer and then... he kisses her. Suddenly, and out of nowhere with no room to deny it was happening. And without any space where either of them could've played pretend.

To say that she was surprised would have been quite the understatement. Particularly given how her expression appeared to be so very telling of the feelings she currently had whirling inside her. Her mouth having fallen agape as her eyes stared at him in utter disbelief. Was this truly happening? She was more than aware that she hadn't been the one suffering a fever all these past weeks but right then she did feel extremely hot and feverish. What was this? How was this even happening? Was he in his right mind? So many questions raced through her mind while she stood frozen in her spot simply staring blankly at him. Knowing that she hadn't kissed him back. The last time she had was a brief peck on their wedding day that could hardly be constituted as a kiss and certainly wasn't anything like what was just happening But then gingerly, hesitatingly, and quite demurely not in the least all at once.

She found herself moving herself closer to him and actually reciprocating. Not eagerly nor boldly, no. But tentative in nature. Enough that she was sure he would've felt the pressure of her returning the kiss. She was being rather careful with her hands however and where she placed them. Trying not have them anywhere near his wounds. There was certainly no need to have a repeat of the last few days. She settled for settling them near his hips instead, but even then, her touch was featherlike, and barely there. Feeling too hesitant, that she couldn't touch him. She will always feel like she was not welcomed when it came to him. He had taught her that, after all.

When they finally part, a small, demure sigh is released from lips of the lady of Runestone. It had escaped her before Rhea could hold it back between her teeth, her tongue darting at the suspicious taste of him. She resisted the temptation to touch her lips like a young, inexperienced maiden who had just been kissed for the very first time. And as her brown eyes are slow to open, slow to take in the flickers from her lord husband's mouth to his own piercing eyes. She squints, watching him like with great scrutiny, before finally deciding to speak and in a whisper, she let her question be heard.

' You must have mistaken me for someone else, my lord husband. I'm afraid I am not your whore. '

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A nice, long soak was exactly what he had needed after days of being stuck in bed with a high fever that had made him far too ill for far too long. But now that he was on his own two feet once again, he certainly did not want to return to being an invalid. At least not by choice anyway. A bath had been the first course of action to rid himself of the misery of the past few several days although he wasn't certain exactly for how long he had been unconscious. He simply assumed it was a few short days.

However, if there was one not-too-bad thing that had come from all this, it was how devotedly his wife had sat by his bedside for most of his nights. At times, he wasn't even sure if it was really her or just an apparition. Because there was no way she would be tending to, was there? In the times he found himself waking in a delirious dream like state, he had often found her there. Sitting beside him. Or at the table. But she had been there. Never leaving him. It wasn't until he had finally risen that those visions returned to him like a flood of unbidden memories. Leaving him bewildered, in awe and quite curious even.

Yet, it wasn't until when he saw her come into his chambers right then. That his mind immediately realized that all of those vision were not a fever dream after all. She was actually here. And curiously enough, she was caring for him as well. Despite the way he had treated her all these years. Which he was more than aware had been the most unfavourable of manners. Except to say that he was not moved, in that very moment would have been quite the understatement.

And it was exactly why without much warning or thought, he had moved closer to her, pulled her chin up towards him and just kissed her. Not because he had seen her walk in on him in a state of undress and still wet from his bath. And not because he had caught the way her eyes roamed over the span of his naked chest and he could see the lack of shyness and even admiration. It was mostly because he had actually and truly wanted to kiss her. Even if he knew he would be surprising her, but he didn't really mind nor care for that in that moment. Nor did he think she would push him away either.

And she hadn't.

Curiously enough, she had even returned his kiss in the most softest of manners that made him wonder why he hadn't done this before. Except he knew exactly why he hadn't, and he was in no mood to go down that path tonight. No, absolutely not tonight. He wished to stay in this moment, to take in that subtle yet pleasing gasp he had stolen from those soft lips and that hesitant, barely-there manner with which she touched him, as though she were trying not to get burned by him. Burned by his cruelty and his dismissive ways all these years. Along with all the things that made him who he was to her - the husband who had abandoned her for the years of their marriage.

In that very moment, as he kissed her, nothing else mattered. And all that he allowed his thoughts to roam over were how she was responding to him right then. Soft, she was soft. Softer than he remembered. But then again, when had been the last time? When they were much younger, much more ill at ease, and he had been much less willing to accept this forced-upon-him union. And yet, here they were. And here he was now, gingerly cupping her cheek as his lips were warm against hers. The movement was soft, slow, and gentle, as if he had all the time in the world. And they could pretend that they did, if only for this moment. Perhaps even for tonight. If he could be selfish enough to wish it so.

He would have wanted it go on for a while longer. Until she pulled away and brought them both back to their uncomfortable reality with her words of hurt that were more than obvious to him. It was expected from her. He had hurt her for far too long. It would have been foolish of him to think she would forget all that with simply one kiss. But strangely enough he found himself wishing that he could try to change things, and he was actually going to. Change how things were between them. He found himself suddenly filled with a newfound determination.

‘ But I wasn't mistaken at all, wife. I know who you are, and I still kissed you. And you kissed me back. Would you let us continue, or are you going to walk away from me? ‘

#daemon fic #hotd daemon #daemon x rhea #daemon fanfic #daemon fluff #daemon targaryen fanfic #prince daemon #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #rhae royce #lady rhea #hotd fanfiction #daemon targeryan #asoif fanfic #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfic #asoif / got #i'll be with you series #au fic

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valyriansource · 2 years

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A DREAM OF SPRING SPECULATION: Arya becomes the leader of an outlaw band in the Riverlands called the Wolfpack, bringing justice to the smallfolk (insp.)

Sometimes she thought she might go back to Sharna's inn, if the floods hadn't washed it away. She could stay with Hot Pie, or maybe Lord Beric would find her there. Anguy would teach her to use a bow, and she could ride with Gendry and be an outlaw, like Wenda the White Fawn in the songs.

She dreamed she was a wolf, running free through a moonlit forest with a great pack howling at her heels.

They say the pack is led by a monstrous she-wolf, a stalking shadow grim and grey and huge. They will tell you that she has been known to bring aurochs down all by herself, that no trap nor snare can hold her, that she fears neither steel nor fire, slays any wolf that tries to mount her, and devours no other flesh but man.

#aryastarkedit #gotaryastark #asoiafedit #asoiaf #asoiafwomensource #gotasoiafsource #asoiafsnet #valyrianscrolls #arya stark #post series #au #gifs #ours

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theothermaidoftarth · 30 days

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Exposure

T | pre-Cregan Stark/Nettles

Takes place between chapters 1 and 2 of World on Fire. A small ficlet in Cregan’s pov.

Word count: 1,444

Cw: ableism, angst, complicated relationships, family dynamics

When would he stop for breath?, Cregan thought, looking at his son in mild amusement. An amusement which waned as he heard Rickon speak of ‘Missus Nettles’ for the third time in as many minutes. It would have been of little note had he not also done as much the day before while visiting his grandmother. Cregan could feel Lady Gilliane glancing at him with increasing amusement.

She laughed at the last thing his son had said, hands flapping in his excitement, a gesture she never thought twice of from him. Had it been Cregan... “The undercrofts. Fine place for snares. But would our guest think so? Do you mean to send her running south so soon, my lad?”

Cregan only just held back a snort, though he knew his mother to be japing. Of course a young woman who claimed a dragon the size of a small keep was not faint of heart. Mistress Nettles’ diminutive stature belied her mettle. On the first night of her arrival he saw as much firsthand, many times over. Much of that in his study as she sat before his desk in that ridiculous dress which hung from her like a set of drapes, or a shroud. And he, cold-hearted scoundrel that he was, chose to proceed as if she were not the spirited girl from Jacaerys’ last letter, giving free reign to his ire when their circumstances were no more to her liking than his. He looked at her in the way which had made grown men quail since he was four-and-ten and she looked back with not so much as a startled blink.

It was his undoing. He only acknowledged as much to himself after she came across him in the hot springs. And by then it was too late. He had fallen, hard; his every other thought of her, her wants, her needs, her comfort. Her hopes and dreams and future plans…

Cregan forbeared to cease his son’s babbling; it would only look the worse for him, fermenting his mother’s suspicions. If he had nothing to fear, why put a stop to the boy’s chatter? It was not as if it reminded him that Rickon still had no mother; that Arra was dead and gone, never again to grace the world with her cutting wit; that the young woman whose kindness had so warmed his son could not stay; that Nettles could not remain a part of Rickon’s life. Not as his mother, not as Cregan’s wife. Why would she want him, Cregan was not Osric; he was not as Brandon had been or even Elric.

It seemed no time at all when the lunch hour approached and Bessa bustled Rickon away, leaving Cregan quite alone with his mother. Terrance Snow would be here soon with her medics and mayhap Hollys to tidy the room but for now it was just them.

“I hear you still seat her to your right.”

And who had told her that? There were too many fucking answers. “Should I not? Last I knew she was still a envoy.”

Gilliane knew every one of his silences, every one of his stony looks. Just as he knew her hums and tuts, mysteries it had taken half his life to solve.

“If you were not you, shall I tell you what I would suggest?” she began and he grit his teeth around his ire. Not the first time she had said so. At least twice in his memory, mayhap not as much as other mothers in her place would have but each time it was a blade in his gut. If you were not you; if you were different.

His father never said similar when he lived but the way he looked at Cregan told it true. Would that you were the younger son and Willam the elder. Or worse, would that you had died and he had lived. Centuries before the dragons came, Northmen used to leave unwanted children out in the snow to die, exposed upon the mountains. Cregan wondered sometimes if Lord Rickon would have done so, had the practice still thrived by the time of his birth, a too-quiet babe who squirmed away from all touch as if being branded, who hardly responded to his own name or smiled or laughed or babbled. He knew this because of his mother, some from servants’ whispers but mostly his mother who told him straight to his face. He wasn’t sure if he loved her more for such honesty or not.

“You will tell me all the same,” he said now.

“Take her to your bed. Or go to hers, whichever.”

He stood at once. “Good day to you, Mother.” He did not even stop to bow as he crossed to the door. A few paces from the door, he halted but only to turn and say, “Do not think that Mistress Nettles is only her dragon.”

His mother affected a look of mild affront. “Oh now you insult me. I thought nothing of the sort. But such a look in your eye, as if you’d fall on even your own sword in defence of her… Is this how it is then? Ah, fine, do not answer. But you know as well as I, he would turn in his crypt to see this.” Father. The man he’d tried to honour all his life. Had he been proud of him at all at the time of his death, even a little?

Cregan flexed his jaw. “Then let him do so. He does not dictate what I do, how I live my life.” He’d accept if Nettles didn’t want him and let it be, but to cease for the sake of a ghost? To never be touched by her, body and soul for the sake of a dead man who half despaired of him in life? No, Cregan would not live his life so. He might well be dead himself then.

Gilliane smiled then, small and sly. “No son of mine ought do any less.”

“Are you winning?”

He turned from the mannequin, startled, to see Nettles just at the edge of the training yard. She had seen him naked and he had not been as flustered. He was in his element here, steel in hand and muscles aching. He did not need to worry she’d be impressed; most who saw him were. But still he was flustered, like a boy at his first bout. She had not seen him here before; he had not expected to see her now. And they were alone, as they had been by the hot springs. It gave the moment an unexpected weight. There were no judging eyes to stare, or mouths to smirk behind hands if his wits proved too dull, his tongue too graceless.

He did so want to say something to make her laugh. He wanted to see those dimples of hers again. Laughter limned her voice more oft than not but rarely lit her eyes; she was more serious than she first appeared. Less so now than her first night here. He had been happy to see it, to bask in the rays of her joy. To be touched by her again.

“If you came afore midday, you would see me win against men of flesh and blood.” He rolled his shoulders backwards but she did not look at his muscles, did not giggle, bite her lip, glance up at him through her lashes with a smile. Was he doing this wrong? He had not done so with either Arra or Jacaerys. Things fell into place differently with them both. He had been different; with her, and with him and now.

“Tomorrow then,” her smile was small, sad. “Tomorrow is…” her last day. His stomach roiled. So little time. Nettles smiled brighter, counterfeit gold. “Tomorrow is a fine time for me to experience the north in full. Bring everything full circle. I shall see your finest sword,” she tipped her head to him and he felt hot blood sweep up his neck to his cheeks, “dance my last jig, mayhap find a shadowcat to tame.” As she walked backwards, she grinned at whatever look must have passed across his face. “Think I couldn’t?”

“I think you could. That’s what worries me.”

“And then when I triumph, you will feel awe instead.”

She was too far away to hear when he said, “I already do.” Do you not know what you have already won? He would tell her, would overcome his clumsy tongue and find a way to tell her until she knew without doubt. In my eyes, you are crowned in glory.

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#asoiaf #f&b fic #f&b au #cregan stark #nettles #nettles x cregan stark #cregan x nettles #cw: ableism #pre relationship #rating: t #rare pair #rarepair #oneshot #part of a series

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itstheendofthegoddamnworld · 10 months

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The Dragon’s Spoil Masterlist

Summary: The baseborn daughter with little knowledge of who your Lord father was, your life is caught in the midst of war. The Riverlands are the base for the Greens and the Blacks, dragons loom in the skies, and men die daily, especially within the walls of the cursed Harrenhal. It’s only when a certain one-eyed dragon comes for his retribution. The year is 130 AC and war endures.

A/N: You’re Alys Rivers but with less sorcery and more so just judgement over being a bastard. You’re around the same age as Aemond, maybe two-three years older than him at the time of the Dance.

The Dragon’s Revenge

The Dragon’s Ruin

The Dragon’s Dance

The Dragon’s Demise

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #Aemond the Kinslayer #aemond targaryen x oc #strong! reader #baseborn! reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fic #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #series #asoiaf fic #ASOIAF AU #the dance of the dragons

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luckylucerys · 1 year

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I will be thy priest, and build a fane

Summary:

Aemond has just had the day from hell. Lucerys has been preparing a surprise.

It goes, more or less, according to plan.

“Aemond, I was going to make dinner—”

“Later,” he growls, pulling back now that he’s got his hands free, herding Lucerys towards the den, stopping suddenly when his questing hands finally brush up against the plug sitting between his ass cheeks, and then he’s pushing Luke to the floor right there in the hall.

He yelps as he goes down, whining again, “No, that’s for later!”

“Don’t worry,” Aemond breathes against his neck. “I intend to have you later, too.”

#smut fic #hotd #asoiaf #my fic #fanfic #lucemond #house of the dragon #a song of ice and fire #smut #aemond targaryen #lucerys valeryon #modern au #series: pastourelle

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avatarskywalker78 · 3 months

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Once again it's WIP Wednesday so here's a couple snippets from two of my wips!! Firstly, from the Snowfall in New York scene I wrote this week - more of Evan & Kate.

"I don't know how you do it," he admitted as he handed over her coffee and took a sip of his own, "hearing how their families treat these kids." "Come on, you've heard plenty of harrowing stories as a social worker. Besides," Kate continued, becoming more animated now she'd gotten some caffeine in her, "I know what it's like, remember? I know what it is to be kicked out at fourteen and scared out of my mind because everything I've ever known has changed in an instant. It doesn't make it easier, but it means I can understand. And some of these kids don't necessarily want someone getting angry on their behalf, they just want-" "-someone to listen." He realised. "Exactly." "Even so, it's a good thing you do. I've always thought so." "Thanks." She gave a tired smile. "You're not so bad yourself, you know - you do a lot for the community. "Th-thank you." He hoped he wasn't blushing too much.

He's a very new OC but I already love him and his friendship with Kate.

Secondly, a snippet from my Lissa Blackwood AU - set soon after Jaime's return to King's Landing (it helps to write random scenes sometimes)

He didn't even know why he was heading towards the godswood, given that he hadn't been there in...gods, was it really seventeen years? Seventeen? Sometimes it felt like it had been much, much longer than that...but ever since telling Brienne about Lissa, it had begun feeling not that long at all, like he was still that young man who'd had hope of finding his friend. Jaime had only been here twice in all his years. Both times he had made promises, Both times he'd failed to keep those promises. He'd vowed to be there for Lissa if she needed help, and he hadn't been. Months later he'd sworn to the old gods and the new that he would find her, alive, and he'd been unable to find so much as a trace of her. Why am I doing this, he thought, yet still he made his way towards the heart tree, still standing guard over the place, and as he came to a stop the memories came flooding back of the last time he'd seen her; dressed more formally than usual yet still with that air of wildness about her, dark curls falling about her shoulders, concern in her eyes and an uncharacteristic nervousness about her, enough that he'd been compelled to ask about it. I should've pushed. I should've done more to find out what she was really worried about instead of blindly accepting the answer she gave me.

(The path to redemption brings up a lot of stuff for him - Lissa later turning out to be alive doesn't change that)

Tagging (let me know if you want to be added or removed): @shrinkthisviolet @dream-beyond-the-fantasy

#work in progress wednesday #oc: evan #oc: kate simons #wip: snowfall in new york #marvel cinematic universe #jaime lannister #oc: lissa blackwood #series: lissa blackwood au #asoiaf

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sweetestpopcorn · 2 years

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I’m just going to drop this here 😊

King Viserys and Princess Rhaenyra done right!

#that moment when a show who wasn't even trying and came out more than a decade ago did it better #guys crowns are so HARD to make!#oh looks it's Rhaenyra!#ah no wait it's Matilda #any of these crowns looks more like what Jaehaerys's crown is described as #also loved these series #major Rhaenyra vibes from Maud #and one of my inspirations when writing Rhaenyra #au of giving half a f_ck about canon #viserys targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #pre asoiaf #the dance of the dragons

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rhaenyra-first-of-her-name · 1 year

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Racebend AU: Arianne Martell

एरीऐन मारतैल

#arianne martell #arianne my beloved #asoiaf #asoiaf edit #house martell #martell edit #mood board #asoiaf mood board #asoiaf racebend au series #by ashlyn

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onthesandsofdreams · 1 year

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Of Sansa & Sandor

Pairing: SanSan Summary: Sandor was not a nervous man. Never had been. Words: 100 Notes: A series of short (100 to 500 words) stories.

Read @ AO3

Sandor was not a nervous man. Never had been.

That was, until he began dating Sansa Stark and she brought the idea of him meeting her family. He had been reluctant at first, but in the end, he knew that her family was important to her. And that's how they found themselves at Winterfell's front gate waiting to be opened. He cleared his throat, "So - uh - how many siblings did you said you had."

Sansa laughs, "Four, and my cousin. So, five really. Sandor, I know you're nervous, but they'll love you."

He stares as the gate opens, "I hope."

#sansan #sansa x sandor #sansa stark #sandor clegane #asoiaf fic #asoiaf #established relationship #au: modern westeros #series: of sansa & sandor

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hilarychuff · 2 years

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uptown girls in my asoiaf au graphic series

Who says money can’t buy happiness? Sansa Stark has everything a girl could want — a gorgeous apartment, a passport full of stamps from countries all over the world, a precious little pet pig, and soon the perfect 22nd birthday party. It’s poised to be one of the biggest nights of the year, attended by all the most famous socialites in the city and half of the music scene, and the second she sets her eyes on starving artist and upcoming singer-songwriter Jon Snow, she knows just who she wants to be her birthday present.

Myranda knows him from the industry, swears he’s supposed to be celibate or something, too committed to his art to invest any time in his love life, but Sansa knows how to make men want to go home with her. And Jon does, and then he stays there for three days in a haze of takeout and sex and songs he strums while bent over one of her father’s famous guitars. He stays until the constant candle light stops being romantic and her postmates account stops working, and then he tries to clumsily detangle himself and return to the real world while she tries desperately to convince him to stay one more day in this perfect fantasy she’s built for him. And then he’s gone. And then the money’s gone, too.

Before she knows it, she finds herself sleeping on her friend’s couch and playing nanny to a screaming, sickly little boy, spending her days bringing him to school and ballet and doctor’s appointments, trying to pretend she knows what she’s doing when an 8-year-old acts more like a well-rounded adult than she could ever hope to be. Her nights she spends alternately dodging Jon’s calls asking her to drop his lucky jacket at his record label and leaving him her own voicemails suggesting she could bring it to his place.

When they finally meet at a restaurant, when she delivers his jacket scorched from a kitchen fire of her own making and made new with dye and shoe polish and the skin of a teddy bear she sacrificed to the task, he tells her he can’t see her again. He can’t get dragged back into her world, he says, a world where she seems free of the burdens the rest of them have to bear, especially not now that he’s finally landed a record deal, not now that his music is just as much a business as it is an art. He’s too close, he says, too close to having everything he wants, everything he’s been working for. She can’t make him stay, and so she lets him go, and she doesn’t mention how everything is falling apart around her as Myranda kicks her out, Robin fires her, Petyr tells her she has no choice left other than to sell her father’s guitars, her mother’s dresses, even her brother’s signed baseball card collection.

All of it is gone, just like that, and Jon’s song, the one written about the four nights and three days he spent wrapped up in her bed sheets is playing on what seems like every radio station. But she’s strong. She’s a Stark, Ned and Catelyn’s daughter, Robb’s little sister, and she can make it through this. She can be brave. Her life may no longer be a fairytale, but it’s hers, and she’s determined to make something of it.

ft. sansa as molly, sweetrobin as ray, jon as neal, littlefinger as roma sort of, cersei as bob sort of, harry as huey, myranda as ingrid, ned stark as tommy gunn

#jonsa #jonsa au #jon snow #sansa stark #sweetrobin #asoiaf #asoiaf au #got #my graphics #my au graphics #asoiaf uptown girls au #also btw i am working on something longer for this #the blurb got way out of hand and i had to cut it down #but i have lots of ideas about fleshing this all out #asoiaf au series

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memswritesfics · 7 months

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I'll be with you - Ch.3

Or would fate change in the blink of an eye and somehow bring them closer together despite their painful past?

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen & Rhea Royce Word Count: 6048 words

A/N: This chapter got a little too long woops. Anyhoo, feel free to let me know your thoughts in the comments or in my inbox. Reblogs, comments and likes are also greatly appreciated!!!

| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |

Chapter 3: Colour me Surprised

She was tiresome, he thought.

“Oh for fuck’s sake! Would you drop the sheep comment already? You weren’t even there to hear me say it. So what would you know?” he retorted, exasperated. He wished he wasn’t, but he was. It was just the way of them, wasn’t it? To forever be the truly tiresome pair that they were. Even if she was still trying to care for him right then. Even if she was still trying to be the sensible one. The level-headed one. While he was the impulsive, self-destructive one made of fire and blood.

Rhea smiled at him, just slightly, at the irritated question her lord husband had thrown at her. So much so that he noticed her turn her head away no doubt in an attempt to hide her amusement. Could anyone blame her? This had to be the first she had witnessed such a visceral reaction from the prince and having his own words thrown back at him.

And though Rhea had never been much of a humorous woman, this had never meant that she could not be pleased. Funny, how humour, even a little bit works. Because with such a small smile, now already slowly fading away, Rhea felt the shackles of her guard loosen slightly. The girl in her, the maiden who had once hoped that this marriage would be anything but what it was, wept. Even his insults, which once would have hurt her, now sounded nothing more than the whining of a boy who was denied sweets after dinner. Rhea thought to let it be until she found herself speaking.

Her usual cold response and defiance woke him up from thinking that things might have actually changed between them. He had fooled himself into thinking that maybe this time was different. After all, she had gone out of her way to sit by his bed during his illness. Perhaps he could stop being such an insolent idiot and be what she wanted him to be. Her husband. However, here they were, back in their usual push and pull. While she tirelessly repeated his words right back to him, and it was a nuisance.

This was exactly why he found her exasperating when she was not being dull. It was funny how they so easily reverted to their usual state after a momentary lapse of change. For a tiny moment, he actually thought that they might have found a way out of this self-destructive spiral they reveled in inflicting upon one another. Of course, he had to retort to her biting words because how could he not? He did not know how to be a bigger man. He was much too tempestuous to be one.

"Funny you say that, lady wife. Because does your cunt even know what it's like to be wet? I'd imagine not." He sneered, flopping down on the bed and then spreading himself over it as if he owned the whole damn thing. Which he did. It had been his bed all these past wretched days while his body was convalescing and before then even. To think he actually and for a brief and stupid moment thought he could share it with her. How daft he must have been. Except she was nothing but his unwanted visitor right then.

Her Lord husband was unusual. She found herself thinking.

"And were it ever to be wet, how would you know?" Rhea remarked, her tone cool and challenging. She let the implication linger with a pregnant pause, deliberately made only because she could. You were gone for so long, husband. How would you have ever known if I had not spread these legs? How will you ever know if I've never invited another into our marriage bed, and allowed them to see me writhe and claw and want the way you haven't? She thought to herself.

The answer would have been simple: he wouldn't know. All he had was his faith in her. But was Daemon Targaryen ever a man of faith?

"Is that so? I would have thought it was unbecoming for a lady to pleasure herself. And how exactly would you even learn of such a thing unless you went to visit some common whores to learn a lesson or two?" He didn't really think she would. She was too proper, too self-restricting. Even if she tried to rile him up by pretending to have lain with others, he knew better. He would have heard about any indiscretions if they had happened. And he hadn't.

Except even without having to hear anything, he just knew.

Because it wasn't like her. Her honour mattered to her more than anything else in the world did. He had learned that the first time he had stolen a kiss from her in the stables at King's Landing all those years ago, when she had been his young, dewy-eyed, and impressionable betrothed.

He paused and then sat up to look her in the eyes plainly. The irritation he felt was no longer there. His gaze was blank and just as unwavering, holding hers firmly. "I don't want the staff. I would like you to stay. As long as you stop jabbing at me and trying to make me seem worse when I am actually trying to be civil. Could you manage that, wife?" Perhaps if he presented it as a challenge she would take him on.

At her husband's odd request, she heeded. She listened. She sat up straight.

"If this is you being civil? Then by the gods, I would not pray to see you at your most chivalrous, husband." She couldn't help but retort, making herself comfortable in the chair that had been her station for days on end when he was fighting the infection and the fever. It was, by all means, a comfortable chair.

Rhea had half a mind to demand a pillow to pad her back, but she was only ever the unwanted wife and the last-minute assistant requested by Lord Corlys Velaryon to tend to what her husband could not. She would not make such ridiculous demands. She never had the right to anyway.

"You have no idea how chivalrous I can be when I choose to be," he said. "It's just that I don't try to be." He shrugged.

"Your men talk." She began, responding to his question from earlier. She was being cautious. Unaware that they could have a normal conversation without throwing accusations and laying insults at one another. Could they? They should be able to. (Deep down, Rhea really wanted them to.) "The sheep comment. Your men have surrounded me this past week. And they talk. A lot." She paused for a moment, allowing her words to sink in before Rhea tried catching his eyes again. Her expression was resolute and serious.

"Do they?" he asked, raising a brow. "I wouldn't be surprised if they did. It's not only my men who talk. It's most people. Human nature, you see. One that I'm not too keen on myself, but it is useful since I learn quite a lot from simpletons and their incessant talking." His wife was back to being her usual self he noted as he tilted his head to the side. His features were not surprised, but tired. He propped his cheek on his hand and eyed her with thinned lips.

She was still fighting him, even though he had made it clear that he didn't want to engage in such a conversation. At least she was sitting down and not leaving him. That was a start, an attempt for them to be civil to each other. If they could ever be that.

"I do not mind, you know. I am more than aware of who I am to you. Although, I did have to discipline a small few of your men who went overboard." Mainly those who had assumed that since their lord commander had freely insulted his lady wife, that would mean they could have a pass at groping her.

Rhea had taken hands for it. At least it left the rest of the men not to dare and act so despicably again. But she had no intention of sharing any of that. Instead, she merely cocked her chin upwards. Unaware of how attached Daemon was to his men. Perhaps a lot. And if that were so, then she had to disclose this much at least.

“Should you need compensation from those men I've let go, let me know. I will not be in your debt.” His eyes furrowed when he saw her expression grow serious. And then the words that followed made him wonder what had happened. What did she mean by having to discipline a few of them? And how had they gone overboard? She was even talking about compensating him. When all he wished to know was why. Would she tell him if he asked? There was only way to find that out.

“I don't care for debt. Tell me what happened, wife.” He was never good with feelings. He had never been good at being good. But in this moment, he found himself wanting to try. He wasn't sure if she would take his attempt at being truthful. She would probably mock him. And if that were her response, could he really blame her? Not really. Not after all the years and years of being what he had been to her. So why did she even bother to care for him after all the way he had treated her? Because she was better than him. More moral. More responsible. More solid. More grounded. More abiding by the bond that tied them to one another. In many ways, she was the opposite of him. But also the same as him, only in the parts that could be considered evil and unwanted.

“What if I did?” She suddenly asks, changing the topic back to their previous mention of her cunt. She was playing a dangerous game, she knew. “What if I had allowed men into my bed, and I’ve kept it well from you. How would you know I did not lie?” She let the question hang in the air for a good while.

“I would say, colour me surprised.” He mused lightly, not missing a beat at this change. Watching her curiously as he trailed the back of his hand along his chin as his amethyst gaze regarded her in a new light. Was this her being playful? He hadn't noticed this before. And truth be told, she was intriguing him right then, more than he had expected. But what was she trying to play at here? And more importantly, how did she manage to do such a thing? He didn't think her adventurous. But then again, he didn't really think her much of anything other than what he had seen or known of what little she had shown him. What he had been met with all their years of momentarily knowing one another during his months of forced exile at the Runestones. It had never been anything surprising back then. At least not until now anyway.

“I would know you were. Even if you hid it well, as you say. Because it isn't like you. It goes against your regard of honour. Something you hold quite to heart. Or am I mistaken?” Daemon asked matter of factly.

Rhea could not help herself. She smiled. It wasn't a smile born out of mirth or joy, of course. Not a grin that truly reached her eyes, and as any poet would claim in their prose, it did nothing to make her look infinitely younger. If anything, it accentuated the days which had worn her down as her life as Lord of Runestone were clearly (and though hopefully momentarily) replaced by her days as her husband's regent. Still, it was a smile nevertheless. A smile that graced her features. One would even dare say that there might be a tinge of shyness in it when Rhea was quick to duck her head again, though not from any attempt to hide such an expression away from prying eyes, but merely the fact that-

"So you do know your wife," she claimed aloud.

"Well since you haven't refuted my words, then, yes. I believe I do." He noticed that smile. And even if it wasn't one that was reflected deeply in her eyes and shown on the rest of her features. It was still a smile all the same. And he honestly felt quite pleased with himself for managing such a feat. Unaware that he could manage it in the first place. It was certainly unexpected.

He had never desired her. At least not before now. And even now, he wasn't certain if it was desire or his wanting to do something for her. As she had done for him. To carry out his duty as her lord husband. As she had done hers by being beside him all throughout his illness. A part of him strangely thought that it didn't have to be that way. In a brief moment, he had actually thought and wanted to do something good for her.

However, it backfired in his face. He realized that his approach could have been better, but he wasn't a man who knew how to coax and be soft by instinct. He had grown to be much too hard and callous to ever try now. And in the back of his mind, he knew, he really, truly, knew that she deserved softness after all the fire he had burned her with. He just didn't know how to give back to her. He couldn't. It simply wasn't in him. Or maybe it was, but he didn't want to look for it. What did it matter now, anyway?

When Rhea had heard his response, it had delighted her. But she always was no fool. She would not dare think that her lord husband was possessive of her.

After all, if he had never desired her as a wife, why would he care if others desired her? In that sense, Rhea applied her own logic to the situation. In all their years together she had never truly desired her own lord husband. If they had slept together on their wedding night, she knew that she would have simply laid there and let him have his way with her, simply for getting the act over and done with. And to hope that it would be enough for her to bear his children.

She believed there would have been no pleasure from the act; it was nothing but an alliance, after all, born of duty. However, after learning of the affairs he partook in. Rhea spared him no ill feeling besides the first dose of humiliation she felt within the first few years of their marriage.

Even then, it was only because the people around her had been ruthless in comparing her husband's bedmate preferences, pointing out that he had welcomed anyone but his own lady wife to his own bed. She had been upset back then, only because it had seemingly highlighted the duty she could not perform. That along with her rigorous need to not disappoint her father and the lady queen, she had taken it hard. But it was all in the past. She had grown stronger since then. It was only later that she realized that any sadness she had harboured back then was not particularly, because she had lost her husband as a lover. She had never wanted him as one. In fact, she had since then rejected him as he had done to her.

The conversation continued. Tell me what happened, he had demanded. Returning it back to serious matters.

Rhea's gaze flickered to him. Where would she start? That two of his men had groped her ass while she was trying to ask about the situation of his meagre kingdom? It was not a story she wished to tell. "They were being insolent," she said. "And I saw to it that they would not anymore."

Daemon listened to her quietly, expecting more than what she had said. Just one or two sentences, when he had hoped for an explanation. He realized she did not want to elaborate. Was it because she thought he wouldn't care? Or did she think he would be dismissive when he currently was being anything but? His eyes narrowed and there was a fire flashing within them.

"They were being insolent," he repeated quietly, understanding her well-behaved manner of shaping it. "Do you mean to say that they touched you?" A pause, one that was deathly and pregnant, before he continued.

"Where?" It was more a command than it had been a question. Already formulating ways in his mind's eyes of how to deal with whoever had dared do such a thing. Touch who was his. And his alone. How dare they? And how dare they think that they could get away with it?

He wasn't listening to her mention of having dealt with it. Because it wasn't her place to deal with it in the first place. It was his. And deal with it he would. Nothing else was on his mind but all forms of cruel and ugly means of death that could be inflicted on those who dared touch that which was his.

Rhea didn't much notice a change in him. Surely he would know of it later when he asked his own men – that is, if he remembered to. That was the incident, which had made the rest of the Gold Cloaks secretly whisper that she was, indeed, the queen of the Stepstones – unwanted of a wife or otherwise. Rhea was bored of the spectacles his men were prone to. She was more than aware that she was only ever ogled at because she was a lady.

She was certain her husband had taken more hands than the ones she had back then. It was strange then that they didn’t look at him as though he had grown two heads the way they did with her. "Does it still hurt?" she gestured to his wounded chest then – the burn, the infection, the scars of war. Rhea's eyes did not waver in fright. This was what her husband had endured – why would she look away?

It wasn't until she spoke and asked her question that he actually looked at her again. Brow furrowed and a little confused, before he looked down at where she was gesturing -- his exposed chest wound and the burns that had closed it up. He shook his head and then shrugged.

"Not as much as I would make those who dared touch you, hurt." His demand to know what had happened gripped her attention before her thoughts could stray too far. Rhea's eyebrow raised at the hardness of his tone.

Oh? she thought. So he was being possessive now, was he? Or rather, more territorial than possessive. Like a dog. That was her first impression. Or perhaps a dragon? Rhea wouldn't know about those beasts. Since whatever curiosity she had harboured of the Targaryens and their Valyrian blood, she had swallowed down the night he did not consummate their marriage. Still, she wished she knew a little now. She had never had to deal with a husband who was territorial of her, who would care to defend her honour when he used to be the one to slander it.

"I've already taken their hands," she said in a tone that was sharp and final, neither confirming nor denying his accusation. She stood up and headed to where she knew the maester had kept most of his ointments and treatments in a wicker basket. Then picked up a bowl of balm and returned to his bed, sitting by the edge of where his form did not already engulf it. "The maester would slather this on your burns and wounds each time they've bathed or cleaned you. Since you are not interested in wearing a shirt, I suggest you continue the treatment."

"Did you take a page out of my book of dealing with lowlifes?" He had to admit, he was surprised to know his lady wife could carry out such a feat. He didn't expect the vale to be adhering to his extreme measures but they weren't at the vale currently so perhaps that's why she got away with it. Nonetheless, even if she did do it. He didn't think it was enough. "It's a good attempt, wife. All the same, I will still deal with them in my own way. With the help of Caraxes."

And that was all she needed to know. She was smart enough to put two and two together and understand what he meant. Being burned alive was what they deserved for daring to touch who was his. His eyes followed her as she moved to bring about the basket then settled on the bed a little away from him. He could see she was taking care not to invade his space. Trying not to sit too close. But he didn't move away either. He stayed where he was and he frowned a little at her bowl.

"I don't need that treatment anymore, Rhea. It's healed just fine now. see?" He gestured to the angry red wound along with the various other marks on his chest. He hadn't really noticed that he had spoken her given name without the use of wife or woman. It had come out of his lips as naturally as though they were old friends who spoke to one another so easily. "And I like being shirtless in my chambers with my wife. Isn't it supposed to be a normal occurrence?" He added with a smirk and a shrug of his shoulders. He was trying to make light of a situation that she was trying to be very serious about. Except he didn't think it needed it really. He had passed the worst of his ailment and now it was just about regaining his strength again. Perhaps also for this wound to stop being so red too.

"I should thank you for caring about me, however. No one has done this for me since I could remember. Also, would it be wrong of me to try and get to know you better now, wife? I know I've hurt you over the years. But you have stood by me during my weakest moment and I would like to return the favour."

He knew he couldn't make up for all the years of abandonment she had suffered at his hand. But he also knew that since she had offered to do her duty towards him, he could also extend that much as well. It wasn't anything about not wanting to feel indebted to her. That wasn't the driving force behind his current motive. It was more a sense to make things up to her. If only a little. Little by little.

Things could be different between them. Perhaps.

His question caught her off guard. If Rhea were more expressive, perhaps she would have dramatically gasped. As it was, the only outward reaction she gave her husband was the way any trace of amusement fell from her face as the gap between her mouth closed. Her dark brown eyes roamed over him, searching for any underlying expression that might suggest an ulterior motive. Rhea shook her head once, ducking her gaze downwards. She could not bear to genuinely imagine, to sincerely hope, that this would mean anything more than them discussing debts. Her response was softly spoken.

"I release you of it. The favour, my prince." She will grant Daemon Targaryen his freedom. All she ever wanted as an adult is not to become her own husband's enemy. "You owe me nothing. I have done what any wife would have done."

“I don't wish to be released. Because it wasn't a favour. But kindness and a sense of duty that is a testament to your nature. I owe you for taking care of me. But I also wish to be with this wife who has taken care of me. I'm not ungrateful, Rhea." This time he actually was aware of his saying her name and he had even placed emphasis on it.

It was not a plea, but a simple wish to get to know the woman he had willingly abandoned. He had done it out of spite and rebellion, not because of anything she had done wrong. It was not her fault that he had been running away from her for so long. It was simply a cruel twist of fate that had kept them so estranged, even though they had never really tried to be anything different.

But now, he found himself wanting to change. He wanted to be different from the negligent prince who had disregarded his wife. He wasn't an ingrate. He didn't easily disregard those who did him well. In his own way, he was also honorable, though not to the same fault as she was. And it was for this reason, and not because he felt indebted to her, that he wanted to try. He wanted to be the husband she needed him to be.

He wasn't sure if he could do it, but he knew that if he set his mind to it, he could achieve anything. The battle at the Stepstones was a testament to that.

Did he want children? He wasn't sure. An heir would be a good thing to have, but would his wife give him one? And if she did, where would their child rule? No doubt she had other plans for her successor, so their hypothetical progeny might be left with nothing. Much like he was currently. Not heir to his brother's throne, replaced by his brother's daughter instead. Something that still didn't sit well with him, but that was a thought for another time.

He pursed his lips at her. Of course she would be iron-handed and dismissive of his words. Stubborn, just like he was. Choosing to listen to the maester's even though he knew what was best for him. He was actually feeling better than he had in a good while, but he didn't fault her for choosing caution. It was her nature to do things in their proper ways.

He watched her as she artfully scooped the glup and when her eyes met his, he quirked his lips upwards in amusement. Instead of giving her a nod of approval, he took her hand and the bowl and carefully scraped every little bit of the horrid concoction off her fingers until they were clean.

Then, with a swift motion, he pinned her underneath him. Holding her hands at the sides of her head, he looked into her eyes, before trailing briefly to her lips. He wanted to feel them against his as he had done all those years ago when they were much younger. But he wasn't going to make the same mistake of yesterday. He didn't want her annoyed at him and calling him one who gave cheap kisses.

"Will you let me kiss you, wife?" he asked.

"I don't want you calling me uncouth or accusing me that my cheap kiss would have you swooning at my feet. I also don't much care for you calling me 'my prince.' I know you're trying to reinforce that distance between us. One that I don't much care for having it exist any longer. So, what do you say? Will you let me kiss you and see where things go from there?"

Rhea didn't know what to do with a husband who suddenly changed his mind.

She excused his behavior in her head, not wanting to hurt his pride. Maybe it was the stress of defending this awful and wretched kingdom that had gotten to him. Maybe he even missed his lovers. Should she call them? Surely some of his men knew of his favorite pleasure houses. Maybe she could write to them. Or would it have been easier to hire the girls closest to the area of these Stepstones?

But then her husband distracted her train of thoughts. He took the bowl and easily scraped the concoction from her fingers. Surprisingly obedient of him, she thought while observing, until of course, she found herself on her back, and her husband on top of her.

Rhea sucked in a sharp breath. He was the blood of the dragon, and they did not tend to leave their preys unscathed. Except, he also said, "Will you let me kiss you and see where things go from there?" And for the first time, Rhea couldn't fully articulate it. She didn't know what he had planned, she couldn't see what sort of result he was trying to seek, what sort of means to an end she would become this time around for the member of this house.

"Let go of me," she said softly, her tone barely above a whisper. And she meant mostly his hands. The state of him on top of her, surprisingly, was not that concerning. Once it was free, Rhea did not immediately move to get up. Instead, bravely, boldly, her cold hands - the hands of the Vale - went to touch his face. The face of her husband. The face she didn't think she would ever touch. And she ghosts her fingers down the slope of his sharp cheekbones, his chiseled jaw; like a blind man finally gifted with the power of sight. This is the face Craghar Drahar saw as the rogue prince slew him. The thought sends shivers down her spine.Rhea didn't know what to do with a husband who suddenly changed his mind.

Rhea breathed softly. She pushed strands of his hair back - it was cut short after the war, she understood, due to the thickness of the blood which had dried and matted when he came back to safety, though it was slowly growing back again. It was so white, she thought. So pale. The blood of old Valyria. And for a moment, Rhea thought about brushing the same hair back from Aemma's forehead; about gently tracing her fingers against the wisp of silver blond from atop Rhaenyra's own. She was only a few days' old then, Rhaenyra. That seemed so long ago. And she was touching one of them again.

"You may kiss me," Rhea said instead, now testily putting her hands against his collarbones, where she could feel, on his right side, his burn marks begin. "If you will take your meal. Tonight." When in doubt, negotiate. She would not only let him have his way. Did he not know her at this point, that she would not try to defend herself and still have him adhere to her own requests?

His lady wife might have been closed off and expressionless, but she was also kind and willing to help her husband. Perhaps in that kindness, they could find a way to start over. He would have to wait and see.

Because deep within the recesses of his closed-off heart, he could feel that things were stirring. A heart that he had shut away from love for so long because he didn't want the pain. A pain he knew he had inflicted on her with his abandonment. At the time, however, he had only been thinking of himself. He always only thought of himself, when he wasn't looking out for the best interests of his brother. That was long ago, though. Before he had been cast aside, thrown away without much regard. His heart had been closed off for much too long.

Except right then, something was happening for the very first time with her. He felt cared for, wanted. He was seen as a person, not a tool to be used in this battle or the next. And she had cared for him for all those nights, the signs of her exhaustion painted on her features. And here she was, still caring for him. How could his heart not stir at that?

Perhaps those who found out later on, that here he was trying to reconcile with the wife he had abandoned years and years ago, would think him gone crazy. Except was that really anything new? They already thought him insane, beyond hope, not fit to be anything but the prince. Never to be king, forever cursed to be the second son, shunned by the gods of old and new. Which he hardly cared for nor gave much heed to. The gods were useless. He only believed in himself.

His eyes narrowed, trying not to miss any signs her body and face revealed. Until he heard her words, spoken softly. He almost would have missed them if he hadn't been so keenly alert. And there was not a hint of fear in them. Nor was there anger. Just surprise. He realized then that a breath he had unknowingly held was released from him. His lungs forcing him to breathe, in and out, loud in his ears. And he did as she wanted of him. Until it was she who touched him. And he blinked. But that was all she got out of him. He was as still as a statue otherwise, allowing her cold fingers to roam over the warmth of his skin. She was studying him, softly, with such carefulness as though he were fragile. As though he could burn her, but she wasn't the least bit afraid.

She continued tracing her fingers along the length of his cheeks, the span of his jaw, along the breadth of his shortened hair. Learning him with the curiosity and innocence of a maiden that wished to know more about her lord husband. They might have been older in years, but in that moment, they were transported back to their stolen youth. She was the opposite of him. He was hasty and she took her time. He did things roughly, but she could be gentle. He wanted things now, but she wanted to savor and linger. They were opposites, but they could also complement one another, if he would allow himself that chance.

The words that came out of her next had him arch his silver eyebrows, surprised that she had accepted. Until he heard what followed and they relaxed. His lips curled into a half-grin. Of course, she was bartering. A kiss for his meal. Still looking out for him. Was she always this devoted? How had he not seen it before? Steadfast and loyal. He had only seen what he wished, not what she was. He hadn't missed the way her eyes refused to meet his. Was it shyness? And she wanted to have his evening meal with him. Now that seemed like quite the accomplishment.

A step in the right direction towards this new road, wherever it may lead them. Gingerly, taking his cue from her, he brushed the back of his knuckle across her cheek, swiping her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. As though he were trying to wipe away her insecurity. Banish it from her mind. His hand then dropped to her neck, leaving a trail of flame in their wake as it traveled down her body to settle on her waist. The other then cupped her cheek and leaned down to claim her lips with his. This being their second kiss, slow and sweet. Like embers waiting to be kindled. And not at all like the violent gush of fire awakening from the pits of a dragon's gut. He pulled away moments later, seating himself on the back of his legs.

"I wouldn't mind having your company, wife."

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