#harwin oneshot

[drakoneve]

A Father’s Love

request: Hii!! I was wondering if you could do a aemond imagine where you are jace twin sister so you have the strong look! Viserys decided to marry you off to aemond to prevent the bloodshed and your first born a son comes out with the the dark brown hair and aegon starts teasing his brother about it because it’s like karma hit the greens about having a targaryean with a dark hair but aemond ends up protecting you and your child from all the comments coming from the greens. Thank you 🤍

pairing: aemond targaryen x y/n velaryon (strong)

word count: 2k

warning: mentions of pregnancy & childbirth, canon typical violence (protective aemond)

a/n: i think aemond’s son having the strong look would change his view of rhaenyra & her boys

When you were still but a girl your mother, Princess Rhaenyra, explained to you that you would have your husband picked out for you in an arranged marriage. You didn’t quite understand it then, but the picture became clearer as you got older. 

By the time you were one and ten your grandsire King Viserys had declared you would marry your uncle Aemond born of the same year. The arrangement came after the night of your aunt Laena’s funeral, when Aemond claimed Vhagar for his own and your younger brother Lucerys struck out his left eye.

You were close with Aemond when you were children, but after the night he lost his eye, Rhaenyra moved your family to Dragonstone. Your relationship with Aemond had been reduced down to letters over the last six years. He wrote once and he expressed his fear that you might not love him because of the scar on his face due to the response of the whispers from the Keep. You assured him something so trivial as an old wound would not deter the feelings you already held for him.

The only people you told about the letters you exchanged with Aemond was your twin, Jacaerys, and your mother. Jacaerys didn’t like the idea of you marrying your uncle at first, but when you read him some of the sweeter things Aemond had written you, Jacaerys decided your uncle wasn’t the worst man you could possibly marry. Rhaenyra didn’t mind her younger brother and was more concerned about what Alicent could do to you upon your return.

Your reunion with Aemond went profoundly well as you promised it would, and the two of you married within weeks of your return to King’s Landing. Though Rhaenyra, your brothers, and uncle/new step-father Daemon attended the wedding celebrations, they didn’t stay long after the celebrations concluded. You understood because of the tensions between your mother and Queen Alicent, but it didn’t make you miss your family any less.

Aemond helped, however, as he loved having you by his side at all times. He walked you to your lessons, invited you to watch him train, he accompanied you to dress fittings. With all the attention you’d been receiving from your proud husband it came as no surprise to anyone when Aemond announced at dinner one night that you were officially with child. 

From that moment on Aemond’s tendencies to keep a watchful eye on you even worse. Any moment he couldn’t remain by your side he assigned two of his very own hand picked Kingsguard knights to accompany you. Thankfully your pregnancy went as smoothly as possible, all things considered. You had mild nausea through the majority but eventually it relented and things were smooth from there.

Labor was long, and incredibly painful, so much so the maester advised if you’d squeezed any harder you’d have broken Aemond’s hand. Aemond had stayed by your side from the moment you informed him your labors had begun and refused to leave your side despite some of the arguing of the maester and most of the midwives. Finally after about fourteen hours, you gave birth to a healthy chubby, brown haired boy. 

So focused on the newborn babe laid contently on your chest you hardly registered that your mother-in-law Queen Alicent had entered the room. Despite being nothing but kind towards her, Alicent never made a move to return the same sentiment. 

But Aemond noticed. He watched as his mother’s face contorted into a look of disgust as she glared, glared down at the babe on your chest. He watched as his mother forced a smile on her face. Her dead eyes said everything Aemond needed to know.

“He’s a little darling,” Alicent forced through her fake smile. 

Soon after Taelon’s birth, rumors began spreading around the Keep of his legitimacy. Your lady in waiting, Lilian had been the first to mention the rumors to you one morning as she brushed and braided your hair. The most popular whisperers were ones along the lines of that your son had been conceived while Aemond was away or that you had laid with your brother Jacaerys instead.

You mentioned them to Aemond later that same day when you met him for tea, and he told you he’d already heard with them and was working towards finding the source of such blasphemy so it would be properly taken care of.

Almost a whole month later, however, and Aemond did not yet have the source. At least, that’s what he told you. The whole time he knew it was his own mother, Alicent, that was spreading the rumours throughout the Keep. For weeks he turmoiled in anguish and fury that resulted deep in his gut as he worked his mind for a solution. 

He couldn’t decide whether, or more accurately, just how to confront his mother on the subject. The news of the arrival of your mother and the rest of your family arriving in King’s Landing provided the well needed distraction for Aemond, and you.

You and Aemond await side by side as your family approaches, you with Taelon swaddled in your arms. Rhaenyra reaches you first, kissing your face several times before looking down to the babe in your arms. “Oh,” Rhaenyra cooes at your son. “He’s gorgeous, my dear. You’ve done wonderfully.”

“Thank you,” you smile at her, and offer her your son. She takes him in her arms happily. 

Jacaerys appears by your side and pulls you into a tight hug. “I’ve missed you, sister.”

“And I, you, brother.” you whisper to him. 

Lucerys and Joffrey join the hug, but soon lurch away as you begin to ruffle their thick, dark hair. 

“You boys have grown into fine young men! I cannot believe how tall you all are,” you gape at your brothers. 

Aemond places his hand at the small of your back and pulls you into his side. “My wife is quite right, nephews. It pleases me to see the man my own son is sure to grow into.”

Jacaerys can’t hide the shock in his face as he studies his uncle for any malicious intentions. Lucerys grasps your hand like he did when he was first learning how to walk and would use you to support himself. Rhaenyra’s eyes widen at Aemond in shock and she looks to your for an answer. All you give her is a shrug as you take your son from her arms and look back to your family. Your mother, brothers, stepfather Daemon, standing with you, your husband, and newborn son. Something you once thought to be impossible, happening in front of your own eyes.

You knew after everything that happened between Aemond and Lucerys the night Aemond claimed Vhagar the dynamics in your family would never be the same. For a long time Aemond held a deep, vicious hatred for Lucerys. To be honest you didn’t exactly blame him. After Aemond finally opened up to you about some of his insecurities and frustrations regarding the loss of his eye and the scar that came as a result, and it helped you understand these fears and insecurities is what fueled his hatred for your brother. Over time, as you fell in love with Aemond even more and convinced him of your feelings, he began to feel less insecure.

The welcoming party disbursed as your family began to settle into the palace for their stay. Word of their arrival has spread throughout the Keep by now, and your grandsire Viserys ordered a large feast to celebrate not only the birth of your son, but the union of the entirety of House Targaryen under one roof. At first the plans made you anxious as you’d wanted a rather small dinner consisting of the royal family, but it seems there are other plans. 

Normally you would get ready for such events in the confines of your shared chamber with Aemond, but tonight you opted to join your mother and Daemon in their chambers. Rhaenyra asked for your help in choosing her hairstyle and accessories, an act you once cherished as a child. As you help your mother, Daemon coddles your newborn in his arms.

“He’s quite the charmer,” compliments Daemon, who is wrestling with the babe’s free flying foot. “have you chosen an egg for his cradle, tala (daughter)?”

“Not yet, uncle,” you shake your head. “Aemond wants us to pick it out together, and I haven’t had the chance to make it to the Dragonpit as of late.” You finish the parallel braids in your mother’s hair, securing them in place with delicate pins. 

“You must choose one before we leave,” he demands, not taking his eyes off your son. “I cannot, in good faith, leave my grandson knowing he has no dragon.”

Aemond appears in the chamber doorway dressed in his finest leathers. “I assure you, uncle, Taelon will have a dragon. I will make sure no son of mine goes without.”

You smile at him, taking him in for the glorious man he is. “Taelon is but a babe, sweet husband. He has no use for dragons except for our own right now.”

“Correct,” Aemond wraps one arm around your waist. “Though the sooner we choose an egg, the sooner the hatchling will come forth.”

Rhaenyra stepped forward to rest a reassuring hand in her younger brother’s shoulder. “Now's not the time to worry of such things. We’re here to celebrate Taelon.”

“Oh and celebrate we must,” you coo before scooping your son from Daemon’s arms. “Who wouldn’t want to celebrate such a handsome little face?”

The rest of the night went off without a hitch, everyone dining, drinking, dancing, and having fun. For the first time in a long time your family was collected in one room, children and all, enjoying themselves. It was well into the night when you excused yourself briefly to see Taelon to bed before returning.

You’d just settled yourself back into your seat next to Aemond when Aegon rose from his own chair. “I’d like to make a final toast,” he begins. “to Taelon, first of his name, may he grow to be handsome, healthy... and Strong.”

Aemond rises from his seat so fast the front legs lifted off the ground and it fell back onto the floor. “I’ll have your blasphemous tongue for that, ” he growled through gritted teeth. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword and he began to pull it from its sheath before rounding the side of the table to meet his brother.

“I dare you to repeat yourself.” Aemond hissed as he raised his sword to Aegon. The Kingsguard did not draw their swords, instead choosing to shield themselves and the eldest prince. “And it shall be the last thing you ever do.”

Alicent rushed towards her sons, getting in between Aemon and the Kingsguard. “That is enough!” the queen demanded, “Put away your sword, Aemond.”

You stand from your seat, tired of the insolence, and you join Aemond’s side. “Queen Alicent is right, husband. There is no need to sink yourself to such lows as this drunkard.”

The two of you returned to your chambers where Taelon slept soundly in his cradle under the watchful eyes of your lady in waiting and two guards Aemond picked for Taelon specifically. You dismissed all three, knowing the guards would take up their post outside your chamber doors. 

Aemond begins stripping down to his night clothes and you begin doing the same, keeping a watchful eye on your husband. You knew the rumors of Taelon not being Aemond’s son was beginning to get to him even though both of you knew there was no other contenders. 

As the two of you began to settle into bed, you scoot as close to Aemond as physically possible. He chuckles softly before wrapping you up in his arms. He kisses your forehead, then presses a string of soft kisses onto your hairline. 

“You should ignore your brother,” you whisper into the darkness. “He’s a fool who knows nothing of what it means to be a dutiful and loving father as you are. I’m confident Aegon doesn’t even know the twins’ names.”

Aemond laughs, “I suppose you’re right, my love...”

You sit up, placing your right hand on the pillow next to Aemond’s head for support. He reaches up to brush the long strands of your unbound hair that has fallen around your face. “What ails you, husband?”

He hesitates, eye searching your face for any sign of deceit. “I’m afraid of failing our son. Mine own father was never a constant in my life, and I fear this leaves me unable to father our son properly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you whisper. “I’ve seen the way you watch over him. I mean, the way you protected him tonight against Aegon’s words, that proves you are more than capable than watching over our son. I’ve never doubted you from the day I told you I was with child. From that day forth your only focus has been providing for and protecting your family. You’re an honorable man, Aemond. And the most capable father.”

Aemond rises to press your lips together in a quick kiss. When he lays back down he pulls you with him, resting your head on his chest. This way you can hear the hard thump of his heart beating in his chest, a sound so rhythmic and comforting you can’t help but be lulled by sleep.

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[imagines-all-day-everyday]

second heir

pairing: harwin strong x targaryen!oc

synposis: tensions in the targaryen family rise when viserra targaryen, the youngest child of queen aemma and king viserys, gives birth to her second son with ser harwin strong. ser criston cole learns that picking on harwin strong's son is not the smartest decision.

warnings: graphic depiction of childbirth, swearing, violence, slight angst, fluff, ser cri*t*n c*le

notes: I usually do a reader insert but thought it would make more sense to use a targaryen-esque name - enjoy!

"Push Princess. Just one more."

A whimper escaped her lips. Her body felt like it was on fire. Or dipped in acid. Or both. In that moment, Viserra Targaryen was convinced there was no greater suffering on earth than that of childbirth.

"Push!"

"I'm fucking trying." Viserra seethed through clenched teeth as she pushed with all her might.

"Come on my love." The deep voice of her husband murmured in her ear as he knelt beside her. "Take my hand."

Viserra let out a groan of pain as she pushed once more, her hand clasping around her husband's as she squeezed with all her might.

"Why did you have to get me pregnant you fucking cunt, I swear I'm going to-" Her rant was cut off as she let out another scream of pain as the midwife behind her held open her legs.

"I think one more push will do it princess, I see the head!" The midwife announced from below her.

"Yes darling, tell me how much of a cunt I am come on." A gloved hand caressed her face, drawing her attention away from the midwife between her thighs. Her eyes locked with the deep brown ones of her husband.

"I love you, you stupid cunt- ah!" If he was not so strong she most likely would have pulverised the bones in his hand.

A breathy chuckle escaped Harwin Strong's lips as he squeezed her hand back.

"I am a cunt, a cunt that loves you very much." With that she clenched her eyes shut as she gave one last push.

She let out a moan of relief as the pain subsided, air filling up her lungs once more as the midwives gushed in praise.

"It's ok my love, it is over." Harwin murmured, kissing her damp hair as he held her closely.

"You are so strong, a brave mother." Viserra let out a silent sob as she clung to her husband, letting him pepper her face with kisses and praises as she fell limp in his arms.

"It is a boy, princess."

Viserra finally opened her eyes as crying filled the cavernous room. She was both crying and laughing with joy as she watched the midwife carefully bundle up her son.

Overwhelming love and warmth filled her as her son was placed into her outstretched arms. Almost as if those last few hours of pain had been erased, like she would do it all again now just to hold him like this.

"Healthy?"

"As healthy as one can be, princess." The midwife confirmed.

Viserra let out another sob as she cradled her son to her chest and placed a kiss to his forehead.

"Hi baby." She whispered to him, watching as he squirmed and flailed in her arms.

"Look how beautiful he is." She murmured, finally passing him to Harwin to hold.

"Well no wonder, look at his mother." Harwin smiled softly as he gently took his son in his arms. "I told you I knew it would be another boy."

Viserra felt her heart warm when she saw the tears rolling down her husband's cheeks as he spoke.

"He is perfect." She remarked, her eyes never leaving her son, completely entranced in the new life she and Harwin had just created.

"That he is." Harwin murmured as he carefully handed him back to Viserra.

"Princess." The sound of an unfamiliar voice made Viserra finally tear away her eyes from her son.

She felt a sense of dread course through her at the sight of the nervous handmaiden. She knew that could mean only one thing.

"The Queen has requested the child be brought to her. Immediately."

"Now? For what purpose?" Harwin's voice was demanding as he rose to his feet, a complete shift in his demeanour from only moments ago.

"I-I-" The handmaiden began to flounder, her eyes wide and fearful as she glanced between the commander and the princess.

"-it is fine." Viserra saved the handmaiden from her unpredictable fate.

"I will take him myself."

"You will do no such thing." Harwin snapped as Viserra began to push herself off the mattress. "You must rest."

"Your husband is right princess, you must stay in bed." One of the midwives agreed.

They were right, of course. Viserra wanted nothing more than to lay in bed with her husband and new son. But Queen Alicent Hightower had already ruined that perfect moment by sending her handmaiden in here. Just the mention of her name was poisonous enough to sour everything it touched.

The least Viserra could do now was ensure that she drip fed the Queen her own sweetly crafted poison while she met her grandson.

"Remove the cord and make sure the afterbirth has arrived. Then help me dress. Husband, you hold him."

Harwin eyed his wife for a few moments before nodding as he took his son once more. He knew his wife well enough to know that once she made her mind up, there was no changing it. Best to stand aside and let her run her course.

"It is done princess." One of the midwives announced after a few minutes.

Viserra gritted her teeth and wrapped a hand around one of the bedposts. She ground her teeth in an attempt to extinguish the grunt of pain she let out as she pulled herself off the bed and onto her feet.

"This is ridiculous." Harwin spat, his heart aching as he watched helplessly as his wife winced as the handmaidens cinched her dress around her waist.

"What could possibly be so urgent that she needs to see our son right away."

"I am sure the Queen has her very rationale reasons." Viserra drawled as the handmaidens stepped away from her.

"Let us just get this over with." She huffed as they opened the doors from their chambers.

"Run a bath for the princess for when she returns." Harwin murmured to one of the servants quietly so Viserra did not hear.

"Sister!" The sound of Rhaenyra's voice filled her ears the second they stepped into their main living quarters.

"A healthy boy, I heard." Viserra felt a smile form on her lips at the sight of her sister bounding towards her.

"Oh he is beautiful sister, congratulations." A rare true smile appeared on Rhaenyra's face as she stared down at her nephew.

"Thank you sister."

The smile was quick to fall from Rhaenyra's features when she noticed Harwin's grim features and the way her sister's smile did not meet her eyes.

Her brow narrowed when she watched her brother in law and sister begin to make their way towards the threshold of their quarters.

"What is wrong? Where are you going?"

"The Queen has requested to see him. Immediately." Harwin answered as they stepped into the hallway.

"She what?" Rhaenyra could hardly believe her ears as she walked alongside them.

"I know she did it with Joffrey but I never thought- she has gone too far. I cannot sit by and-"

"- you can and you will sister." Viserra cut her off, breathing deeply as pain rumbled through her.

"We will go and show her the child, let her feel powerful for a few moments. It might do her some good." Their voices were low as they made their way through the hallway. At a very slow pace at that given Viserra's state.

"I am coming with you."

"No." Viserra's voice was firm as she came to a stop to grab her sister's arm. "She will just find some way to villainize you or to get you to say something she can twist."

Rhaenyra's face morphed into one of sadness as she studied her sister.

"Let her torture us for a while." Viserra insisted.

"We can handle it." Harwin spoke, sending his sister in law a nod.

Rhaneyra glanced between them as she tried to reach a decision. She knew what the rationale one was. That her sister was right. As heir it was more strategic to leave it. But as Viserra's older sister, every part of her was screaming at her to march up those stairs and tear Allicent's hair from her scalp.

The look on Harwin's face was what made her decision for her. The look that said if anything happened to his wife, he would literally murder everything in sight. She knew her sister was safe with him.

"Fine." She relented. "But please try not to strain yourself too much sister." A hand reached up to gently brush Viserra's cheek.

"I will do my best." Viserra forced a small on her lips as she leant into her sister's touch.

With that Harwin and Viserra were on their way once more. Viserra let out a whimper as she clung to his arm. They had only made it a few metres when Harwin came to a stop.

"Alright that is it."

"Harwin what-"

"Hold him." Viserra opened her mouth in surprise as he passed their son into her arms.

"Harwin-" She let out a small yelp of surprise as he bent down and wrapped his hands under her back and legs and lifted her off the ground with ease.

She clung to their son as Harwin cradled her in his arms and began to march with a determined pace towards the Queen's chambers.

"Harwin-" She began for the third time.

"I will put you down before we go inside do not fret. We can let her think you scaled those steps on your own. But I am not letting my wife who just gave birth take another step if it can be avoided." He answered her as he passed by gaping onlookers without so much as a glance in their direction.

Her heart warmed at his words. She felt her anger subdue for a few moments as she studied her husband, with that look of loyal determination on his features. The face that she had fallen in love with as a teenager.

She remembered the day that he had taken up a position as a sworn protector of her family. The first time the pair locked eyes across the hall. The first time they spoke when he caught her trying to sneak out of the castle. The first time they unfurled their secrets to one another. The first time she took his hand and led him into her chambers.

While Rhaenyra was having her tryst with Criston Cole, Viserra was having hers with Harwin Strong.

But unlike her sister, Viserra did not have the weight of being their father's heir on her shoulders. Nor was her father as focused on marrying her off to the most politically strategic husband possible.

So when Viserra walked in one afternoon and informed her father that she was in love with Harwin Strong and was to wed him, what else was he to do but agree? He could never say no to his baby daughter, nor did he want to. He could see how in love she was and all he wished was for her to be happy. Besides, the rumours of their tryst and the ruining of her maidenhood had began to spread through the castle. This would quell those rumours.

It made sense politically too, given Harwin Strong was the son of the hand of the king and the heir to Harrenhal. It was the perfect strategic match for a second born daughter. That was how he had explained it to Alicent when she had questioned it anyway. Of course, that only deepened the queen's jealousy and resentment towards the Targaryen sisters.

Harwin came to a stop in front of the Queen's chambers. Viserra brought a hand up to caress his cheek.

"I love you husband."

"As I love you, wife." He answered, pressing a kiss to her palm as he gently placed her down on the ground. He captured her lips in a kiss. The usually frowned upon public display of affection caused the guards stationed at the door to divert their eyes.

"Give her hell." He whispered into her ear as the doors opened.

That she would.

Their son squirmed in her arms as they made their way inside. Neither spared Ser Criston Cole a glance as they passed him. Alicent was standing at the window, her back to them, her gaze fixed over the sea.

Viserra fought the urge to double over in pain as her insides burned. Her body was slick with sweat. Practically dripping from head to toe. Her blonde hair plastered to her face and back.

It was a comfort to her to know that even when she looked like this, Alicent's beauty would still never compare. A small comfort, perhaps a petulant one. But a comfort nonetheless.

"Viserra." Alicent's sickly sweet voice rung out through the cavernous room.

"What are you doing here? You should be resting after your labours." Her concern almost sounded sincere.

"I did not wish to disappoint you, your grace." Viserra answered as Harwin ushered her over to the couch.

"Oh yes, please sit." Alicent nodded, her dress swishing at her ankles as she made her way over to them.

She watched with intense eyes as Harwin guided his wife down to sit on the sofa. His gaze was so full of love and concern it almost made Alicent feel ill. Anger rippled through her as he placed a tender kiss to Viserra's forehead.

Such love, such intimacy. It was something that Alicent would never experience. At least Rhaenyra had to make some small sacrifices in the name of duty as heir. Viserra on the other hand did not even know the meaning.

Being the second born daughter meant the focus had always been off her. That she could run around and do as she pleased with no consequences. Alicent had known of her treacherous affair with the Strong boy, she had even gone to Viserys with the information. Yet nothing was done, she was brushed off once more. And after all that Viserra still got to wed the man that she loved.

"I cannot believe how long it has been since your last son was born. How old is Aemar now?"

"He will be six next month, your grace." Harwin answered her.

"Six." Alicent remarked. "Such a long space in between children."

"It was not for a lack of trying your grace." Viserra answered her as she raised a brow. "Believe me."

Harwin glanced down at his feet to hide his smirk as Alicent's mouth drew into a sharp line.

"Yes well, better late than never I suppose." She cleared her throat as she approached them.

"Let me meet him properly." It was a demand, not a question. Her arms extended expectantly. Viserra bit her tongue as she reluctantly handed the queen the small bundle in her arms.

"He was two weeks early I understand? Like his brother?"

"Ten days early, your grace."

Alicent let out a hum as she examined the child in her arms intently. "Do the maesters think it will impact him the way it has Aemar?"

Viserra could feel the fire beginning to build up inside her.

"I am not sure I understand, your grace." Harwin spoke for her, noting the way his wife's fists had curled up the material of the sofa.

"Well the boy is quite small for his age."

Criston Cole smirked in the corner.

"The maesters have assured us they are both strong and healthy. They do have Targaryen blood after all." Viserra answered, using every ounce of her strength to keep her voice calm.

"Unless you are questioning the quality of Targaryen blood, your grace. Which I am sure was not your intention."

Alicent looked up from the child, her eyes locking with Viserra's.

"Of course not. I suppose it would have to be the integrity of your husband's blood that caused such defects."

Silence fell over the room. It had been such an off handed remark. Said so casually and plainly for how great of an insult the words wielded.

Harwin and Viserra were no fools. They were aware of the Queen's suspicions around the lineage of Rhaenyra's three children. The rumours that they had been fathered by one of the knights in the city watch. They were true, of course. It was plain as day. The three boys had dark brown hair and pale skin. But nothing would extract that confession from Viserra.

It was only logical for Alicent to start questioning the lineage of Viserra's children too. If one sister was capable of adultry, why not the other? It did not help that Aemar had been born small and lean, particular in comparison to his father. But the maesters had assured Harwin and Viserra that he was merely a late bloomer, that he would grow into his build.

As Viserra stared at Alicent, she wondered how she had ever felt sympathy for her. Much less been her friend. She used to follow Rhaenyra and Alicent around wherever they went when she was a child. Hanging onto their every word like it was gospel.

Even after her father had announced his intention to wed Alicent, Viserra had still tried to be friends. She had seen how Otto Hightower had manoeuvred his daughter like a chess piece for his own gain. And she had felt sorry for her as she watched her churn out child after child, trapped in a loveless marriage.

But the moment she had started going after Rhaenyra, all hope was lost. And as the three women grew, Alicent's bitterness towards Rhaenyra spread to Viserra, entangling her up in her web of venom and lies and hatred.

There was no repairing the bond that had been broken.

"What did you say?" Harwin's voice was low, his eyes bright with rage.

He took a step towards her. The sound of Criston Cole's blade being unsheathed rang out behind them.

"Husband, relax." Viserra brought a hand up to grip his forearm.

She turned around in her seat and glared at Criston. "And sheath your blade Ser Criston, there is no need for such theatrics." She resisted the urge to smile at the sight of his glowering stare.

"The Queen did not mean any harm by her words." Her voice was scarily light and calm. She forced a chuckle up her throat and past her lips. Her face was the perfect portrait of calm.

She thought she might tear the Queen's head clean off her shoulders when she noticed Alicent's grip on her son tighten.

"You know that she is often left alone by father, sometimes he forgets to pass on things. Like what the maester's have told him about the health of his grandchildren."

Viserra could feel Harwin relax under her touch as she shot Alicent a smile.

"Right, your grace?"

If looks could kill, Viserra would be shredded into ribbons right now.

"Of course. I meant no offence." Alicent managed to force out, causing Viserra's grin to widen.

Viserra knew she should leave it at that. To not poke the beast. But Alicent's insult had ignited the flame within her. And once that flame was alight, it could not easily be extinguished.

"You know, you must get your boys to come meet their new nephew, your grace. Especially Aegon." Viserra spoke casually as Alicent handed her son back to her.

"Must I?"

"Oh yes. I mean with me as second heir and the birth of our son that would put Aegon now at... seventh in line?" Viserra feigned confusion as she glanced up at Harwin.

Harwin knew the nature of the game instantly.

"Eighth, my love. Counting our little nephew." Harwin responded, a smirk on his lips as he glared at the queen.

"Oh yes eighth of course, I almost forgot to count little Prince Joffrey. My mistake." Viserra chuckled.

"I know Aegon is not so... passionate about ruling as you or your father are, so I am sure that the knowledge he is now eighth in line would be most relieving for him to hear."

Viserra was not sure if she had ever seen Alicent so unhinged. Her bottom lip trembled and her face twitched as she stared at her step-daughter. Usually the perfect face of righteousness and dignity. The ever composed queen. She looked as if she might just step forward and scratch Viserra's eyes out.

"You dare-"

"What happy news this morning!"

Viserra felt her heart warm at the sight of her father making his way through the double doors. Viserys' eyes lit up at the sight of his daughter and his newest grandson.

"It appears your hunch was right Harwin, a healthy boy I have heard."

"Indeed your grace." Harwin smiled as Viserra extended out the bundle of cloth for him to take.

"Let me see my handsome grandson."

Alicent glared as she watched her husband take the child in his arms. He had never even looked that happy when holding their own children.

"Oh he is beautiful. He will make a strong knight I am sure." Viserys beamed as he rocked the babe gently.

"Has my grandson got a name yet?"

"We were thinking Edmyn." Viserra answered when Harwin glanced down at her questioningly.

A grin spread across his lips at the name. It was a traditional House Strong name. One that Viserra knew Harwin had been secretly dying for.

"Edmyn? That is an unusual Valyrian name." Alicent chimed in. Viserra had to resist the urge to roll her eyes.

"Because it is not one. Aemar has a Valyrian name, I think it only fitting we also pay homage to the Strongs."

"I could not agree more daughter. Edmyn suits him. I am sure your father will be proud of it Harwin."

"Indeed he will your grace."

This time it was Alicent's turn to not roll her eyes.

"You know, I think I can see a bit of his grandmother in him." Viserys remarked, his voice cracking ever so slightly. Viserra could feel tears threatening to pool in her own eyes at the mention of her mother.

Harwin cleared his throat when he noticed his wife's state.

"If it is ok with you, your grace, your daughter has been more braver than I could ever be, I think she deserves to rest."

"Oh of course." Viserys smiled as he glanced down at his daughter. "I know how draining your labours can be."

"Thank you father." Viserra grimaced as Harwin helped her back up onto her feet.

"We are hoping to bare you a granddaughter next." She continued as she studied Alicent. "And we have already picked out the name."

She was more than happy to twist the knife in further.

"Aemma."

This time Alicent could not fight the eye roll at Viserra's words, turning her back as she did so.

A tear rolled down Viserys' cheek as he brought his hand up to caress his daughter's cheek.

"We can only hope the gods may be so kind." Viserys smiled as he embraced her in a tight hug.

"Now go rest with your husband and new child."

Viserra winced as she slipped into the hot tub. She withheld a moan as the warm water surrounded her, melting into her skin and bones.

"I am sorry if I bled on you."

Harwin let out a small chuckle and shook his head as he knelt down beside the tub.

"I have seen the worst that mankind has to offer, the type of violence that no one should see. You really think a little bit of blood is going to offend me?" He mused as he brought a damp cloth up to her forehead.

His gaze softened when she did not reply, watching as her eyes fluttered closed.

"You should not have had to go through that today." He murmured as he tenderly cleaned her.

"No." She conceded. "I should not have."

"You would not have to if we left King's Landing. If we travelled to Harrenhal and lived with my family."

"You know I cannot leave Rhaenyra. Not with these spiders circling her ever tighter. She is surrounded. I am all she has." Harwin withheld a sigh at her words.

They were expected, but disappointing none the less.

"I know."

No more was said as Harwin bathed her and helped her dress. He picked her up and carried her to their bed, placing her gently on the satin sheets.

She was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Harwin smiled softly as he watched her sleep, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Viserra stirred but did not wake at the sound of a soft knock on the door. Harwin spared her one last glance before he crept to the door. He was greeted by Rhaenyra Targaryen on the other side.

"Is Viserra asleep?"

"She has had a long day." He answered quietly.

Rhaenyra merely nodded in understanding, her face tight with worry as she glanced over Harwin's shoulder.

"She will tell you all tomorrow, I am sure." He assured the princess.

"Was it bad?"

"Quite. Alicent grows more venomous each day." Harwin answered.

"I thought Viserra would be spared given she is not first heir."

"It appears that her resentment has spread to encompass your sister too, princess." Harwin could not hide the anger in his voice as he spoke. He hated feeling so helpless, like there was nothing he could do to protect his wife.

"You should leave, you do not have to stay here. Both of you and the boys should go to Harrenhal. Be spared from this torture." Rhaenyra whispered, desperation evident in her voice.

"You and I both know that Viserra will never leave you alone here."

Rhaenyra sighed and nodded in agreement. "I wish I had not taught her to be so stubborn."

A sad smile spread across Harwin's lips.

"As do I."

Harwin squinted as the sunlight hit his eyes. He stepped out into the training courtyard. The sound of wooden swords hitting sacks filled with barley filled his ears. The grunts of young boys exerting themselves as they practiced.

He glanced up to see Viserys watching from above. He gave him a nod and a smile in greeting. His eyes scanned the yard, counting four of his nephews. He was quick to spot his son. The smallest of the five children. And the only one skulking about in the corner.

A smile spread across his lips as he watched the way Aemar's eyes brightened at the sight of him. Aemar dropped his sword without a second thought and raced towards him, weaving between the other boys to reach him.

Harwin let out a small chuckle as Aemar smashed into his leg, wrapping his thin limbs around his thigh to cling to him.

"Is it supper time father? Is training over?" His son asked as he peered up at him through his thick head of dark hair.

"Not quite yet. I just came to see how you were getting along."

"Oh." Aemar's smile was quick to fall. He watched as his father crouched down to meet his eyes.

"Maybe I can finish training early today? Could you ask mother?"

"Your mother is sleeping with your brother. She is quite tired."

"Oh no do not disturb her then, mother deserves as much rest as she can have." Aemar's brow knitted together as concern flashed across his features.

Harwin smiled softly as he ran a hand through his son's hair. He had always been so considerate and kind of others. Something that worried Harwin slightly. That kind of compassion was a weakness here.

"How has your training been going?" Harwin's eyes drifted over to Criston to see Criston's gaze already locked onto his.

Aemar glanced down at his feet. "Fine."

A lie.

Harwin could see Criston speaking to Alicent's boys, Rhaenyra's children left to practice on their own. He had a feeling his son was being given the same treatment.

"Go on then, I will watch you train and then we can go get something to eat." Harwin shot his son a warm smile and patted him on the shoulder.

Aemar, never one to disappoint his parents, dutifully nodded before scurrying back to the centre of the yard.

Harwin rose to his full height and paced around the edge of the square. He could feel Criston's eyes on him as he walked but chose to ignore it as he watched the boys begin to spar.

Criston and Harwin were similar, some would say. Both knights, protectors of the royal family. Both had fallen in love with a Targaryen princess. Both had disgraced their sacred vows to bed them.

The difference between Criston and Harwin was that Harwin's infatuation was not one sided. A difference that both were acutely aware of.

Harwin had always found Criston's jealousy quite pathetic. And initially quite humorous. That was until Ser Criston had started taking out his anger on Viserra and Rhaenyra's children.

"Come on Aemar, weapons up." He encouraged when he saw his son hesitantly go to pick up his sword.

His small fingers had nearly reached the hilt when Criston's boot stepped on it, crushing it as he brushed past Aemar to speak to Aegon.

"It seems some of your younger pupils could do with a bit more attention, Ser Criston." Harwin could not control his tongue any longer. If he did not say something, it would be his fists that would talk instead.

"You question my method of instruction?" Criston answered him.

"No, I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils."

"With all due respect Ser, I doubt you can have an impartial stance on the matter."

Harwin barked out a humourless laugh as he locked eyes with him. "Humour me."

Criston eyed him for a few moments before an unreadable expression crossed his features.

"Very well. Aemar, you spar with Aegon."

Harwin gritted his teeth as he watched Criston grip his son's armour and yank him into the centre of the field.

"That is hardly a fair match."

Indeed, Aegon was at least twice his son's size and weight and even in age. Aegon, being the spoilt cunt that he was, seemed delighted at the opportunity to crush a weaker opponent.

"When steal is drawn a fair match isn't something anyone should expect."

Harwin glanced up at the viewing balcony at the king and his father. Neither seemed willing to say a word.

"Blades up." Criston continued.

Harwin could see Aemar was shaking, even from where he was standing. His son was not a fighter, at least not yet. He was small and skinny and his temperament was the most gentle he had seen. He may grow into one yet, but Harwin was certain that this type of combat would not help him get there.

Aemar glanced at his father, his eyes pleading as he shakily rose his sword up in front of his chest.

"Engage."

Aegon let out an unhinged scream as he hurtled himself at Aemar. Harwin was too far away to stop him from hitting Aemar across the face and pushing him down. Harwin reached him as Aegon raised his sword to bring it down onto Aemar's chest.

Harwin lunged forward and grabbed the older prince by the scruff of the neck. Aegon let out a scream of frustration, thrashing around against Harwin as he tried to attack his younger nephew.

"Aegon!" The King finally let out a weak reprimand from above.

Harwin simply shoved him away, sending him stumbling into Ser Criston.

Rhaenyra's children ran to crowd around Aemar who was still on his back. They were murmuring comforting and encouraging things to him as Harwin reached them.

"Son, are you all right?" Harwin crouched down, his heart hammering in his chest as he brought his son up to sit.

The wood had drawn blood, a small slice across Aemar's smooth cheek. It was still enough to make Harwin see red.

"I am ok father." Aemar's small voice wavered, his chin wobbling as he tried to keep a brave face.

"I am confused Ser Harwin. You wish for me to treat your son equally and yet intervene within mere seconds."

Harwin's jaw clenched at the sound of Criston's mocking voice behind him. Harwin rose to his full height, his fists bunched at his sides as he turned to glare at Cole.

"The prince could have been seriously hurt. That match up was not safe."

Criston let out a small chuckle as Harwin turned around once more to pay attention to his son. He needed to quell his anger before he could no longer contain it and did something regrettable.

"I am sorry you feel that match was not fair, Strong." Cole spoke as he eyed Harwin.

"But I am afraid due to your son's.... stature... none of his nephew's would be a fair match." Harwin glanced down at his son who's head hung in shame at Ser Criston's words.

He could hear Aegon and Aemond sniggering behind him.

"Perhaps I could ask one of the handmaiden's to volunteer. Or your new son. They are probably equal in strength."

The snap of broken bone hung in the air.

Criston stumbled back as blood began to leak from his nose. Harwin let out an animalistic growl as he knocked him to his feet and launched himself on top of him. He landed punch after punch, screaming as he let out his rage.

"Say it again! Speak that way about my son again!" He shouted as arms wrapped around him and forced him off the knight.

Criston's body was limp, his head lolling back as blood poured from his nose.

"You talk about him like that again and I will fucking kill you, do you hear me!" He bellowed as other knights dragged him away.

Viserys and Lionel watched from above, their faces grim as they watched the scene unfold.

"So much for that pleasant afternoon." Viserys sighed.

"I heard it took four knights to pull you off him."

Harwin winced as Viserra pressed an ointment into his blistering knuckles.

"I was a bit too preoccupied to count."

Amusement flashed across her features as she rubbed the ointment in gently.

"I wish I was there to witness it, would have got me all hot and bothered."

Harwin shook his head, trying to fight the smile on his face as he glanced up at his wife.

"What? It taking four knights pulling me off him, or watching Ser Criston being beat into a pulp."

"Can a woman not find both equally arousing?" She teased him as she placed the ointment on the table beside the bed.

She withheld a sigh when she watched the smile seep from his face. His eyes glazing over as he thought about today's events. She leant forward and captured his lips in a gentle kiss.

"You did nothing wrong, my love." She mumbled against his lips as she pressed their foreheads together. "

Cole should not have dared insult a prince like that. All the boys heard him say it, he has no way to talk himself out of it. He will be punished. I will see to it that you are not. You were just protecting your son." Viserra's voice was thick with emotion as she spoke, anger furling up inside her at the memory of her husband relaying the words that Cole had said to their son.

She could not think about it for to long. Or think about the small cut on Aemar's cheek that she touched when she kissed him goodnight. It made her sick with rage. Angry enough to burn the entire castle to the ground.

"I still should not have lost my temper. Not in front of Aemar. It sets a bad example." He mumbled as he glanced down at his bruised knuckles.

"It might have frightened him."

Viserra's gaze softened at her husband's words. She ran a hand through his thick hair before using her index finger to tilt his chin up and force him to meet her eyes.

"Aemar adores you. He could never be frightened of you. He knows that you would only act like that if our family was in danger."

Harwin smiled as Viserra leant forward to kiss her husband's forehead.

"I do not know what I would do without you." He mumbled against her skin as he embraced her in a tight hug and buried his head into her chest.

"Nor I you." She whispered to him as she let him cling to her, engulfing her frame as she wrapped her arms around him.

It was in that moment that Viserra's mind wandered back to the conversation they had yesterday when she was taking her bath. About leaving King's Landing. And for the first time, she felt herself seriously considering it.

A knock at the door made both of them pull apart. They exchanged glances before turning their attention to the entrance.

"Enter." Viserra called.

"Rhaenyra." Her sister's name slipped through her lips at the sight of her.

"Sister, Ser Harwin." Rhaenyra inclined her head as they both rose to their feet to greet her.

"What brings you here at such a late hour?" Viserra's brow knitted together as she studied her sister.

"I came to tell you." Rhaenyra swallowed as her eyes darted between them.

"My family and I are leaving. Tomorrow."

Viserra's lips parted in surprise, her eyes darting to Harwin before turning back to her sister.

"To Dragonstone?"

"I should have left years ago." Rhaenyra nodded.

"But what of your position. If that bloodsucking queen has father all to herself-"

"-I have been made a spectacle of sister." Rhaenyra snapped, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "They whisper about me in the corridors. I wish to leave them to it."

Rhaenyra sniffled as she held back her tears, her eyes moving from her sister to Harwin who was studying her warily.

"After the events of yesterday and today, I cannot stay here any longer. You and your family have been tarred with the same brush. I cannot let you be tried and punished for the crimes Alicent believes me to have committed."

"Sister." Viserra breathed out as she stepped forward to take her sister's hands in her own.

"I beg of you, do not do this for my benefit. We are on your side, in your corner. We can batter this storm."

Rhaenyra shook her head and squeezed her sister's hands tightly. "I know sister, I know. But this is a storm that we should flee from." She locked eyes with Harwin's once more.

"And I am not doing this for my benefit, I am doing it for both of our families."

Harwin came to stand beside Viserra as she released her sister's hands, confusion contorting on her features.

"Come with us." Rhaenyra continued as she glanced between the couple.

"We can be a family. Our boys can do as they like, play and train without us having to fear what Criston Cole might do to them."

Viserra dragged her eyes from Rhaenyra up to Harwin's. He was already staring down at her, his face muscles taught. In that moment, it was just the two of them together as they studied eachother.

"Your father-"

"My father does not matter." Harwin cut her off. "Our family is what matters. You know I have always championed us to leave this place."

"I cannot ask you to do this." She whispered, her voice wavering as she spoke.

"I go wherever you go. I would follow you to the end of the earth my love." He murmured back, squeezing her hand tightly.

"It would be nice to give birth and stay in bed for longer than thirty seconds." She murmured after a few moments. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he nodded in agreement.

"Indeed."

For once Rhaenyra was unable to hold back her tears as she watched her baby sister and her husband.

"To Dragonstone then?"

The couple turned to her at her words. "To Dragonstone." Harwin agreed, squeezing his wife's hand once more.

"Maybe you can beat up Cole once more before we go. Just so Viserra and I can have a fond memory of this place to look back on."

A grin spread across Harwin's lips as Viserra chuckled beside him.

"That can be arranged."

I adore this fic and the little family I have created hehehe <3 p.s totally canon that Viserra and Harwin have a girl called Aemma. As always, feedback would be super super appreciated and you can give it back HERE!

#house of the dragon #hotd #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon oneshot #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd imagine #hotd fanfiction #hotd oneshot #harwin strong imagine #harwin strong #harwin strong x oc #ser harwin strong #harwin strong x reader #harwin x reader #harwin x oc #harwin strong imagines #harwin strong fanfiction #harwin strong oneshot #hotd spoilers #got #game of thrones imagines #game of thrones #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones oneshot #game of thrones fanfiction

[thegirlwholied]

I'm on vacation so I haven't been reading any (yet) but since Sunday night's episode-

I checked on the Harwin Strong/Rhaenyra Targaryen tag on AO3 Mon morning before my flight: 61 fics

now, Tuesday night: 82 fics

go team, keep it up 💪

#ao3 #house of the dragon spoilers #house of the dragon #harwin strong #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra x harwin #bring me good things to read when I'm home sunday #have i mentally drafted a oneshot fic i really really should not write during my flight? yes yes i have

[faith-forgxtten-land]

Masterlist

started: 26/09/2022

updated: 08/04/2024

TMNT

Blurbs / Imagines

leonardo

staring (bayverse)

balm (bayverse)

dr feelings (rise) | part two *coming soon*

mouthful (2007) | NSFW

blush (2007)

cinderella (2003 | Fast Forward)

donatello

serenity (bayverse)

soaked (bayverse) | NSFW

come to bed (bayverse) | NSFW

raphael

spotting (bayverse)

michelangelo

valentine's day (bayverse)

Miscellaneous

turtles and their taylor swift songs (rise)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

House of the Dragon / Game of Thrones

Blurbs / Imagines

rhaenyra targaryen

safe (x harwin strong)

harwin strong

princess (nsfw)

Peaky Blinders

Blurbs / Imagines

Miscellaneous

characters and their taylor swift song/s

#masterlist #house of the dragon #rhaenyra targaryen #peaky blinders #smut #imagines #oneshot #harwin strong #hotd #hotd season 1 #game of thrones #got #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #house targaryen #asoiaf #tmnt #tmnt 2003 #tmnt 2012 #rise of the tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt bayverse #rottmnt

[velaryqns]

I dare you guys to send me House of the Dragon requests ;)

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x female reader #otto hightower x reader #king viserys x reader #rhaenyra x reader #alicent x reader #hotd x reader #aegon x reader #helaena x reader #harwin strong x reader #fanfic #fanfiction writer #oneshots #daemon targeryen x reader

[maiamars]

idk if i should do my headcanons list for harwin and rhaewin, its gonna like destroy me

#for the french pep #im trying to write a slow oneshot with an harwin pov 2k in and i still havent started on the wedding part #and he's making me sad so baaad #but yeah maybe the headcanon can be interesting to someone #rhaewin #rhaenyra x harwin #harwin strong #hotd

[fioiswriting]

Reunion | oneshot

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

[Part 2]

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not). Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course &lt;3

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.

Words count : 7600

Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever

Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!

Enjoy 🖤

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met The night we met - Lord Huron

The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment. Ashes. Fire. War. It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss. It was like a long howl and then sudden silence. Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.

For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him. There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side. The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.

It had been the best solution, you knew. 

For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded.  He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight. He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface. He had searched and no body had been found.

So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.

The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.

You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair. But it still hurt.  It sill fucking hurt.

Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation.  A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years. A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother. And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges.  And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled.  Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.

Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.

During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever. Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger. 

Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.

And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders.  Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.

But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it.  He knew. He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans. And the humiliation was all the more bitter.

First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own. 

And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.

You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed. When he had become more forgiving. When he had trusted you. When he had become gentle. When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly. When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.

You loved him.

So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice. Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.

Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?

Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands. You felt as if you were losing your mind.

But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.

Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.

It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell.  Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost.  King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.

But above all, it was haunted by him.

The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.

You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you.  Probably glad to see his friend again, too. Your friend, to both of you.

But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.

Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all. It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.

On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.

When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.

"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you." 

You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor.  You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.

"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.

It felt good to be back.  It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family. It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you. 

Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.

The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead.  It must have been your imagination.  You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.

Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest.  Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there. You feel as if you are being followed.

At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed. In the gardens, with your son. Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.

But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.

You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep. All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.

One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.

The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.

And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged. Fuck. Fuck.

You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.

"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen. 

That voice. It couldn't be.

Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.

It can’t be.

That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.

"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."

The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.

It is impossible.

He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.

Is it a ghost? Is it a hallucination?

"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.

You have so much to say to him. So many things to reproach him for.

His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears. 

The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver. You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets.  And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.

You want to kiss him. You want to slap him.

He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.

The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.

"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.

He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.

"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company. 

He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how. Why.

He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to. Who you were married to.

A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal.  You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead. 

But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.

"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly. 

There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway. 

"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"

"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him.  You've waited three years, what's another moment? But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be.  You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't." 

"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.

"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."

The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs. 

"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you.  You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin.  Not a sound leaves your lips.

"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."

Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall.  Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself -  but you can't help feeling your heart clench.  You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.

"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time. 

You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again. You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.

"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him.  A bit of anger, perhaps, too.

"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly.  Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."

Everything is so confused in your mind.  A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy.  Of love too.

You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond. Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.

"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."

You nod. Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words. The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips. 

There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.

His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.

"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."

You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.

"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."

His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.

It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.

You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet. You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion.   You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts. All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you. 

The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know. But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.

"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.

His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.

Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.

"On your knees then."

The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago. You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit.  He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.

Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely. 

Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes. He doesn't look away from you.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion. 

His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."

You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly. 

"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder. Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.

His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience. 

He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps. 

" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.

The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.

"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you. 

The memory was so close and yet so far away.

Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.

"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him.  He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.

"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.

"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence.  You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you. You have this power over him and it's delicious. 

His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching. 

He doesn't let go of you. 

"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him.  It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.

His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his. 

Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you. 

You need him to make you feel whole again. Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him.  You had always burned for him.

In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.

There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.

His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.

He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow. 

He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other.  Your hands are buried in his long silver hair.  You can feel how wet you are between your thighs. You need him desperately, right there.

The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.

"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet? 

Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.

"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress. 

You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.

"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."

"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."

Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.

You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away. You grunt in frustration.

You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.

He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.

He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation. He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices. 

The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.

" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body. 

He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.

You feel whole again and you want to cry.  You never want to lose that feeling. You want to keep him, against you, inside you.

You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.

"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command. He always has that need to control. He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.

"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable. 

You need him. 

When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.

Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.

"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."

The praise is sweet music to your ears.  You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.

You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.

"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.

Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him. Your moans grow louder.

"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."

The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him.  It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse. It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.

I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you. 

He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.

The weight of his body on yours is comforting.  For the first time in years, you feel alive. For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.

When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness. 

You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.

Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you.  You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment. He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.

And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.

You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.

"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."

When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy. 

He lets out a hm and pauses.

"Is he yours?"

You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth.  You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?

"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.

"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"

Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment. You should lie.  You know you should lie.  To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years.  You only need one word.

You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.

"No, he's not." 

The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.

"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece." Disappointment.

You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.

You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips. 

" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."

You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye.  It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.

"What did you say?"

You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words.  You want to bury your face in his chest. You breath. 

"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.

It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.

Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image. He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.

Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.

"My son," he repeats in awe.  It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity.  Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.

"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.

He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.

And this time, he makes love to you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret. Your hand rests on his.

"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.

It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.

Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.

"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"

The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings. It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.

"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know." 

He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.

"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him. 

You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him.  You know he would have made a good father. You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.

You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand. You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up. 

Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know."  Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence.  He has always suffered from his father's indifference.

You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.

"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.

You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions. 

But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

[flowerandblood]

Stay and love, leave and die

Halloween Request Oneshots Series

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Strong! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, noncon, virginity loss, smut, angst, choking, violence, threats, kidnapping, obsession ]

[ description: After the death of her grandfather, the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Harwin Strong travels to Storm's End to remind Borros Baratheon of his fathers oath to her mother he had made years ago. There she meets her uncle, whom she has not seen since a certain terrible event that took place between him and her brother. Her uncle decides to take his payment for what happened to him. Aggressive, obsessive, very dark! Aemond.]

This oneshot is inspired by anon request and is created with Halloween in mind, so unlike what I usually write, these fisc will be very dark and uncomfortable. Keep this in mind before you start reading.

Today marks one year since Ewan Mitchell played the role of Aemond Targaryen. I want to celebrate with this messed up Halloween oneshot! Love you my Aemond girlies 🎃🎃🎃

Alternative Universe Series: The Fall from the Heavens

*English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy!*

My others works: Masterlist

____

She didn't remember much about the night her uncle lost his eye; at the time she was too young to understand what had really happened. When she came down into the great hall in only her nightgown and saw the maester bending over her uncle she squealed loudly, covering her mouth with her hand, terrified and distraught, bursting into tears.

She and Aemond were betrothed through the King's decision.

Her grandfather believed that a union between them would ensure that the kingdom would not fall apart after his death.

Her uncle did not speak to her much before their betrothal because she was a girl and her her feminine concerns did not arouse his interest. However, sometimes when she met him in the library, he would read aloud to her and she would listen to him with interest.

They would then exchange thoughts about their lineage, and even though it was purely childish, naive musings, they both felt like adults then.

She was really fond of him.

He was calm, polite and didn't mock her like Jace and Aegon, who said that when she frowned her eyebrows and pressed her lips together she looked like a hamster.

It turned out that their grandfather's decision, instead of confusing and intimidating them, brought them closer together. Her uncle was a man who understood perfectly what duty was and considered it his task and responsibility to prove himself as a husband according to his father's will.

He began to introduce her to his world full of weapons and trainings filled with effort, his beloved books on philosophy and history.

She knew that it gave him great satisfaction when she borrowed thick volumes from his private collection, which his mother had presented to him, pleased that she was able to discuss with him more and more boldly and confidently on subjects that interested him.

He embarrassed her when one day he asked her hesitantly if she could spend the night by his side. From what she understood he did not sleep well, although he did not want to say for whatever reason. He found that her presence reassured him, and since she was to be his wife, her place was with him.

She couldn't hide the heat and joy that spread through her heart at the thought that he craved to feel her by his side.

From then on, she would sneak out to his chamber at night, slipping under his bedding, falling asleep beside him pressing her forehead against his, holding his hand in hers. He never tried to touch her in an indecent way, never ordered her to expose her body, instead allowing her to place innocent, warm, childlike kisses on his lips whenever she desired.

If it hadn't been for the darkness around them she would have noticed that his cheeks were rosy with shame and contentment, that he was smiling lazily as he lay there with his eyes closed.

From then on, he slept peacefully.

Then, however, her younger brother deprived him of one eye when he dared to tame Vhagar, and her mother, despite promises that she would be able to visit him, allowed it only after a few days, hiding behind the fact that her half-brother should rest. However, when she appeared at the door of his chamber full of hope, Criston Cole sent her away and she never saw him again.

She sent him letters for eight years, one every two months, but he never wrote her back.

When king Viserys died her mother decided that she would fly to Storm's End to remind Lord Baratheon of his fathers oath, while Jace was to fly to Winterfell and Luke to the Eyrie.

All things considered, however, she did not foresee one thing.

Vhagar.

When she saw her in the middle of the storm, raising her head towards her like a great moving mountain, she felt fear.

She had not seen him since that day.

She did not fly to King's Landing when Luke fought for his rights to Driftmark because her mother and the Queen thought it would only make things worse, and her uncle did not want to see her.

For a moment she hesitated in spirit, standing in the rain, whether to turn back, terrified at the thought that he was there. She recognised, however, that her mother had entrusted her with this mission believing that she would fulfil the task and she had to fight for her rights.

Therefore, she gathered her courage and approached the guards, informing them of who she was. They led her into a large circular throne room, lit up once in a while by an intense flash of lightning and the torches all around her.

That's when she saw him.

He stood in a leather cloak with sword and dagger at his side, speaking to one of Lord Baratheon's daughters, but when he heard the guards announce who had arrived he looked towards her, turning on his heel, holding his hands entwined behind his back.

His lips twitched in a mocking, menacing grin that sent shivers through her, his pupil narrowed like those of a cat that had just seen a mouse.

"My Lady Strong." He said teasingly, coldly, lightly, and she swallowed loudly, recognising that she had not come all this way to tease.

She was shivering with cold and fear and wanted to convey what she had to say as quickly as possible.

"Queen Rhaenyra wishes to remind you of the oath your father, Lord Baratheon, made to her years ago." She said softly and clearly, looking up at the distressed lord sitting before her on the stone throne.

"Prince Aemond has offered to take one of my daughters as his wife. Which of my daughters will one of your brothers marry to win my favour?" He asked her in a dry, raised voice, frustrated by her presence and what she was demanding of him.

She swallowed loudly, looking at her uncle in shock, seeing him watching her with satisfaction, his chin raised in a gesture of victory, the corner of his mouth still twitching in a smile.

He was proud of himself.

"Forgive me, my Lord, both my brothers who are of the proper age for marriage are already betrothed." She muttered, and Lord Baratheon laughed aloud, spreading his arms to his sides.

"So you come with empty hands. Go home, pup. Tell your mother she won't summon me when she wishes like some dog." He growled.

She swallowed the insult with difficulty, nodding, feeling her head humming, her heart pounding like mad, her uncle's gaze piercing her to the core.

"I will pass on your words to the Queen, my Lord." She said, forcing herself to be calm and bowed, turning away tense and walking out quickly, wanting to be back in Dragonstone as soon as possible.

She stepped out into the courtyard into the intense rain pouring down from the sky, loud thunder all around her, her whole body trembling from fear.

"Wait, my Lady Strong." She heard a cold, mocking voice behind her and squealed softly as she felt someone's strong, large hand clench painfully tight on her arm.

"Won't you greet your uncle? Don't you want to see at last my memento after meeting your brother?" He hissed, pulling his eye patch from his face with his free hand in one sharp, firm, agressive motion.

She drew in a loud breath when she saw polished sapphire shining ominously in his eye socket.

She stared at the sight simultaneously horrified and enthralled, there was something in his face, in his gaze, in the way he clenched his jaw, that she was unable to look away from him.

"− please −" She mumbled, trying to pull herself out of his arms, but he embraced her, pressing her close. She put her hands on his rain-wet leather coat and tried to push him away, but he only chuckled lowly at her helpless efforts, locking her in his grasp.

"− I see you've changed too − you even look like a woman now − maybe I should take you away and enjoy you after so many years of separation − didn't you miss me? −" He asked in a humiliating, sweet, mocking voice, leaning over her like a child so as to look into her frightened eyes, in which tears of terror had gathered.

She was afraid of the way he looked at her.

"− please, uncle, I just want to go home −" She whispered pleadingly and took his cold face in her hands, wanting to alleviate the situation somehow, to give it some affectionate gesture that would help him calm down.

Something changed in his gaze, he shuddered and licked his lower lip, looking at her with his head tilted, his grip not easing one bit, their hair, faces and clothes wet from the intense rain.

"− no −" He hissed and grabbed her in half, throwing her over his shoulder, she began to squeal and scream, slapping his back with her hands, her dragoness writhed ominously at the sight, ready to breathe fire.

He summoned Vhagar, who rose suddenly on her paws, the ground shook beneath her and her little dragoness scowled in fear, as terrified as she was.

"− please, don't hurt her! −" She cried to him and stopped struggling, knowing that Vhagar's teeth clamped down on her dragoness would tear her apart. "− please, I'll fly with you, I will do anything −"

"− hm −" He murmured under his breath, placing her on the ground right next to the ropes hanging from his saddle. He looked at her with an indifferent, cool gaze, his lips pressed into a thin line. "− up −"

She cried all the way, snuggling into the front of his saddle, feeling his body clinging to hers behind her, his face pressed against her neck.

"− I will make you my mistress − you will bear me bastards after I marry any of that fool's daughters − bastards are perfect for bearing other bastards, aren't they? −" He whispered in her ear, placing wet, sticky kisses on the skin of her neck, and she tried with difficulty to catch her breath, almost choking from her sobs.

She prayed for her mother to save her.

He dragged her by her arm, holding her painfully tight, towards his chamber, heedless of the surprised stares of the guards.

It was the middle of the night and he had commanded that no one was to disturb them.

He pushed her into his chambers and she fell to the stone floor, panting heavily, shaking all over, feeling like she was about to vomit from fear, tears and rain drops running down her cheeks. She could hear him breathing loudly with excitement and exertion, pulling off his coat, tossing it disorderly on the floor.

She was breathing hard, looking at him in horror, wondering what she was supposed to do, how she was supposed to fight him.

Suddenly, this one thought, this one attempt, seeing him begin to walk towards her with a menacing, final step that said it all came out of her mouth.

"I've written letters to you. For eight years, every two months. You never wrote back to any of them. Why?" She asked in a trembling, broken voice, feeling how tight her throat was with fear, how much her hands were quivering.

He stopped in mid-step, furrowing his brow, his face impassive, tense, cold.

"Liar." He hissed as he knelt over her, grabbing her by her neck, pressing her to the ground in a one, brutal motion, his free hand quickly found the dagger hidden under her cloak and tossed it aside with a loud clang of steel.

She figured that the more she resisted, the more pain he would cause her.

"I'm not lying. Ask your grandfather. I suspect he didn't even pass them on to you, did he?" She mumbled with difficulty, his fingers clenching on her neck so tightly that she had trouble breathing.

However, she noticed a kind of hesitation and uncertainty on his face, his nostrils quivering in a ragged breath.

"And what did you write in them, my Lady Strong?" He asked teasingly, his free hand sliding down to the tying of his breeches, his wide-eyed gaze directed at her, mad, implacable, cruel.

She licked her lips, feeling his fingers cold and wet from the rain clenching on her hot skin, tried not to think about the sound of the material slipping away, only what she had wanted to say to him for years.

"That I was too young to understand what happened then. That it wasn't until years later that I realised you had been deprived of more than an eye that night. That I can't sleep. That something in me died that day." She whispered with difficulty, tears of grief, fear and horror running down the sides of her face onto the stone floor he pressed her against.

She saw that he had stopped in mid-motion, breathing loudly, his lips pressed together, as if he was thinking hard about something.

"I will not give you back to your mother-whore. I will keep you as my payment for the harm she has done to me." He said coolly, furrowing his brow, looking at her as if he was explaining to her that it was the only reasonable thing to do.

Her heart pounded like crazy as she thought what she was doing was working.

That it wasn't rape per se that was his goal, but the appropriation of something precious that belonged to her mother, so that he could have a sense of atonement.

She nodded, trying to calm herself, wanting him to remain calm too.

"Very well." She whispered quietly, something in his face changed, a sort of surprise passed across his eye. He let out a loud sigh, as if he expected that only when he took her by force would she agree.

"For years I have suffered with the thought of that day. I will compensate you as best I can." She mumbled softly, a final, solitary tear running down her face.

She tried with all her might to think of that boy she loved so dearly and not the monstrous man who had just looked at her.

"Hm." He hummed again, letting her go, rising from his lap, his watchful gaze directed straight at her.

She grabbed her neck, drawing in air loudly, turning onto her stomach, quivering all over.

She heard the clang of steel and the sound of a loud filling. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, breathing hard, and noticed that he had poured himself some wine.

He moved slowly towards the chair opposite her and sat down with a loud creak of wood, arranging himself comfortably, crossing his legs.

"I await my compensation." He said lightly, as if amused, taking a loud sip from his cup, his healthy eye staring at her wide-eyed with a sharp, expectant gaze, his lips stretched in a lazy, dangerous grin.

She swallowed loudly, standing up slowly, feeling her legs refuse to obey her, thinking strenuously what she should do.

"No man would want me for a wife after this." She sobbed out with difficulty, looking at him horrified, and he chuckled under his breath, cocking his head to the side.

"If you please me enough, I will take you as my wife in the tradition of Old Valyria, and our children will be my official heirs." He said dryly, and she felt her heart begin to pound like mad, she shook her head as if she did not believe what he was saying.

"− your grandfather − your future wife − they would never −"

"− I don't give a shit about them − only my word counts in this matter − do you understand? −" He asked loudly, looking up at her from below, tapping his fingers on the armrest at his last word. She pressed her lips together, looking at him pleadingly.

"− we both know you won't marry me − you despise me − I −"

"I will be merciful and spare you from giving birth to my bastards. I will either marry you or kill you, depending on how much I like what you do now." He said softly, something like a gleam in his eye, content with this insightful thought, his cup reached his lips again as he took a greedy sip from it.

She clenched her hands into fists, knowing what he desired, knowing that if she didn't give it to him, he would take it anyway, violently and aggressively, and then just cut her throat.

She thought with despair that if she could spare herself even a little pain, she would.

He swallowed loudly, looking at her watchfully as she approached him with a slow, unhurried step, wordlessly sitting on his lap, her hair still wet from the rain, partly pinned back in a bun, partly lowered loosely down her back.

She raised her trembling hands to the buckles of her cloak, undoing them with a slow movement, his gaze fixed on her fingers. He lifted his gaze to her face, drinking quickly the remnant of wine he had in his goblet, looking greedily after a moment at her drenched gown, through which material he could see almost everything.

She felt something in his breeches pulse hard beneath her, and then again and again, becoming harder and harder.

"I don't know what to do, uncle." She whispered quietly, begging him in a way to end her humiliation, to just show her what he wanted and leave her alone.

He looked at her suddenly, humming again in his low, thoughtful, throaty tone, his hand slipping beneath the material of her underskirt, touching shamelessly her naked thigh, finally digging his fingertips into the soft skin of her hip, pressing her closer to him, forcing her to rub againt what was beneath her with slow back and forth movements.

She saw him part his lips, his other hand quickly set the cup down on the small table standing next to them and swiftly joined his first hand, also tightening on her hip. She felt the rocking movements of her hips tease something between her thighs, tickling her at the same time and making her shiver.

"Spread my breeches to the sides." He commanded in a hoarse, trembling voice looking at her expectantly, licking his lower lip in an involuntary, quick motion.

She did as he instructed and suddenly felt something hard and throbbing press against her naked body, she drew in the air loudly guessing what it was. She felt him take his manhood in his hand in a confident movement.

"Lift up and slide it inside you." He said coolly, but the tone of his voice betrayed some kind of excitement, his healthy eye open wide.

She swallowed loudly, resting her hands on his shoulders for balance, breathing loudly, trying not to think about how scared she was, how much she wanted to go home, his sapphire eye gleamed dangerously in the dark.

She settled against him and felt the fat head of his length push against her folds, sliding in just a little, stretching her slit painfully to all sides. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting out a quiet sigh of discomfort, a throaty groan escaping his lips.

"− fuck − keep going −" He exhaled, not moving however, his hand holding his manhood in such a position that it stood perpendicular to her body.

She bit her lips, gasping with effort as she tried to fit him deeper inside her, another loud, involuntary groan escaped his lips, he threw his head back, clenching his healthy eye, clasping his hand on her bare buttocks. He opened it suddenly and looked at her, breathing loudly through his mouth.

One brutal, sudden thrust of his hips startled her and tore something inside her, she cried out and convulsed in pain shaking all over, his large hands stroking her thighs reassuringly.

He knew he had just taken her maidenhood.

"− shhh − shhh −" He hushed her, rocking inside her with slow, steady rhythm of his hips, looking at her with misty eyes full of something she didn't understand, a single tear of horror and humiliation ran down her cheek.

She drew in a loud breath as he lifted his one hand to her face, his thumb rubbing the wet stain from her cheek, and then his fingers tightened on the nape of her neck, drawing her closer, snuggling her face into the hollow of his neck.

Stunned and helpless, she clenched her hands on the material of his leather tunic, seeking refuge in her tormentor, wishing only that he would not cause her any more pain.

"− hush − it's all right − look how easy it's sliding in now −" He whispered quietly into her ear, his length slipping softly all the way into her only to slide out almost completely, teasing something inside her. His movements began to become increasingly slippery, his thighs slapping against her buttocks with a quiet, sticky click.

"− just like that − just a little longer −" He cooed, stroking her wet hair, placing almost tender kisses on her temple, panting along with her with each of his movements, her body bouncing slightly with each of his thrusts.

She snuggled into him tighter, just wanting to hide, to escape, his neck smelling of smoke, sweat, rain. She closed her eyes, trying to relax, and he groaned loudly feeling her body stop resisting him, his lips roaming over her wet cheek, placing moist, sticky kisses on it.

"− I know − I know − 'm close −" He whispered with some kind of care from which a shudder went through her, the thought that when he did this she might soon expect his child.

She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought feeling the tears burning under her eyelids again, sobbing quietly, embracing him tightly, his thrusts getting faster and louder, slamming his swollen, fat cock into her again and again, both of them began to moan, his one hand clenched in her hair, the other squeezed her hip.

"− how could you leave me − I was waiting for you then − ah − all fucking night − but it doesn't matter − you're mine now − g-gods − fuck! −" He exhaled loudly, panting heavily along with her, his words making her feel her core throbbing around him, sucking him inside, some warm liquid spilling inside her and suddenly it was all over.

They sat cuddled together like that for long minutes, their breaths calming, not speaking or moving, just embracing each other, his face nestled into her hair, his nose pressed against her cheek.

"From now on everything will be as it should be, wife."

_____

Alternative Universe Series: The Fall from the Heavens

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

#aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #aemond x fem!reader #hotd aemond #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell fanfic #dark aemond smut #dark aemond #dark aemond targaryen #dark moodboard #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #ewan mitchell smut #aemond targeryen angst #aemond targaryen angst #aemond angst #hotd angst #hotd smut #aemond targaryen x you #prince aemond #aemond #aemond one eye #hotd fandom #aemond the kinslayer #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #aemond x original female character

[ichorai]

balance the scales ; aemond targaryen. (m)

alternatively titled soda. track six of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; aemond targaryen x strong!f!reader

synopsis ; he flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. you whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.

words ; 40.3k (my longest oneshot!)

themes ; heavy angst, action, smut (minors dni!), mild fluff, enemies to lovers back to enemies trope, slowburn, betrothed au

warnings / includes ; violence/war, several character deaths, descriptions of injury/blood, birth scenes, oral (f recieving), unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, hotd s1 spoilers, reader is fiercely team black, implications of rape (aegon), really really heavy angst, harwin is reader's older brother, helaena is the sweetest ever :( jace and luke are reader's best friends, rhaenyra is practically reader's mother, lots of Emotions in this one, asoiaf politics and references for all of you book nerds

main masterlist. read on ao3!

It was said that you came into the world silent. 

A problem with your lungs, the midwives had solemnly told your father, the Hand of the King, proclaiming you dead not three minutes after. Lyonel Strong was grief-stricken at not only having lost his dear wife to the perilous task of childbirth, but you as well. 

But you were a fighter from the very beginning. At least, that’s what Harwin had told you. Once they’d laid you in your eldest brother’s arms, your airway had miraculously cleared up and you’d let out a hoarse, shrill cry—and the rest was history. 

“I was twenty when you were born, you know,” said Harwin, voice rife with affection, reaching out to brush a lock of hair away from your face. “I was so scared that I’d lose you. Now look at you—eight years of age and healthier than ever. Are you excited to meet the new baby?”

“Yes! The babe gets a dragon egg and everything!” 

You beamed up at your eldest brother, batting away his fretful hands and turning to your friends. Though—they’d always felt more like your brothers than merely friends.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, who bore a striking resemblance to Harwin (and you’d keenly noticed that they shared your smile), were playing with a wooden carving of a dragon, blowing raspberries and running around the spacious chamber. The taller of the two, Jace, was only a few moons older than you, whilst Luke was much younger and looked up to you—quite literally and figuratively. The two young boys roped you into their little game as well, screaming with laughter when you began chasing after them with a snarl, arms outstretched. 

With a slight smile, Harwin watched over the three of you, hands comfortably rested against the hilt of his gilded longsword. Even though he was only but your older brother, he always treated you as if you were his own child—after all, you barely saw your father anyway, seeing as he was always busy serving the King as the Hand. The fact that he was a whole two decades older than you only made him all the more protective of his youngest sibling. 

His attention was pulled away from the three kids clambering on top of each other when the doors creaked open. An exhausted Rhaenyra slowly limped in, Laenor Velaryon right behind her, holding a bundle of red and gold fabric. 

“Mother!” exclaimed Jace, getting onto his feet to greet Rhaenyra. “Look!” 

He scuttled away to pull the cover off of the stone incubator, revealing a scaly dragon egg of dark emerald hue. You and Luke were hot on his trail, peering over his shoulder to marvel at the smoking egg. A large part of you was jealous that Jace and Luke and the new babe each got a dragon egg, and you never did, despite having similar physical attributes to the boys. But they were royal Princes, and you were only the youngest child of the Hand, which really meant little to nothing other than fancy titles and polite honorifics.

“We chose an egg for the baby,” Luke excitedly told his mother, who leaned against a chaise tiredly.

Harwin offered his arm to Rhaenyra, helping her slowly ease down onto the seat. 

“Ah,” she said, the beginnings of a smile to her lips. “That looks like the perfect one.”

“I let Luke choose!” chirped Jace, squaring his shoulders proudly. “But Luke couldn’t decide, so I asked Y/N.”

The purple of Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed with affection when she looked at you, nearly shrouded behind Jace’s taller stature. “Sweet girl,” she hummed, briefly glancing up at Harwin, before returning her gaze to you. “You chose wonderfully. Thank you.”

Luke reached out to graze his fingers over the egg’s ridges, but flinched back from the heat, sticking them into his mouth. You pulled a grimace but laughed anyway, lightly shoving Luke away from the incubator.

“Not every day an egg leaves the Dragonpit, Princess,” said your brother. “I thought it best to escort the lads. They insisted on Y/N coming along, as well.” 

“Laenor and I thank you, Commander,” replied Rhaenyra, dipping her head with gratitude. 

Harwin’s eyes locked on the babe in Laenor’s arms. “Another boy, I heard,” he said. 

The Princess nodded once, the corner of her lips lifting ever so slightly. 

“Might I?” asked the Commander.

“Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey,” Rhaenyra told her husband, who finally ripped his loving gaze from the babe, and handed him over to Harwin.

With flailing hands, Luke reached out to Harwin, eyes trained on Laenor. “Please, father, may I hold Joffrey?”

“Ah, ah, ah, back to the Dragonpit for you two—before they send out a search party!” ushered Laenor as he led the boys out of the chamber. “Come, Y/N, would you like to join the boys?” he asked kindly, clearly wanting to give Harwin and Rhaenyra some well-earned time alone. 

Excited at the prospect of seeing the boys’ dragons again, you scrambled out the doors after them, squeaking out, “Wait! Wait for me!” 

Once the doors were shut and the kids were gone, Rhaenyra looked upon Harwin bouncing the babe fondly.

“You’re asleep in front of the Commander of the City Watch,” he gently scolded the tiny thing. “Terrible lack of respect.”

“A certain insolence runs in the family, I’m afraid,” commented Rhaenyra, subtly hinting to the baby being of Harwin’s blood, rather than Laenor’s. 

Harwin tried his best to suppress his smile, failing miserably. He looked down at the baby once more, noting with pleased fascination that Joffrey had his nose.

The dungeons of the Dragonpit were dimly lit by sparse, flaming torches hanging by the stone walls. It stank of smoke and ash and stale blood, but you didn’t quite mind the smell. You bounced on the balls of your feet behind Jacaerys, eyes wide with anticipation as the dragonkeepers brought out Vermax.

He was a rather tempestuous beast, snarling at the lot of you as he stalked forward. The pale orange of his wings and the green of his scales warbled beneath the fire’s light. The keepers spoke in their lilting Valyrian tongues to command the dragon—foreign to your ears, but no less interesting. 

Aegon seemed not to share your disposition, however, yawning loudly and rolling his eyes to the side, clearly bored with watching Jacaerys bond with Vermax. Ever since Aegon had won mastery over his own dragon, Sunfyre, his head seemed to swell twice its size and he held no interest in anybody else’s dragon but his own. Both you and Luke glanced up at him with a scowl. The younger of the silver-headed boys kept his gaze trained to the ground, used to his brother’s antics.

You’d always been much more fond of Aemond than Aegon anyway—he was far kinder to you than his brother. Though, compared to Aegon, it was barely a competition. 

Watching on in rapt fascination, you turned your head to see one of the keepers bring out a bleating lamb for Vermax to feast upon.

“Can I say it?” asked Jacaerys, equal parts nervous and excited. He glanced at his uncles, before looking back at you, eyes gleaming. You gave him an encouraging smile. At the keepers’ hum of approval, he turned back to his dragon. “Dracarys, Vermax!” 

With a grateful hiss, Vermax turned and blew a long breath of fire straight at his prey, pupils sharpening. Even from afar, you could feel the heat of the flames kiss your skin.

Vermax happily stalked forward and began biting into the charred flesh of the lamb. The keepers clapped Jacaerys on the shoulder proudly, before heading off to round Vermax further into the darkness of the Dragonpit. 

Just as you were about to tell Jace how amazing that was, Aegon interrupted by cuffing his younger brother on the shoulder.

“Aemond, we have a surprise for you,” he glibly said.

The other two boys glanced at each mischievously. You tilted your head, feeling a bit left out. You weren’t aware of any surprises they had planned for the young Prince.

“What is it?” asked Aemond.

“Something very special!” chimed Lucerys, just before he ran off into the darkness.

Clearing his throat, Aegon continued, “You’re the only one of us without a dragon.”

Aemond frowned. “Indeed.”

“And we felt badly about it, so we found one for you!” exclaimed Aegon.

This came as a surprise to you. To your knowledge, none of the dragons had nested as of late, and there were no new eggs for Aemond to take. 

The same skepticism colored Aemond’s tone. “A dragon? How?”

Aegon didn’t even try hiding his snarky smile. “The gods provide, dear brother.”

And out came Luke from the shadows, tugging along a large, oinking pig. Tufts of dried wheat were tied around the pigs back, made to mimic a dragon’s wings. You felt your lips twist into a frown. What a terrible thing to gift Aemond.

The other boys giggled as they announced, “Behold, the Pink Dread!” 

They snickered in amusement at Aemond’s reaction—or lack thereof. 

“Be sure to mount her carefully,” cackled Aegon, prodding his brother’s side. “First flight’s always rough.” He snorted loudly into Aemond’s ear, who stood still and unflinching. 

Jace and Luke followed suit, making obscene pig noises and giggling. They turned to leave the Dragonpit.

“Come on, Y/N, let’s go see if they have any lemon cakes for supper!” said Luke, grabbing your hand. 

You kept your gaze trained on Aemond, shaking the younger boy off. “I’ll be right there… just give me a minute.”

Shrugging, Luke scampered off with Jace and Aegon, still laughing between his pig-reminiscent oinks.

Uncertain, you stood a couple feet away from Aemond, toying with the fabric of your sleeve. You sympathized with him, really. All your life, you had no dragon of your own, despite always having wanted one. You knew it wasn’t the same because it was his birthright as a Prince to have a dragon—but you could still understand the feeling.

“I’m sorry about them,” you said, moving closer. “That’s a terrible thing to gift you.”

The Prince was silent for a few moments, before rotating on his feet to fix his glare on you. You shuffled back a step.

An amalgamation of anger and embarrassment etching crystal clear across his face, he spat out, “Go away! You’re not even of royal Targaryen blood—you don’t belong here!”

It was clear that he was merely projecting his frustrations onto you—after all, he himself was of Targaryen blood and yet he always felt like an outcast in his own family. 

But you were only eight, and such complicated matters were lost to you. 

Lips twisting in a frown, you blinked at the Prince, hands curling into fists by your side. “I just wanted to help,” you quietly mumbled beneath your breath, before promptly turning on your heel and marching out of the Dragonpit.

Aemond had heard your final words before your departure, feeling a twinge of guilt coil within his stomach. But after casting another look at the pig, his thoughts about you disappeared, replaced only with hot fury. 

With a determined set of his jaw, Aemond trudged on further into the darkness of the Dragonpit. 

“Your feet,” said Harwin, tapping the edge of his sword onto your scuffed boots. “Don’t stand like a pin needle. Keep them apart—steady your stance.”

You did as he told, and he nodded in approval. With your dull, wooden practice lance, you dove forward and struck the hay sewn dummy with quick strikes.

“Good,” your older brother commended, patting your shoulder. “Just remember to move with your feet, alright? Come now, drop the sword.”

“What?” you asked, allowing the wood to go limp in your hand. “Why?”

Kneeling down before you, Harwin brushed your sweaty, damp hair away from your burning skin. “Because this world doesn’t give little girls swords when they need it. They must only rely on their wit and their hands if the situation arises. Drop the sword, darling.”

Frowning, you relinquished your hold, waiting for further instructions.

You’d been doing this with Harwin for a long while now. Every other night for the past three years, he’d been teaching you how to fight, and how to defend yourself. 

“Now, I’m going to pretend to hit you, and you have to do everything in your power to stop me. Do anything you must—hit back, bite, kick, run… just don’t give up. You promise?”

“Okay,” you told him, steeling your nerves. 

He began slowly, motioning to strike your stomach and your sides. You managed to evade those easily, moving back or rolling out of his way. The faster he got, however, the more sloppy you were. One particular jab to your shoulder made you bite back a cry of pain, and you glared up at him.

“Must you be so rough?” you growled, to which Harwin only nodded, face stoic.

“In a fight—a real and true one—do you think they’d go easy on you? No. You must be prepared for it, Y/N. I will not always be there to protect you.” 

His words made you pause. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you be there?” 

“I’ll always be there for you, little sister,” he said, large hand patting your head. “But if there comes such a time where I won’t be, for some reason unbeknownst to me, you must be ready.”

With a reluctant bob of your head, he commanded you to get into a fighting stance again. 

“Thumb outside the fist,” he gently reminded you. “Feet wider apart, knees bent—yes, that’s it.”

And without warning, he darted forward, using his foot to sweep across your legs, making you stumble back onto your arse, all the breath in your lungs rushing out.

“Harwin!” you yelled out, now fed up with him. “That’s not fair! You’re using your feet!”

“I never said I wasn’t going to use my feet. You will soon come to realize that life is not always fair,” he said, unable to help the small chuckle falling from his lips. “Up you get.”

Rubbing at your sore bottom, you mumbled out, “Why don’t I get to spar with Jace and Luke and Aemond and Aegon? I want to spar with them.” Though, as soon as the words left you, you realized that you’d really rather not spar with Aemond and Aegon. Especially not after that whole pig situation.

Surprised at your question, Harwin halted to lower himself down to your height once again. “Sweet sister… it is safer for me to train you in secret. In a fair and just world, you’d be able to train with whomever you wanted. But you are a young girl, and they are the royal Princes. The court would not find it proper if you were to spar with them.”

Tears welled up in your widened eyes. “But… that’s not fair…”

Harwin thumbed away the wetness on your cheek. “Come now, don’t cry. How about, next time the boys train, you get to watch—and I can teach you the same things they learn later in the evening? How does that sound?”

“O-Okay,” you hiccupped. “Can I have my sword back?”

With a faint smile, Harwin nodded, handing you the wooden stick. 

From the shadows where neither of you could see, Criston Cole watched, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted.

Harwin was a man of his word.

The very next day, you had shot out of your bed like someone had lit a fire beneath you, hurriedly dressing and washing yourself, much to your handmaid's shock, and scampered out to the training yard.

“There you are,” greeted your brother, ruffling your already sleep-mussed hair. “I was afraid you weren’t going to show.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” you replied, bouncing on your toes.

Harwin could only grin down at you, before returning his gaze to the four boys dully smacking their wooden practice swords against the dummies.

Aegon twisted and turned and hit with speed rather than precision, grunts of exertion falling from his lips. Lucerys was clumsy and slow, but for the most part, he hit the targeted regions accurately. Jacaerys was nearly the same as his youngest brother, only a tad faster and more agile on his feet. 

Ser Criston Cole was scrutinizing Aemond, despite him seeming to be doing the best out of the four. Fast, accurate, and strong strokes of his wooden blade thudded repeatedly against the hay.

“Soften your knees,” gruffed Criston, face betraying no expression. “Feet light. Light, Aemond.”

Training with the Dornish man seemed much different than training with your older brother. With your brother, as hard as he was on you sometimes, he was still kind and knew your limits. Cole was cold and rigidly strict, and seemed to care naught for the boys’ boundaries.

You glanced up at your brother, who watched on with a mildly distasteful expression.

Observing from the walkways above, you spotted your father with the King. Lyonel eyed you with a questionable gaze, wondering what on earth his youngest daughter was doing on the training grounds, rather than playing with Princess Helaena, whom you’d grown to be rather fond of, or entertaining Rhaenyra and the new babe, Joffrey. 

You tilted your head when Aegon grew bored of smacking his own dummy, wandering over to Jace and knocking the younger Prince’s sword out of his hands. To none of your surprise, Criston chose to turn a blind eye to the eldest boy.

You will soon come to realize that life is not always fair, you could hear your brother’s words echo in your head. Perhaps he was right. Nonetheless, you could feel anger simmer within your stomach.

“Don’t stand too upright, my Prince, you’ll get knocked down,” commanded Cole.

Aegon halted in his terrorizing as two handmaids passed by, openly gawking at the poor girls as they hurried off with baskets of soiled laundry. Only after they were long gone, did Aegon catch sight of you, tilting his head curiously, as if trying to remember your face.

“Aegon,” Criston called out, pulling Aegon’s attention away from you.

“I’ve won my first bout, Ser Criston,” boasted the white-haired Prince. “My opponent sues for mercy.”

A ghost of a smirk graced Criston’s lips. “Then you shall have a new opponent, then. Let’s see if you can touch me. You and your brother.”

With dejected expressions, Luke and Jace slunk off to the side, watching Aemond and Aegon battle against Criston. It was only then that the two boys took notice of you. Luke waved excitedly, and Jace nodded his head with a smile. You grinned back at them, clasping your hands behind your back, itching to have a practice sword gripped between them.

Criston seemed to make a fool of the Princes, easily parrying away their strikes and sending them sprawling onto the ground several times. 

“Weapons up, boys,” Harwin quietly advised Luke and Jace. “Give your enemies no quarter.”

It seemed as though his words were not quiet enough—Criston certainly overheard what he was saying, and didn’t look too pleased with it.

Your brother narrowed his eyes. “It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention, Ser Criston.”

Jaw squared, Cole bit out, “You question my method of instruction, Ser?”

“I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils,” said Harwin. 

“My pupils? And not… your pupil?” 

This made your brother blanche uneasily. 

“Lady Y/N. Come. I want to see what Ser Harwin has taught you.”

Shocked, you looked up at your brother, lips falling open and shut, unsure of what to say or do. 

Not wanting to disobey the tall, scary man, you timidly stepped forward. From above, your father seemed to want to end this nonsense, shifting his weight from foot to foot—but as the King trusted Ser Criston Cole, he had little he could say to put a stop to this.

“Aemond. You shall spar with the Lady Strong.”

The Prince seemed to want to do anything other than that, but reluctantly ambled forward anyway. Criston roughly shoved a wooden sword against your chest, which lacked any armor whatsoever in comparison to Aemond’s full chestplate and protective metal gloves. 

“Engage.”

Desperately trying to recall what your brother had taught you, you spread your feet further apart and bent your knees, leveling your weight in preparation to move around.

Aemond was the first to attack, diving forward to strike your sides. He got one hit in at first, pain blossoming by your ribs. You winced, staggering back slightly.

By the second strike, you were prepared. Though he was half a foot taller than you, you used that to your advantage. It was little effort to duck away from his arc when he was about to repeat the very same maneuver, smacking the flat of your stick to the back of his left knee, sending him buckling forward. In the short time you had to watch him, you’d noticed that he favored his right side, and often left the other side unguarded. 

The Prince was quick to recover, scrambling back up on his feet and glaring at you with the strength of a thousand suns. This time, he was smarter, waiting for you to attack next. You feigned a jab to his neck, forcing him to parry high up, before you used your feet to kick out against his exposed stomach. It was a dirty move—not a proper one in the least, but it was as your brother said the other night—life was not fair.

Aemond fell back with a muffled oomf, expression suspended into one of disbelief. He couldn’t believe he’d just been bested by a girl. Teeth clenched, you placed the tip of your sword against his chest, locking eyes with him. He stared at you with nothing but pure hatred within the deep purple of his irises. After a second, you moved it away, holding out your hand to help him up. You were willing to overlook what happened down at the Dragonpit the other day—after all, you still sympathized with him and didn't hate him in the very least. Especially not compared to his wretched older brother. 

The Prince didn’t take your hand. He shoved it away with a grumble, standing up on his own and slinking off to the side. It was embarrassing. More than that—he was angry at himself, at you, at Cole. Tears pricked the corner of Aemond’s eyes, but he willfully staved them away.

Frowning, you made your way back to Harwin, who fondly cupped your face with one large palm, patting your cheek thrice. “Well done, Y/N. I’m so proud of you.”

You smiled wearily, though it didn’t reach your eyes.

Criston’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, clearly unhappy with Harwin’s pupil beating his own. His gaze flitted downward to lock with yours for a brief moment, before looking at the crown Prince. “Alright. Jacaerys. You spar with Aegon. Eldest son against eldest son.”

Giving the boy no warning, Cole seized the front of Jace’s armor and all but dragged him to the center of the training yard. Helplessly, Jace looked to you and Harwin.

This was by no means a fair fight, but you had to remind yourself—life is not always fair.

As if reading your thoughts, Harwin called out, “It’s hardly a fair match.”

“I know you’ve never seen true battle, Ser, but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect.” Criston’s seething words made you shift uncomfortably. How dare he speak to your brother like that?

You glanced back up at your father and the King, still watching over. You wondered if he could hear what Criston was saying. If he cared.

“Engage,” said Cole.

And with that, Aegon roared, raining down attack after attack upon Jace. He shoved him down onto the ground, dried leaves fluttering upwards with his fall. Satisfied with himself, Aegon turned his back to Jace, bowing to you with a smirk and chuckling at his early win.

Jacaerys, however, was quick to get on his feet and charged forward with a snarl, wildly arcing the practice sword at his uncle.

In an attempt to get him to stop, Aegon shoved a dummy onto Jace, which prompted Harwin to step forward and say, “Foul play!”

“I’ll deal with him,” barked Criston, before stepping towards Aegon. “Plant your feet. You have a height advantage. Use it!”

It was becoming more and more clear that this spar was no longer an eldest son against an eldest son. It was between your brother, Commander of the City Watch, and the Queen’s kingsguard.

Whilst Criston roughly barked instructions to Aegon, Harwin moved to Jace, gripping the young boy’s chin in his palm and gently gave him advice and words of encouragement—not unsimilar to what he did with you during your training.

Once they were done, Aegon furiously stormed back to Jacaerys. “You!” he screamed, red-faced and furious at his nephew for having embarrassed him in such a way. The Prince was not at all used to not winning.

“Close with him!” yelled Criston when Aegon surged forward and hit him repeatedly. “Press him backward! Stay on the attack! Use your feet!” 

With that, Aegon placed his heel squarely against Jace’s chestplate, kicking him back onto the dirt. 

“Don’t let him get up. Stay on the attack!” 

You watched on in concern as Aegon whacked the wooden sword over and over onto Jace—to the point where you panicked and frantically tugged on Harwin’s armor, afraid he was going to do some serious damage on your friend. 

Deciding to put an end to this once and for all, Harwin finally stepped forward and ripped Aegon away from Jace. 

“Enough!” he bellowed, so loud that his voice seemed to echo back against the stone walls. 

This seemed to enrage Aegon all the more as he screeched out, “You dare put your hands on me?”

“Aegon!” yelled the King from above.

Nobody listened. 

“You forget yourself, Strong,” said Cole, voice dripping with venom. It didn’t slip by your notice that he’d dropped the honorifics with your brother. “That is the Prince.”

“This is what you teach, Cole? Cruelty to the weaker opponent?�� seethed Harwin. 

Tone eerily level, Cole glibly commented, “Your interest in the princeling’s training is quite unusual, Commander. Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin… or a brother… or a son.”

With that, Harwin surged forward and planted a clean punch against Criston’s face. 

Criston made no attempts to fight back. Not with the second hit, or the third, or the fourth. By the fifth, he was bleeding from the side of his temple, and red ran down a stream from his split lips.

Your hands had flown over your mouth, and you staggered back, against Jace. Luke’s small hand curled into the fabric of your tunic. A son… Criston had said. And it all made sense to you now—why Harwin loved the boys so dearly, why they looked so much like your brother, why you shared the same smile as them. 

They were your nephews. 

This only had you protectively stepping in front of them, shielding them from the sight of their true father beating up a knight.

Over and over and over again, your eldest brother struck Cole, until his own knuckles glimmered with dark ichor—belonging to both him and the man beneath him. Two gold cloaks had to rush forward and haul Harwin away from Criston.

“Say it again!” bellowed Harwin. “Say it again!”

Despite the beating he’d just undertook, Criston laughed through his blood-saturated spittle. “Thought as much,” he choked out, turning to his side to hack out a wad of red onto the dirt. 

Your father was furious. 

At you, yes, but the anger he felt towards Harwin a thousand times moreso. So much so that he had ordered Harwin be stripped of his title as Commander of the City Watch, and taken back home to Harrenhal as his heir. Though, it wasn’t a home to you, seeing as you’d never even stepped foot in the place.

Your father had also tried to resign as Hand to the King, feeling immense pressure and shame from the court. But the King insisted he stay, and to your relief, that meant that you could stay, as well.

However, that also entailed that you had to say goodbye to your beloved brother. 

When he first told you, you scoffed and retorted, “A funny joke, Harwin, but I’m not in the laughing mood.” And when his expression remained solemnly unchanged, you could feel your heart sinking to your stomach. “No… no, you can’t be serious. Harwin, you can’t leave! No! What am I to do here without you? What of our training?”

The following hour consisted of you crying your little eyes out, sobbing into Harwin’s armor, begging him not to leave. He had little to say, afraid that if he opened his mouth, he’d join you in your crying. But he stroked your hair and assured you that he’d write as often as he could to you.

Father was to be joining him to drop him off at Harrenhal and ensure everything was going smoothly for the first fortnight, before he was due to return to King's Landing. You wouldn’t be missing him too much—at least he was coming back. You hadn’t a clue when the next time you’d see your brother might be.

And there was the other unspoken elephant in the room—Rhaenyra’s sons. Your best friends—and, as you’d recently found out, your nephews.

“Be good to your mother, lads,” said Harwin, kneeling by Luke. “I’ll visit when I can. But that may be some time.”

He turned to Jace, who stood tall beside his mother, rocking Joffrey back and forth in his arms. 

“I will return,” your brother told his eldest son, lifting his chin up with the tips of his fingers. “I promise.”

Harwin and Rhaenyra locked eyes for a brief moment. Hers watered. Harwin’s softened. He bent down to press a loving kiss to the babe’s forehead. 

“I will be a stranger when we meet again,” he whispered to Joffrey, but a part of it was directed to Rhaenyra herself.

You awaited by the door for him, wiping your tears furiously with the back of your hand. 

Harwin’s final goodbye was saved for you. So much to say, with so little time. He cupped your face and kissed your forehead, nose slotted against your hairline. His first and final tear fell from his misty eyes.

“Remember what I told you. I’ll always be there for you, sweet sister. Always. Maybe not physically here,” he said, before pressing a thumb just above your duly beating heart. “But in here.” 

Much to your frustration, you began to cry again, chest thundering with sobs. 

“Goodbye, brother,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Oh, no, don’t cry over me, darling. I want you to keep your head high, hm? By the time I see you again, you might be even stronger than me.” 

Harwin pressed another kiss to your cheek, before swiping your tears away with the pads of his thumbs, and stood up again. 

You watched as he pushed the door open and strode down the hall, disappearing from your sight. Jacaerys came to your side, threading his hand with yours in an effort to comfort you. You squeezed gratefully, releasing a shuddering breath.

“We will exchange letters by raven,” placated Rhaenyra, trying her best to alleviate both of your sorrows. “Won’t that be fun?”

Bluntly, Jace turned to look at his mother and asked, “Is Harwin Strong my father? Am I a bastard?”

Shock colored Rhaenyra’s expression. 

“You are a Targaryen,” she affirmed after recovering from her initial surprise, stroking Jace’s hair away from his face. “That’s all that matters.”

She hadn’t answered his question, but both you and Jace knew the truth.

News of your brother and father’s death spread like wildfire. It was said to be an accident—a tragic product of Harrenhal’s Curse. There were rumors flying around, however, that it was no accident.

Rumors of Daemon Targaryen wanting to rid his niece of her lover. Rumors of Corlys Velaryon exacting revenge for Harwin cuckolding his son. Rumors of your last remaining brother, Larys Strong, murdering his own blood to claim his inheritance.

You paid no mind to the rumors. It was an accident, and that was that.

Life is not fair, you could hear your brother’s voice say to you. He was right—nothing was fair. 

After their deaths, you spent days weeping in your chambers. Jacaerys and Lucerys often dropped by to check in on you, offering to take you down to the Dragonpits in hopes of cheering you up. You’d sniffled and shook your head, curling up in the center of your bed. Rhaenyra, who saw you more like a daughter than anything, took the liberty of bringing food to your chambers, urging you to eat something.

“It’s okay to cry, sweet girl,” she told you, sitting by the edge of your bed and stroking the hair away from your face. When you began to quietly sob, she wound her arms around your small frame, and held you close to her chest.

The fortnight after their deaths, everyone treated you as if you were hewn from glass. They spoke slowly and cautiously, treading on eggshells around you. Even Jace and Luke seemed hesitant to play with you anymore, afraid you’d burst into hysterical tears any second.

What made it worse was when Rhaenyra announced that she was leaving King’s Landing with her children for Dragonstone. It was devastating news—for she and her sons were the closest thing you had left to a family. 

Jace hugged you goodbye, eyes teary and nose red. Little Luke clung to your legs and begged you to come with them. Even Rhaenyra had offered you a place on the ship to join them on their journey, her voice kind but so very tired.

“You will always have a place with us, sweet girl,” she had told you, lips pressing a gentle kiss to your hairline. The Princess considered you the daughter she never had—always fiercely protective of you. With Harwin gone, that feeling only increased thricefold. You were practically her family by now.

But you couldn’t leave King’s Landing with Rhaenyra and the boys. Not with Larys Strong anchoring you to the Red Keep—and certainly not with Alicent breathing down both of your necks.

And so you watched them sail away, face drenched with your tears and hands clenched into fists by your side.

You abhorred it all, wishing everything could just go back to how they were before.

Out of all the other children at court, Princess Helaena was the only one who treated you the same as she did before, all misty-eyed and odd-of-tongue. Because of this, you found yourself glued to her side, desperate for a sense of normalcy, which you ironically found in the strangest of girls. She was a fascinating person, far more intelligent than first meets the eye—with a peculiar interest in critters and insects lurking in the shadows.

She was rather fond of you as well, though not at all used to having friends, much less other girls who took her fixations seriously and didn’t think her gross for it. Queen Alicent was mortified at having a Strong girl befriend her daughter, and yet was simultaneously relieved that she finally had someone to call a friend. Besides, having you on her side was more of an advantage than anything—especially with Larys Strong backed in her corner, as well.

“The butterfly has two large, black spots on the bottom of its wings,” said Helaena as she crouched down beside you, holding her palms up to brandish the small insect. “They are to trick the larger animals into thinking they are eyes. It is a defense tactic. The butterfly is not who the rest thinks she is.”

You smiled at her, raising a finger to touch the little insect, only for it to flutter away before you could get too close, hurrying back to the gardens. 

“They’re beautiful,” you said, watching it disappear amongst the flowers. “Masters of trickery, though.”

“Yes,” surmised Helaena, though her gaze was fixed on you. “Beautiful. Deceitful. Both equally true.”

It had been three weeks since your brother and father passed.

And yet, here you were, at someone else’s funeral in Driftmark. Laena Velaryon—the late wife to Prince Daemon Targaryen.

You’d pleaded with Larys, begged him to allow you to go back to Harrenhal to mourn your family—but he only supplied you with a crooked smile and told you that you belonged in King’s Landing. With Larys being your only kin left standing, adamant with his refusal to return home to properly grieve over Harwin and Lyonel, it seemed that you were stuck with him.

You were never very fond of Larys to begin with.

At Laena’s funeral, you made it your job to avoid him as much as you could, following behind Jacaerys and Lucerys. It was strange and pleasant under the worst circumstances seeing them again so soon after such an emotional farewell.

Rhaenyra wove through the crowd, bowing her head to you with soft eyes, before fixing her gaze on her eldest son.

“Your little cousins have lost their mother,” she said. “They could use a kind word.”

Jacaerys looked to you, then back up to his mother. “We have an equal claim to sympathy.”

Brows furrowing, Rhaenyra looked around to make sure none of the lords and ladies were listening in. “Jace—”

“We should be at Harrenhal, mourning Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin. It is not fair to Y/N,” he stressed, jaw clenched. Tears warbled over your irises, but you quickly blinked them away.

“You’re right—it’s not fair. But it would not be appropriate. The Velaryons are our kin and the Strongs are not. Look at me, Jace. Do you understand?”

Bearing a sour face, Jacaerys nodded, before trudging off to give his condolences to his little cousins. 

You watched him go, looking up at Rhaenyra with wide eyes. “Nothing in life is fair.”

The silver-haired Princess shot you a questioning look, but you turned and made your way into the shadows, where you knew her half-sister, Helaena was playing.

“Hand turns loom, spool of green, spool of black, dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread,” she chimed, repeating the words over and over again, cradling a spider in her palms. 

When she caught sight of you, she didn’t stop her mantra, but dipped her head in greeting. She offered you the spider, but you shook your head with a kind smile, allowing her to keep playing around with the spindly arachnid. 

From about a meter away, Aemond and Aegon watched the two of you.

“We have nothing in common,” the elder of the two bemoaned, slurping wine from a golden chalice. He was referring to the fact that he was betrothed to his sister now, something that neither of them seemed particularly pleased about.

Aemond pursed his lips. “She’s our sister.”

“You marry her, then,” Aegon shot back.

“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.” He watched curiously as you tossed your head back with a laugh when Helaena whispered something about collecting spider webs in a jar. Come to think of it, Aemond couldn’t remember ever hearing you laugh before. Memories of you besting him in combat flashed before his eyes. 

“If only,” snorted Aegon.

“It would strengthen the family. Keep our Valyrian blood pure.” 

Pulling a disgusted face, Aegon looked to his brother. “She’s an idiot!”

“She’s your future queen,” spat Aemond.

“I’d rather take the one beside her,” said Aegon, eyes glued to you. “She is growing to be a fine girl… considering how she beat your arse to the ground.”

Aemond supplied him with no answer. He was no stranger to Aegon’s lustful ramblings.

“Actually, we do have one thing in common—we both fancy creatures with long legs!” chortled the older prince, before sauntering away, off to hunt down a maid for another cup of wine. “Wench! Another!”

This left Aemond to shake his head with revolt, observing his brother go. 

He spotted his nephew, Jacaerys, not too far. A part of him wanted to say something, offer his sympathies or apologies—but when Jace lifted his head and stared straight at him, Aemond could feel the words lodging in his throat, and he turned to walk away.

You observed the interaction from afar. Aemond caught your eye, merely for a brief moment, but it felt like an eternity.

And, much to your surprise, he made his way to you.

“I offer my condolences, Lady Strong,” he said, rigidly formal. “It is tragic what happened to your brother and father.”

You bowed your head, lips trembling. Though the two of you have certainly had your differences, Aemond was not heartless. He knew you were suffering a great loss.

“Thank you, my Prince,” you croaked. 

The two of you stood in silence.

“I… I’m sorry. For snapping at you in the Dragonpit.”

Your head shot up in surprise. There was little you could think of saying, so you gave him a small smile—one that he mirrored after a moment’s hesitation.

Somewhere in the distance, the pained roar of Vhagar echoed over the seas.

It was the dead of night.

You were already sound asleep when Luke burst into your chambers, grabbing your shoulder and shaking you awake.

“Y/N, wake up, wake up!” he whisper-yelled.

Groaning, you peered open an eye and sat up. “What?” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Someone stole Vhagar!” he said, tugging you off the bed and ushering your bleary form along. Jacaerys, Baela, and Rhaena were already rushing out to see who had taken the old beast of a dragon.

Not at all sleepy anymore, your eyes widened upon seeing Aemond clamber off the dragon.

“It’s him!” gasped Baela.

Aemond cocked his head. “It’s me.”

Face contorting with rage, Baela gritted out, “Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!”

“Your mother’s dead,” said Aemond. Briefly, his gaze flicked to you, before looking back at the two Targaryen girls. “Vhagar has a new rider now.”

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena gruffed.

“Then you should’ve claimed her,” retorted Aemond. “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you.”

A soft gasp lodged in your throat when Rhaena strode forward with a growl, aiming a loose punch at Aemond’s face. He easily dodged, grabbing her shoulders and shoving her off to the side. Baela rushed towards him next, landing a good punch to his face. He yelled out and struck her back, a bilious crack of his fist against her skin ringing out against the stone walls.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” threatened Aemond. 

His words made Jace yell out and jump forward, driving Luke to attack, as well. Aemond made quick work of the boys, kicking Jace back and punching Luke so hard in the face that his nose cracked beneath the pressure.

You were hesitant to fight Aemond, you really were—especially when the two of you seemed to have just gotten over your grievances with one another. 

But he’d hurt your friends, and you wouldn’t stand for that. Harwin certainly wouldn’t have.

“Stop this!” you told him, protectively standing between Luke and Aemond. When he only set his jaw, you gave him a hard shove back. The conflict that danced within the purple of his irises was tangible—you could see it.

He didn’t want to fight you.

Your push took him by surprise, sending him sprawling onto the hard ground. Baela, Rhaena, and Jace took advantage of this, jumping forward to rain punch after hit after kick on the young Prince. He was bleeding now—red leaking from his nose, his lips, his fists.

“Stop! Stop!” you screamed at them, grabbing at Rhaena’s hand and trying to pull her back, to no avail. “Jace, stop!”

Luke pushed away from you to join the skirmish. 

To your horror, Aemond grabbed a large rock that had come loose from the cobblestone walls, curling his bloodied fingers around it. The other hand shot out to wrap around Lucerys’ throat.

“You will die screaming in flames, just as your father did! Bastards!” spat Aemond into Luke’s face. The words seemed to have fallen from his lips without thought, as if completely forgetting that you were there.

But what he said had struck a chord within you. How dare he speak of your brother in such a way? You wished to move, to hit Aemond until he was nothing but a bloodied pile of flesh and bone—but he still held Luke in his grasp, and the looming threat of the rock in his other hand. 

Confused, little Luke choked out, “My father’s still alive!”

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Aemond looked to Jace then to you, then back to Jace. “Lord Strong?”

Furious, Jace unsheathed a small dagger. 

No. 

No, if Jace were to kill Aemond… it would only make matters all the worse.

“Jace, no—!” you began, but your warning fell upon deaf ears.

Jacaerys dove forward with the dagger, but Aemond knocked him down with the rock thudding against his cheek, the blade flying. to the other side of the corridor. Aemond let go of the younger Velaryon in his haste. 

This was a mistake.

Luke crawled about in the sand, grabbing the hilt of the dagger Jace had dropped. Working in tandem, the elder brother threw sand in Aemond’s eyes, momentarily blinding him, and Luke stood up, slashing the sharp metal straight across the side of Aemond’s face with a sickening squelch. Blade slicing flesh.

Blood splattered everywhere. All over Luke’s hands, over the dagger, over the sand.

A scream erupted from Aemond’s lungs as he clutched his maimed face with his hands, falling to his knees.

Drip, drip, drip. The blood dripped through the cracks between his fingers.

You rushed forward to the Prince out of pure instinct, grabbing his shoulders and cupping the uninjured side of his face, your breathing staggered and rapid. All the hatred you’d felt for him—all the anger, the rage, the frustration—flew right out the window at the sight of him hurt so badly.

“Aemond!” you cried. The blood was too much—pouring down his tunic, onto your own sleepwear, staining your skin.

“Cease this at once!” bellowed a voice from behind you. “Get away!” 

Criston Cole ripped you away from Aemond, under the impression that you were the one that was hurting him, kneeling beside the Prince.

You began to hyperventilate, scrambling back until you hit the wall. Blood on your hands, under your nails, dampening your clothes—

Someone, you weren’t quite sure who, hauled you up, dragging you through the castle, Jace and Luke in tow.

Everyone was gathered into a large room. A maester was stitching up Aemond’s wound by the fireplace, Alicent knelt by her beloved son’s side. You stood by Jace and Luke, trembling viciously and eyes warbling with unshed tears.

“How could you allow such a thing to happen?” King Viserys asked the guards, voice cross and brows furrowed.

“The princes were supposed to be abed. Prince Aemond was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace,” replied Criston.

With a snarl, Viserys hobbled onto his feet, leaning his weight onto a cane. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” 

“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes—” began Criston.

“That is no answer!” yelled the King.

Worriedly, Alicent asked, “It will heal, will it not, maester?”

Hesitant, the maester pursed his lips. “The flesh will heal. But the eye is lost, Your Grace.”

Alicent’s expression seemed to fall at his words. She rounded to her eldest son, who stood behind her, not caring nearly enough for his brother who’d just lost his eye.

“And where were you?” screeched Alicent, rising to her feet.

“Me?” said Aegon, flabbergasted at the attention suddenly being on him.

A smack rang loud and true throughout the room as Alicent struck him across the face. 

Crying out, Aegon shrunk away from his mother. “Ow! What was that for?”

“That was nothing compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” she hissed. 

Just then, the doors swung open, and Corlys Velaryon strode into the room, his wife Rhaenys just behind him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, voice booming. 

“Baela, Rhaena!” gasped Rhaenys. “What happened?”

The girls rushed to their grandmother.

Rhaenyra hastily came through a different set of doors, Daemon hot on her heels. Upon seeing her sons, she hurried towards them, immediately kneeling down beside Luke.

“Show me,” she told him, gently prying his hand away from his nose to inspect the damage.

A tear slipped down your cheek. The Velaryon girls had their grandparents. Jace and Luke had their mother. Aemond had his mother, as well as his siblings.

You… who did you have to comfort you? Harwin was gone. Your mother was gone. Your father was gone.

Your lips trembled. Never before had you wished to just disappear from the face of the world. 

“Who did this?” barked Rhaenyra. 

“They attacked me!” said Aemond.

“He attacked Baela!”

“He broke Luke’s nose!”

“He stole my mother’s dragon!”

The kids all began throwing accusations, their combined voices drowning each other out. Your head began to throb with their volume. You glanced at your dear friend Helaena, who put her hands over her ears to block out the noise.

“Enough,” ordered the King.

Nobody listened.

“He was gonna kill Jace!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Enough!” said the King.

Again, nobody listened.

“It should be my son telling the tale!” Alicent yelled.

“He was choking me!”

“He called us—!”

“SILENCE!” bellowed Viserys, knocking his cane against the ground repeatedly. The crowd fell into a lulled murmur. “Aemond. I will have the truth of what happened. Now.”

Brows furrowed, Alicent shook her head, auburn curls flying every which way. “What else is there to hear? Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched. “It was a regrettable accident.”

“Accident?” scoffed Alicent. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son!”

Voice raising, Rhaenyra defended, “It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them!” 

Viserys tilted his head. “What insults?”

A beat of silence. 

Rhaenyra gripped Luke’s hand in hers. “The legitimacy of my sons’ birth was put loudly to question.”

“He called us bastards,” Jacaerys said.

“My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra told her father. “This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”

Alicent’s fists clenched by her side. “Over an insult? My son has lost an eye.”

Viserys leaned down closer to Aemond. “You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?” 

Desperate to place the blame away from her son, Alicent cut in, “The insult was training yard bluster, nothing more—”

“Aemond,” Viserys sharply said, ignoring his wife. “I asked you a question.”

Aemond remained silent.

“Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys’ father?” asked Alicent. “Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw twitched with muted anger. “I do not know, Your Grace. I… could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.”

Alicent huffed. “Entertaining his young squires, I would venture.”

Criston cracked an amused smile at her words.

“Aemond,” said Viserys. “Look at me. Your King demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”

The young Prince swallowed heavily. “It was Aegon,” he reluctantly said.

“Me?” parroted Aegon.

“Where did you hear such calumnies?” snarled Viserys to his eldest son. When Aegon refused to answer, he yelled out loud enough for you to flinch, “AEGON! Tell me the truth of it!”

The silver-haired prince refused to meet the King’s eyes. 

“We know, father,” he said. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

A tense silence folded over the crowd, only stifled by the flames of the hearth crackling. You shifted uncomfortably, stuck in the middle between Rhaenyra’s side—the side that you grew up with, the side you loved so dearly—and Alicent’s side—the side of the sweet Princess Helaena, and the Prince Aemond who’d just lost his eye. The side of your only brother left, Larys Strong. You felt stretched thin—uncertain of what to think of yourself.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” bellowed Viserys. “All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to each other. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!” 

Thinking the matter over and done with, Viserys began to hobble away.

Alicent’s words stopped him in his tracks.

“That is insufficient,” she said. A thin film of tears reflected the golden light of the torches hanging on the walls. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, My King. Good will cannot make him whole.”

“I know, Alicent,” Viserys placated, “but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it’s been taken!”

Viserys shook his head. “What would you have me do?”

Alicent casted her gaze to Rhaenyra. “There is a debt to be paid. I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.” 

Gasps murmured through the crowd. You drew in a shaky breath, shuffling closer to Rhaenyra and her sons, until you practically stood in front of Luke. He was your friend—your kin—and you would be damned if you were to let anyone touch him.

“My dear wife…” began Viserys.

“He is your son, Viserys!” Alicent pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. “Your blood.”

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgement,” he warned. 

Frustrated beyond relief, Alicent gnashed her teeth together and said, “If the King will not see justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston… bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

Scared, Luke grabbed onto the back of your sleeping shift, looking up at his mother with frightened eyes.

“He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son!” she gritted out.

“You will do no such thing!” hissed Rhaenyra.

Turning to Criston, Viserys ordered, “Stay your hand!”

“No, you are sworn to me!” asserted Alicent. 

Cole’s eyes darted from the Queen, to the King, to Rhaenyra. “As your protector, My Queen,” he softly said.

“Alicent, this matter is finished,” Viserys said, voice heavy with finality. “Do you understand?”

A tear fell from Alicent’s cold eyes. 

“Let it be known,” the King began, addressing the entire crowd this time, “anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons should have it removed.”

Blowing out a relieved exhale, Rhaenyra dipped her head. “Thank you, father.”

With sudden movements, Alicent unsheathed Viserys’ dagger from his belt and marched towards Rhaenyra and her sons.

Instinctively, you grabbed Luke and dragged him further back, shielding his body with your own. Luke began screaming out of fear when Alicent brought down the blade onto his mother, only barely held back by Rhaenyra’s hand wrapping around her wrist. 

The crowd erupted in pandemonium, with guards frantically pushing each other back, not knowing who to defend. The king’s wife, or the king’s daughter and heir? Daemon came forward to stop Criston in his tracks. You tightly held onto Luke, eyes wide and heart beating frantically.

“You’ve gone too far!” Rhaenyra told the Queen.

“I?” Alicent’s voice trembled. The blade was held between them, shaking and glowing with the reflections of the hearth’s fire. “What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law! While you flout all to do as you please!”

“Alicent, let her go!” commanded Viserys.

They both ignored him. 

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?” cried Alicent. “It’s trampled under your pretty foot again!”

For the first time since everyone was gathered, her father, Otto Hightower, the new King’s Hand, said, “Release the blade, Alicent.”

“And now you take my son’s eye, and to even that, you feel entitled!” said Alicent.

“Exhausting, wasn’t it?” replied Rhaenyra. “Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness! But now they see you as you are.” 

With a yell, Alicent brought down her blade and staggered back. Its sharp edge had cut through the fabric of Rhaenyra’s sleeve, carving a deep gash across the inside of her forearm.

Blood. Dripping. Thick. Red.

Luke gripped your hand tightly. The dagger in Alicent’s palm fell to the ground.

Rising from the chair, you got a good look at Aemond's wound for the first time since you entered.

It was swollen and red, the stitches extending from the top of his forehead to the side of his ear. Your heart ached—whether it was for Aemond, for Jace and Luke, or for Rhaenyra, you couldn’t at all tell.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” said Aemond. “It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye… but I gained a dragon.”

Viserys blew out a shaking breath. He was tired, and his body grew weary. “This proceeding is at an end.”

With that, the crowd began to disperse. You let Luke go, and he went rushing forth to his mother. 

You watched as Aemond leaned his head on his mother’s chest. 

A guard began ushering you out of the room and back to your chambers before you had the chance to tell him that you were sorry.

Barely a moon after Laena Velaryon’s funeral, Aegon and Helaena were getting married. It was held in haste, most likely to distract the court from the incident at Driftmark—give them something else to talk about for a change.

You sat in Helaena’s chambers as her ladies fussed over her, pulling the strings of her ivory dress, tying her hair into intricate knots, and applying rouge to her cheeks and lips. It was a much more elaborate process than what your own lady-in-waiting had done to you—all you had was a simple, ocean-hued dress with intricate patterns of deep green running down the length of the fabric. Your hair was pinned away from your face and a chain of silver pearls rested against your sternum. Though it was nice to wear such pretty things, you couldn’t help but feel as if you were just playing dress up—as if these clothes didn’t actually belong to you, like you were donning a charade for the night.

Whilst you were only nine, your name day having passed quietly a few moons ago, Helaena was at the ripe age of ten-and-three—she was barely of age to be married off—to her vile older brother, no less, but Alicent had insisted.

The young Princess’ eyes were clouded over, as if her mind was far, far away. She might’ve been here with you physically, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

“Three silver eggs, twisting, twisting, twisting… the blood curdles, the milk dries,” she murmured as the handmaidens finished with their final touches. Once they were done, they bowed their heads and left Helaena’s chambers. 

You moved closer to her, your fingers grazing over her the smooth green-gold cloth on her shoulder. 

“Helaena,” you whispered, heart aching for her. “I’m sorry. I wish I could whisk you away, keep you from the abomination that is your brother. If only I had a large dragon of my own to carry you off onto.”

“You will have a dragon,” she said absentmindedly. It didn’t slip your notice that she had completely disregarded the mention of her wedding, as if pushing it far and distant into the back of her mind. Perhaps if she didn’t think about it, the pain wouldn’t sting as much. 

Helaena was not one to jest, but you waved away her words as if she had.

“If… if you need me to do something—anything, Helaena, I can’t just stand by and watch you suffer. It is not honorable. You deserve someone kind and loving… Aegon is not capable of granting you such luxuries.” It was as if you were pleading with her to say something—to try and stop this accursed union. In truth, you knew that you were powerless against the might of Alicent and her loyal subjects.

You were nobody. You were well aware of that fact.

But as of that very second, you would’ve gone to the ends of the earth for the sweet, cloudy-eyed Princess.

She fixed you with a fond gaze, though still far away. 

“A dragon cannot hide the same way a butterfly can,” she whispered.

The corner of your eyes pricked with tears. “Princess, please—”

Before you could continue, the door to Helaena’s chambers swung open, and Alicent swiftly hurried in. You stepped away from your friend to give the Queen space to fuss over her. 

It was time for the wedding.

The ceremony started with the septon reciting prayers, so lengthy and repetitive that your eyes drooped with the silent threat of sleep. Aegon stood beside the septon, shoulders slumped and muffling yawns every other minute. 

Once the septon had finally wrapped up, the grand doors of the Sept swung open, and King Viserys walked in with Helaena on his left side. He parted with a gentle kiss to his second daughter’s forehead. It was no secret that Viserys very obviously favored his eldest child, Rhaenyra, but out of the four others, he had a certain muted soft spot for Helaena and her strange mysticism. You would’ve been surprised if he even remembered Aemond and Daeron’s names.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” The septon’s voice rang clear and true, echoing loudly in your head.

Looking none too pleased, Aegon all but threw the cloak over Helaena’s smaller frame, the Targaryen sigil seeming distorted from where you were standing.

“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of the gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Now and forever.

Your heart fell lower to your stomach.

The septon tied a knot with red ribbon around their joined hands—Aegon angrily holding onto her palm while hers was limp in his grasp.  

“Let it be known that Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, and Helaena Targaryen, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

With one tug, the red ribbon between them unraveled. 

The Princess bore no emotion as she began to speak in unison with Aegon, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

A lie. Aegon would never be Helaena’s.

You let your gaze travel to Alicent at the side, wiping a tear from her eyes. Anger bubbled within your chest. Right beside her was Aemond, a leather eyepatch fixed over his injury. His face betrayed no expression.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Aegon said emotionlessly, as if he were reading from an invisible script. He held Helaena’s face and planted a quick kiss on her lips. The two turned to the audience, who burst into raucous applause.

You did not clap.

The wedding feast following the ceremony was, expectedly, large and extravagant. Lords and ladies from all over the realm milled about as they ate and chattered and danced to the music. 

Helaena sat beside Aegon on the longtable, refusing to eat any of her pigeon pie, repeatedly poking holes through the chunks of meat with the prongs of the fork. Her brother—now husband—had refused to lead the first dance with her, instead choosing to crossly slump into his chair and knock back chalice after chalice of spiced wine. 

With little appetite to eat, you had taken to ghost around the expansive room, head abuzz with thoughts of Rhaenyra, Jace and Luke. A few lords had halted you in your tracks, asking for a dance, but you’d politely declined them all. You hardly paid attention during dancing lessons with the Septa and you were sure you’d trip over your own feet and make a fool of yourself. That, and you were in no mood to dance with lords thrice your age.

During your fourth cycle around the large room, bored out of your mind, you felt someone’s stare burning a hole into the back of your neck.

Aemond Targaryen. 

He was looking straight at you, unabashedly.

Memories of his blood on your hands flashed through your mind. You ripped your gaze away. 

Suddenly feeling sick, you hurriedly wove through the packed room, murmuring apologies when you accidentally trod over a few unsuspecting feet, and rushed out of the hall, just about fleeing to your chambers.

As soon as you shut the doors behind you, you began to sob uncontrollably, sliding down the wood and burying your tearful face between your knees.

The next morning, you felt terrible for leaving the feast early, and consequently, Helaena alone, as she suffered through the trauma of the bedding ceremony. The ladies of the court gossipped between bouts of laughter as they recounted Helaena’s fearful face when men began tearing at her clothes and carrying her off to Aegon’s chambers.

It was said that Helaena’s pained cries could be heard echoing across the Keep for the first few minutes, until she fell utterly silent. The creaking of the bed, however, didn’t cease for the rest of the night.

The gardens smelled of fresh morning dew and sweet clementines. You walked alongside Helaena, her hand softly resting in the crook of your arm as she dreamily chattered about how she once found a ladybug with no spots eating a small spider in under five minutes. It’d been nearly two weeks since she was wed, and she often hastily changed the subject to something else whenever you tried to bring the matter up.

“The poor spider,” you said, stopping to admire a bush of white roses. “But I suppose a ladybug must eat.”

“Yes,” Helaena hummed in agreement. 

The rest of your walk was comfortably silent when you led her to a shaded spot beneath the fruit trees, where you had a blanket laid out beforehand. 

A small millipede crawled out from the grass onto the blanket, and Helaena smiled at the critter, holding her hands out to let it climb onto her awaiting palms. The princess watched it snake along her skin with her earnest purple eyes.

“People often confuse millipedes with centipedes,” she explained. “Centipedes have one pair of legs for each body segment. Millipedes have two.”

The millipede scuttled down her fingers as she set it back down on the ground.

You blew out a pleased sigh, turning your head up to the sky and shutting your eyes, letting yourself bask in the warmth of the late morning sun. 

“You are a fascinating person indeed, Helaena,” you told her, a laugh to your tone. “No other in the entirety of Westeros can speak of bug legs and make it interesting.”

The princess smiled, all wide and toothy. It fell the next moment when she began speaking again.

“I am with child, I think,” she whispered.

Startled at the sudden confession, you snapped your head her way, eyes wide, searching her face for any sign of insincerity. But again, Helaena was never one to jest.

You gathered her hands between yours. “Are you certain, my Princess?”

Grey seemed to cloud over her vision. “Quite. I saw it in my dreams. Two pairs of legs for each body segment.”

Your brows furrowed. Was she speaking of babies or of millipedes?

Blinking in confusion, you shook your head, allowing for a small, fond smile to replace your miffed expression. “You will make a wonderful mother, Helaena. I’m sure of it. I will be there for you every step of the way.” 

Wary that she wasn’t too keen on prolonged physical touch, you loosely tugged her into an embrace. She smelled of honey cakes and rich soil. Her cheek rested against your shoulder and she shut her eyes, grateful for your friendship. 

“Two pairs of legs for each body segment,” she mumbled again, voice low. “A millipede regrows limbs that are cut off. A dragon cannot.”

Training without Harwin proved to be a challenge on its own—but you were nothing if not determined. 

You often snuck out to a secluded part of the yard when the pale moon was high in the sky and the sun had hours until it was due to rise. At first, you weren’t entirely sure how to go about teaching yourself how to fight. But you worked on honing the same skills Harwin had taught you for three years. Speed, agility, accuracy, strength—all were important. Though, not as important as keeping a sharp mind. 

You frequented the library often, reading voluminous tomes on the history of blades and the art of battle. The faded words on the parchment told you secrets to fighting that you had a feeling not even the most seasoned of knights knew. One that had certainly caught your attention was the fact that there were certain points in a man’s body you could strike that would render them temporarily paralyzed. You wished you had an excess of detestable men lying around to practice your newfound knowledge on.

As Aegon and Aemond continued their sparring with Ser Criston Cole, you watched from the shadows, observing their technique and creating mental notes on their habitual weaknesses. Ever since Aemond had lost his eye, he worked twice as hard to better himself. He wasn’t going to let the loss of an eye hinder him from becoming a warrior.

But that didn’t make him invincible. Aemond was still greatly disadvantaged with such a large part of his peripheral vision gone.

It wasn’t until a few moons later, when you were ten and Aemond was twelve, did he confront you again. 

You were testing the accuracy of your knife-throwing, two small blades you had nicked from the armory gripped in your hands. Pulling your hand back, you narrowed your eyes at the target, and let it fly forward. It sank into the ringed wood with a dull thud, but had veered slightly off course when you released, resulting in a less-than-satisfactory result. 

With a frustrated huff, you tried again, this time changing the way you had thrown it. 

The blade whistled as it carved through the air, but strayed even farther from the center. 

Before you could react to your disappointing performance, a voice resounded from right beside you, making you let out a small shriek and flinch away with surprise.

It was the Prince. 

“You’re holding the knife wrong,” he said, voice not unkind, single eye observing your defensive stance. In three strides, he tugged the blades out of the wood, making his way back to you. “You use your thumb to neutralize the blade’s rotation. Like this.”

He demonstrated, and you watched in silence. 

When he returned the blades back to you, you attempted to mimic what he had shown, glancing up at him for approval.

“Move your grip lower,” he said, lifting his hands to gently shift the knife in your palm. His touch was cold, but you didn’t quite mind. 

“Thank you, my Prince.” Your voice was but a hoarse whisper. Aemond nodded once, stepping back to give you space to try again.

This time, when you flung it to the target, it was far closer to the center, only barely grazing the white marker of the inner circle.

You grinned, proud of the drastic improvement. 

“I’ve seen you sneak out to train nearly every night by now. Why?” the silver-haired boy asked, almost suspiciously. He didn’t forget the way you had shoved him just before he lost his eye. 

The memory of Harwin telling you that you had to be prepared for a real fight briefly flashed in the back of your mind. You swallowed down the lump in your throat.

“I want to be ready,” you replied, pointedly avoiding his burning stare. You thought back to Helaena’s wedding, when he hadn’t taken his gaze off of you the entire night. 

“What are you readying yourself for?”

Squaring your jaw and straightening your posture, you quietly told the one-eyed prince, “Life is unfair, Aemond. I am merely preparing to balance the scales.”

Before he could think of a response to your cryptic words, a rivulet of electrifying pain struck his empty eye socket behind the patch, ricocheting into waves throughout the rest of his skull. Aemond let out a soft cry as he doubled over in agony, hands flying to his face. It reminded you eerily of when Luke had first slashed the eye out, a memory that haunted your nightmares far more often than it should have. 

Panicked, you shuffled closer to him, one of your hands grazing his back, unsure of what to do.

“Aemond! Are you alright? Should I summon the maester?” you hurriedly queried, feet already moving away, getting ready to dash off as you waited for his answer. 

“No,” he gritted out through the pain, glancing up at you with his features twisted with misery. It was humiliating—Aemond felt ashamed of himself for showing his pain, for revealing a crack through his usually stoic demeanor. He felt ugly. He felt vile. He felt weak. 

A restless protest was on the tip of your tongue. “My Prince, you’re clearly hurting, please—”

“No!” he repeated himself, a sharp edge of finality to his tone. “They’ll just give me more milk of the poppy—!” 

Again, he doubled over, a muted roar rumbling within his chest. Not knowing what else to do, you clutched his shoulders, eyes frantically searching his single one. 

After a second, Aemond seemed to snap back into his senses, flinching from your touch and just about ripping himself away from you. Mortification flooded his quickly-paling features. He turned on his heel and ran off without another word.

Plumes of dust flew up from the covers of the heavy book when you set it down on a table. Grimacing and waving a hand in front of your face, you flipped the tome open. It was an old, lengthy volume on medicinal alchemy—a genre that you seldom read and knew little to nothing about. 

But for Aemond, you supposed you’d give it a shot.

The chapter you began to read was on remedies for severe wounds, such as fallen limbs or shattered bones. You were learning far too much about the grotesque nature of the human body than you had initially bargained for. Illustrations of cauterizations, sanitizations, and all sorts of diagrams of nude men filled the large pages. For your young eyes, you couldn’t quite comprehend most of what you were seeing. 

However, once you fell upon the optics chapter, you perked up, reading through the small text word by word. You were hoping that by reading more about problems with the eye, you’d be able to help Aemond out with his pain in some way. If there even was a way.

And as you read on, you found a small section on the near-magical works of a plant native to Dorne—a Sabar root. It was said to be all-curing and was often used to heal outer wounds. The footnote even detailed historical accounts of the root’s juices restoring the vision of those born blind. Though you doubted that to be true, you couldn’t help but hold onto the hope that it could help Aemond with the pain, even just a little bit.

You scampered out of the library with the thick book clutched to your chest, hurrying down the Red Keep’s stairs, scrambling towards the rookery, where they kept the messenger ravens. Beneath the rookery was where the Grand Maester resided.

You were but a small thing compared to the large wooden slab of a door. Knocking thrice, the door creaked open not two seconds later, revealing Maester Mellos, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Lady Strong…? What are you doing here? The hour is late, child, you should be in bed!” he scolded, fixing you with a narrowed gaze.

You shoved the book up into his face, a pleading expression on your face. “Maester Mellos, I have found something that might help Aemond’s condition!”

“Condition…?” he began, looking startled. It was late at night, and a ten year old was at his doorstep proposing a remedy to an issue he hadn’t even known existed. To his knowledge, Prince Aemond was healing just fine and had little to no complications since he had taken the stitches out. “Forgive me, my Lady, but I am rather busy at the moment and would really prefer to have this conversation with you when the sun rises. Sleep well, Lady Strong.”

Before you could get another word in, the large door croaked shut in your face, and you were left staring at the dark wood. With a dejected huff, you turned and marched straight back into the Keep. Up the stairs you climbed, arms growing weary with how long you’d been lugging around the heavy tome. 

You came to a stop in front of Aemond’s chambers, right beside Princess Helaena’s old bedroom from before she was married to Aegon. A room you used to frequent to visit your dear friend, which resulted in several awkward, and silent passes with the Prince.

It didn’t occur to you just how improper this was—knocking on the door of the Prince in the dead of night when you should’ve been in your own chambers, fast asleep. But this was important, and you needed to let Aemond know since the Maester wouldn’t listen to a word you said.

The door barely opened, revealing only a small sliver of space, where Aemond peered through to check who it was. In his hand was a dagger he kept beneath his pillow in case of emergencies. His grip slackened when he saw you behind the door, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes fiery with determination. He opened the door slightly wider, both curious and confused as to what you were doing in front of his chambers at such a late time.

“Prince Aemond,” you breathlessly said. His gaze drew down to the large book you held, nearly larger than your small, ten-year-old form. “I found something that might help your pain. It’s a plant root that only grows in Dorne, you see, but I’m sure they can have some imported to King’s Landing upon your request. I believe it can be used to relieve you of your suffering.”

Shock dawned upon his features. You’d done all this research… for him? For an issue that he never spoke of to anyone? Even after he had rudely scampered away from you with his tail between his legs like a wounded hound? 

He struggled to find the right words. Should he thank you? Tell you he was sorry?

Instead, Aemond found himself saying, “Why are you doing this?”

A moment of silence. Outside the Keep, the winds howled with the threat of a coming storm.

“I told you,” you whispered to the Prince, features softening. “I’m balancing the scales.”

The months passed by in a blur. You corresponded with Jace and Luke in the form of letters via raven quite often, always visiting the rookery with a bright smile and an excited bounce to your step at the prospect of learning about the boys’ stay at Dragonstone. It seemed that Jacaerys was struggling with learning Valyrian, and little Luke was growing like a beanstalk. Princess Rhaenyra had already birthed two new sons on Dragonstone with her uncle-husband, Daemon—respectively named Aegon the Younger and Viserys, after the King. In his writings, Luke took care to detail that both babes had silver hair and purple eyes, traits that he and his elder brother both lacked. It was his way of saying that he knew you were his kin—his true blood.

They always signed off with a promise of visiting soon. 

Soon truly couldn’t come soon enough.

Your training continued as normal, and more often than not, Aemond would be there with you, offering tips and gentle words of advice. He was not strict in the way that Criston Cole was, leaving you the choice of whether to listen or not, taking no offense if you decided to forgo his teachings. The two of you sparsely spoke outside of that, but you sometimes caught his eye during mealtimes, in which you’d offer him a small, grateful smile. He didn’t return them, but would dip his head in acknowledgement instead.

Helaena’s belly grew large—larger than most pregnancies—and the maesters had concluded that she was bearing twins. It was shocking news, one that elated Alicent and Helaena to no end. This only sent you into a spiral of worry, however, knowing that births were but the gods’ dangerous gambles. Having twins only doubled the risk of complications during the labor.

Thankfully, when the time came around for Helaena to give birth, everything had gone smoothly with very few bumps in the road. She had begged you to stay by her side the entire time, and you were more than happy to comply. It filled you with a sense of pride that she asked you to be there with her over her own Queen mother. 

The first twin to come out was a screaming boy with tufts of silvery hair and large purple eyes. He was the spitting image of his father, and you could only pray that he wouldn’t turn out like him in the future. More interestingly, however, the little boy had six toes on each foot and six fingers on his left hand. The midwives had shrieked in partial-surprise, partial-disgust upon their discovery, but you had swept the boy into your awaiting arms, gently rocking him up and down with a wide grin. 

The second twin, a girl, came out mute. Your heart lurched in your chest—you had come out silent when you were a babe, as well. She was noticeably much smaller, and bore the same hair and eye color as her twin. Her features, however, matched that of Helaena’s, to your delight. The small girl was eased into Helaena’s arms, seeming perfectly healthy, other than the fact that she was strangely quiet. 

“You did so well, Helaena,” you told her, kneeling down by the birthing bed to show her her son. Your dear friend grinned tiredly, murmuring a quiet hello to her eldest child. “They’re beautiful.”

Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, their names were. You could already feel a protective love blossom inside of you, swearing to guard them with every fiber of your being. It occurred to you that this was what Harwin must’ve felt when you were born, though you were far younger than he had been.

The thought only had you clutching the wailing babe closer to your chest.

Helaena’s children grew at an exponential rate. The twins had quickly become your favorite part of the day—it was a rare sight to see you without one of the children clinging to your legs, or you without the Princess by your side. 

Little Jaehaerys was loud and boisterous, being the first to crawl, to speak, and to run. He was a strong little boy, but often cried when not given what he wanted. His sister, on the other hand, was always quiet and much less active. She often took to staring aimlessly at random points of the chambers instead of playing with her brother, purple eyes scarcely blinking. You loved both of them despite their drastically different personalities.

You were well into your eighteenth year when the babes had their eighth nameday. During the later half of those eight years, Helaena had fallen pregnant again, and had a third child—a son named Maelor. He was a large baby, with a head of pale white hair and eyes a darker shade of mauve than his older siblings.

“Jaehaerys, don’t be so rough with your brother!” you lightly scolded when the boy began yanking at his baby brother’s cheeks with no restrain. A laugh slipped past your lips as you held Maelor out of his reach, which made Jaehaerys whine, as if you had taken away his most favorite playtoy. Helaena, sitting on the chaise on the other side of the room, glanced away from her embroidery to smile at her children, before returning her gaze back down to the needle and thread. Jaehaera sat beside her mother, staring into the fire with her lips parted.

Both you and Jaehaerys began playing a game of chase, where he was a fierce and mighty dragon whilst you enacted the role of a helpless knight. You had set down Maelor into his crib, where he suckled on a milk-soaked cloth.

The little boy roared, his face scrunching up with the action, before sprinting after you with outstretched hands. You were fast on your feet as you scampered away from him, but decided to slow down and let the little boy catch up to you, knowing he’d burst into tears if the game had gone on for too long without him winning. You shrieked in surprise when he grabbed at the ends of your tunic, yanking hard and yelling, “Dracarys, dracarys! I got you!”

“Indeed, you have,” you told the little boy, bending down to sweep him up into your arms with a grin.

From afar, Aemond lurked in the shadows, watching you play with his sister’s children. He watched the way you smiled with them, the way you laughed, the way you pressed chaste kisses into their chubby cheeks. It surprised him to find an inkling of jealousy for his nephews—how they had so freely enraptured your affections, whilst he was offered very little of them. No bother—all things came with due time. Besides, Aemond was not yet ready to admit his growing feelings with you.

The two of you had become considerably close over the past few years. You often frequented the library with him, the two of you sitting in comfortable silence as you read together. You trained together, dined together, and took walks together. Hardly a day ever passed by without you spending some time with the young prince.

Aemond would scarcely speak when he was with you, preferring to listen to you instead. The times he did speak, it was quiet and thoughtful and rife with endearment. It was no secret that Aemond was growing quite fond of the youngest Strong. 

A tourney was held in honor of the twins’ eighth nameday.

You sat beside Helaena in the high platforms on the elongated arena, hands twisting in your lap. Tourneys usually bored you to no end—watching men hurt themselves over little else than theatrical show and bragging rights was not something you were very keen on. It felt like a waste of time to you—you’d much rather be reading, or writing to Luke and Jace, or playing with the twins. To your other side was Prince Aemond, looking equally disinterested in the event. You couldn’t help but notice his long fingers tapping impatiently against his knee, as if he were itching to leave. His older brother Aegon was nowhere to be seen, most likely somewhere in the bowels of the Street of Silk. 

Round after round of jousting went by, until Harley Piper—a young, handsome lord with soft ginger curls and bright green eyes and freckled, sun-kissed skin, urged his horse closer to the platform, gaze trained on you. Draped over his armor were the colors of House Piper—gentle pink and silken white against a striking shade of blue.

“Might I be honored with your favor, my lady?” he asked, voice sweet and mellifluous.

At first, you’d thought that he had been speaking to Princess Helaena, finding it rather odd for him to ask a married woman for her favor. But when she made no move to hand him a favor, it dawned on you that he was asking you. Flustered, having never really received any sort of romantic attention before, you rose to your feet and dropped a crown of woven flowers down his long jousting lance.

You noted with muted curiosity that Aemond’s tapping fingers had curled into a tight fist.

Off Harley Piper went with your favor swaying by the lance’s handle, the metal grating of his helmet pulled down over his grinning features. You found yourself holding your breath as his joust began against another knight you couldn’t care to know the name of, eyes intently following his movements. 

The crowd burst into raucous applause when the nameless knight easily unseated the young man—Harley flew off his horse with a grunt. They proceeded into hand-to-hand combat, where the larger knight leapt off his horse, grabbed a mace and swung it straight at Harley. A gasp lodged in your throat when the young man was struck cleanly in the back with a sickening thud, and he crumpled to the ground.

“I yield!” relented Harley, raising a hand.

From beside you, a ghost of a leering smile appeared on Aemond’s lips.

It disappeared when Harley struggled back onto his feet, clapping his opponent on the shoulder good-naturedly, and began limping back to your direction. You subconsciously straightened your spine, which made Helaena hide a knowing grin behind her hand.

“I’ve dishonored you, my lady,” winced the man with a head of flames. “A beauty such as yours deserves much better than I.”

“Nonsense, Lord Piper,” you replied, finding his humility rather endearing. “You are more than enough.”

Aemond’s shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched at your words. You didn’t spare him a glance.

Harley Piper beamed, as bright as the sun, bowing his head before you. “I shall take my leave, Lady Strong. Perhaps I’ll see you at supper?”

Before you could reply, Aemond coldly spat out, “I’m afraid Lady Strong will be dining with me tonight, Lord Piper. Take your leave.”

Shocked at his sudden hostility, you swung an incredulous, confused glare at the prince. Harley, equally bewildered, glanced between the two of you with narrowed lids, before bowing his head and striding away. 

“Aemond, what the seven hells was that about?” you hissed, hand reaching out to grasp his forearm. His one eye darted between your touch and your furious expression—how you managed to become even more beautiful whilst angry was beyond him. “I liked him.”

The prince scoffed. “You have poor taste.”

“I thought he was sweet!”

“He lost his joust in a matter of minutes.”

“Losing a joust is nothing but a temporary blemish to one’s ego. Perhaps you could do with losing something, for a change,” you retorted, nose wrinkling at him.

The purple of his eye seemed to darken. “Mind your tongue, Strong,” he murmured, voice low. It didn’t slip your notice when he briefly glanced at your lips, parted and raw-bitten.

“Or what?” you shot back, leaning closer to him until your nose was but a hair’s breadth from his. “Will you take it from me? Will you take my tongue, My Prince?”

Before he could reply, Helaena cleared her throat, announcing that she would like to retire to her chambers. The noise was starting to get overwhelming for her. You practically ripped yourself out of your chair, eager to put some well-needed distance between yourself and the one-eyed prince. The skin on your cheeks and neck burned with heat—whether it was from Harley’s unadulterated attention, or from Aemond’s prickly behavior, you couldn’t quite tell.

His gaze burned into the back of your head as you left the arena to return into the Red Keep.

Larys Strong’s cane knocked against the uneven stone floor with each lurching step he took. The Master of Whisperers hobbled up to the Queen’s side, where she stood in front of the Weirwood tree, reminiscing her now long-ago childhood with Rhaenyra.

Hearing the echoing stamps of his cane, Alicent dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Lord Strong. Any word of Rhaenyra?”

There was an eerie smile to Larys’ face that didn’t quite reach his dark irises. “My sources tell me she has fallen pregnant again. Her third child with Daemon.”

A scowl flitted across Alicent’s wary features. “Certainly hasn’t wasted any time, I see.”

Larys spared her no response, merely humming thoughtfully.

The Queen gave him a sidelong glance, hastily deciding to change the subject. “Word has it your sister has taken an interest in the young Piper boy during a tourney.”

This time, it was Larys’ turn to frown. “Y/N is young and impressionable. She will take a liking to anyone who spares her an inkling of attention.”

Alicent tilted her head. “My children are rather fond of her—for reasons unbeknownst to me.”

“Hm. Indeed.” The Queen’s words seemed to get the cogs in Larys’ brain churning. “I am the Lord of Harrenhal—and I will sire no children. Harrenhal will go to Y/N once I have passed. Marriages are of political currency, these days, Your Grace.”

Eyebrows cinched, Alicent turned to fully face the man. “What is it you are speaking of, Larys?”

“I am suggesting… a marriage of alliance. Between my young sister and your second son, Aemond. They are already quite fond of each other, as you have mentioned before. This will do good for not only them, but the both of us and our houses, as well. Once I pass, Harrenhal will go to Y/N and Aemond and any of their children they have together. If a civil war breaks out… Harrenhal would be sworn to Aemond—and thereby you, as well, Your Grace. Not Rhaenyra.”

Shock colored the Queen’s expression. For years, she had been trying to figure out the entire picture behind Larys Strong, and his true intentions. He hated Rhaenyra so much for dishonoring his house that he had murdered his own family for it to gain inheritance of Harrenhal. And now he was willing to bargain away his young sister, practically Rhaenyra’s daughter, to Alicent’s son.

A sick feeling twisted within Alicent’s gut.

She considered the thought of Aemond marrying you. The two of you were together more often than not, anyway, and you were her daughter’s best and only friend. Not only that, but the political advantage of having Harrenhal truly backed to her family’s side was something she just couldn’t pass up, no matter how vile it made her feel.

“That is a splendid proposal, Lord Strong. I shall inform the King and my son with haste,” she told him, lips pursed.

A twisted grin etched into the corner of his mouth. “And I will break the wonderful news to my sweet sister. Good night, My Queen. I shall see you on the morrow.”

Alicent watched as Larys began limping away. It was only until his figure disappeared into the Keep’s walls that she buried her tired face into her hands.

When you were younger, Larys was but a scarce figure in your life. You practically only knew of him by word of mouth—he was only your family in blood and name—he certainly didn’t feel like your brother. Not in the same way that Harwin did, at least. 

As you grew older, however, you began to notice Larys always lurking in the shadows, watching your every move like a vulture would a rotting carcass. Your second brother bore no love for you, that was glaringly obvious. Instead, he saw you as a pawn in his little game of thrones—a piece of the board he owned and was free to move around as he wished.

The Clubfoot leaned his weight on his cane as he studied you reshelving around half a dozen books you had borrowed from the library.

“Sweet sister,” he crooned, roping your attention away from the fraying spines of the tomes.

A disgusted shiver spidered down your form.

“What is it, Larys?” you sighed, already wanting the conversation to be over and done with. Later that night, you had planned to take the twins stargazing from the Keep's highest tower with Helaena, and you were hoping to squeeze in a quick bath before doing so. “I’m busy.”

“As you often are,” your older brother glibly murmured. “Forgive me for being so brazen… I couldn’t help but notice how close you and the young Prince Aemond have become.”

You blinked, the sudden mention of Aemond taking you by surprise. A pregnant silence fell over the both of you, heavy and tense. You were stiff as you waited for him to continue, but Larys was as relaxed as ever, a coy grin playing at the corner of his lips.

“You are ten-and-eight years old. Prince Aemond is twenty. Both of you have been of age to marry for quite some time. I have arranged a betrothal for you, Y/N.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, taking half a step back. “Larys… what did you do?”

The shelves seemed too close together, and you found the air within your throat thinning away. You fixed your brother with an incredulous glare, heated with the fire of a thousand summers. 

“The Queen has agreed to this—you will be wed to Aemond Targaryen. The Strong bloodline will continue on through you and the Prince.”

“No…” you whispered, a sharp, betrayed edge to your tone. “How dare you? How dare you do this to me?” 

The calm, nonchalant expression on your brother’s features remained unchanged. “I am helping you, dear sister. You are fond of Aemond—you cannot deny this, for it would be a plain lie. He is a prince—this is the best sort of marriage you can possibly get.”

“I am no sister of yours,” you spat, lurching forward to shove him back, caught up in a fit of rage. All you could see was red. Larys stumbled into a bookshelf, yet still appeared unfazed. “You took away my choice to marry whomever I wished. My freedom. When I asked—no, I begged—to return to Harrenhal to mourn Harwin and father, you simply brushed me to the side as if I were dirt on your shoe! All these years, and you’ve hardly acknowledged me as a person, much less your family! And now you… you use me for your political gain—to appease the Queen you are so desperate for, to further drive me away from Rhaenyra… you are vile, Larys. You are everything Harwin is not. Your very existence is a filthy stain on the memory of our family… of House Strong!”

The space between the two of you crackled as you stared at him, chest rising and falling in staggered motions from your anger-fueled tirade. 

“Aemond will treat you well,” was all Larys said, completely disregarding your harsh words with not a care in the world. “The Queen has informed him of the arrangement… along with the King. There is no going back now, sister-mine.”

Rage clawed through your chest, scratching down your ribs and twisting within your lungs. With not another word, you stormed past him, your shoulder roughly knocking into his on your way out of the library.

You had been so angry that night, you completely forgot about your promise to Helaena and the twins, and they were left waiting in the towers for you for hours on end. Little Jaehaerys didn’t mind, occupying his time by chasing a moth and tripping over the edges of carpets, with his little sister staring at him with her large, unblinking gaze. 

The sky was starless that night.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

You spun around the hay-sewn dummy, driving your sword into its motionless form over and over again in rapid succession, until the dried wheat began to cave in beneath the force of your hits. The poor dummy was taking the brunt of your frustrations—with Larys, with the arranged marriage, with Aemond. Grunts of exertion rumbled from your lungs and cold beads of sweat dotted your hairline.

Sure, it could be worse, you had initially thought, trying your best to see the silver linings. But the more you thought about it—the idea of being tied down against your will to a Prince, almost permanently anchoring you to your wretched brother’s side…

That was no future for you. You deserved better than that.

Just as you lifted your sword to strike the dummy again, you could feel a familiar, infuriating stare burn into your skin. With precise movements, you pivoted on your heel and swung your sword around, slanting the sharp blade right up against Aemond’s throat. The cold metal kissed his skin, but didn’t press deep enough to draw blood. It was a threat of sorts. You’d been training for more than a decade of your life by now—and you were more than capable of knocking him onto his arse, just as you had all those years ago during your first spar with him.

The silver-haired prince cocked his head, single purple eye blazing with an unreadable intensity you couldn’t exactly place. Ever so slow, he raised both hands. 

A beat of silence. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cawed.

You lowered your sword. 

“Go away, Aemond,” you spat, tone heavy with betrayal.

Sensing this, he stayed rooted to his spot. “It is not I who arranged the marriage,” he whispered, in an almost conciliating manner. It hadn’t yet occurred to you that Aemond might’ve been just as upset as you were—after all, the choice had been taken away from him, as well.

You spared him no response, turning your back to him and raising your sword to stab the dummy once more.

His next words made you freeze. “I know not why you are so upset about this. Am I that detestable, Lady Strong? Or is it because you’ve already fallen in love with that oaf from House Piper? You do know that their sigil is one of a naked maiden, do you not? It is no wonder he lost his tourney so quickly.” 

With a choked yell, you rounded to face him again, lifting your sword and bringing it down with staggering speed. Aemond, however, had anticipated this, easily rolling to the side and grabbing a discarded sword from the yard’s ground, parrying away with ease. Unrelenting, you pulled back to land another blow on him. His sword met yours halfway, the blades singing against one another. You gritted your teeth, practically snarling at your betrothed. 

The hostility was quick to wane away the longer you stared at him. He was your friend—the boy you had grown so fond of over the course of the last half a decade. Your vision began to blur with unshed tears as you started to physically shake. A hot droplet meandered down your cheek. You let the sword fall limp in your grasp. 

Furious with yourself and embarrassed beyond relief, you swiped away the tears with the back of your palm, lifting your gaze to meet Aemond’s.

Something had changed within his features. It had softened considerably, pale and glowing beneath the moonlight. His lips were parted, as if deliberating between words and action.

He chose action.

With no warning, Prince Aemond surged forward, sword clattering to his feet as his hands came forth to cradle your face within his palms. His fingers were cold against the sweltering skin of your face, but neither of you cared. His nose bumped against yours, foreheads knocking into one another. Your eyes locked with his, intense and tumultuous and molten with yearning. His lips were but a hair’s breadth from yours—tantalizingly close. 

When you made no move to pull away, he kissed you. 

It was a desperate embrace, needy and clawing and furious. It made your heart lurch within your chest, your breath crystallized to the sides of your throat, your eyes wrenching shut. Aemond stepped even closer, chest pressed up against yours, his knee slotting between your legs in a way that made your neck flush with heat. The grip he had on your face tightened, as if he were ensuring that you were real.

This was real.

You just about melted into his touch, one of your hands lifting to hold onto his bicep, the other still clutching onto your sword, not daring to let go. 

It was only when his lips left yours for a second of air, did your eyes snap open, and the trance you had so easily fallen into began to thin away. 

You placed both palms on his chest and shoved the prince away, breathing heavily and eyes wild. Frustrated and so very conflicted about how you felt for him, you wiped the back of your mouth with your hand and shot him an offended look, before storming away angrily.

The sword clattered to the ground with your departure. Aemond found himself staring at his own warped reflection within the blade. He loathed what stared back at him—a taunting of his own tarnished image, and wrenched his gaze away.

He would talk to you on the morrow, he decided. For now, he would let you go, knowing full and well that he would not be able to find you even if he tried.

After all, a dragon cannot hide the same way a butterfly can.

Aemond didn’t talk to you the next day, or the day after that. The two of you didn’t speak to one another for weeks on end. You were quite good at hiding from him, always turning the corner and hurrying away when you could feel his attentive stare begin to blaze into you, or relocating your training to the darkest nooks and crannies of the Keep just so he wouldn’t be able to find you. Even Helaena and her three lovely children you adored so much had barely seen you as of late, because you knew that being around her would make it easier for Aemond to come and speak to you.

You hadn’t meant to avoid him for this long, you really hadn’t. By now, you’d expected the two of you to talk things out, clear the air between you, and return back to how the way things were before. But the more you waited, the more conflicted you became about the kiss and your own feelings for him, thus prolonging your inevitable confrontation with the Prince. 

The two of you had keenly noticed that the longer this game of silence had drawn out, the less it became one of true avoidance, and the more it grew to be like a round of cat-and-mouse. Sometimes, you’d even find yourself waiting in places you knew the prince would pass by, only to scurry away just as soon as he came. Aemond himself was enjoying watching you dance away from his grasp, just as much as he was frustrated with it. He’d get you eventually, he oft told himself. You’d come around.

Alicent had pushed back anything related to their wedding the sicker King Viserys grew—wanting to prioritize her husband’s health first and foremost above all else. It was yet another example of Aemond being pushed to the side in favor of another. 

Around you, however, he never felt second. Sure, you also loved Helaena and her children, but he did not feel as if they were competition for your affections. It was why he enjoyed drawing out this game of chase with you so much—having your attention constantly devoted entirely to him made his pride swell and a fire kindle within his lower abdomen. He wanted you more than ever before.

It was why the news of his nephews and his half-sister returning to King’s Landing to rebuttal the challenge to the heir of Driftmark soured his mood so badly. 

Upon their arrival, your game of chase had come to an end—effectively stealing away any and all of your addictive attention. He saw you far more often than before, but you hardly ever paid any mind to him, instead focusing on the plain-featured boys. 

It’d been nearly a decade since you last saw them. 

You were the only one to greet them when they arrived at King's Landing. It was a rather sad affair, with no one to welcome Rhaenyra and her sons but a young Strong—practically a nobody in a den of dragons. It was an insult on Alicent’s part—as if she were indirectly saying she had more important matters to attend to than Rhaenyra.

You didn’t quite care for their little rivalry—all you really wanted was to see your nephews. 

The boys had grown so big. It startled you to see that Jace was practically a man grown now, with a sharp face and eyes exactly the same as your late older brother, brown hair straight and neatly groomed. Luke, on the other hand, had softer features like that of Rhaenyra, but bore his true father’s nose and mouth, with a head of dark, messy curls. 

You ran forward to greet them, excitedly shouting their names with a permanent smile etched over your lips. Little Luke—you made a mental note not to call him that anymore, seeing as he was no longer little—was the first to embrace you, yelling your name and barreling forward to squeeze you into a hug so tight that all the air was pushed from your lungs. Jace was gentler with his approach, but you gripped onto him tightly all the same, pressing kisses to both of your nephew’s foreheads. Then, you kneeled down and took little Joffrey’s hand within yours, kissing his palm, and his chubby little cheeks. The little boy looked mildly confused as to who you were, since they’d left for Dragonstone when he was only but a tiny little baby. You stood back up to face the three of them.

“My, how you’ve grown,” you told the boys, patting Jace and Luke’s cheeks affectionately. “Feels like just yesterday we were little children together. I haven’t seen you since…”

Since Aemond lost his eye.

“You haven’t changed one bit,” commented Luke, a wide smile to his face. “It’s nice to see you, Y/N. We’ve missed you dearly on Dragonstone. Exchanging letters just isn’t the same.”

“It really isn’t,” you hummed in agreement. “But you’re here now—and I couldn’t be more happy.”

It was then that Rhaenyra and Daemon joined you, each holding a white-haired babe in their arms. They must’ve been Aegon and Viserys. Lips parting, you dipped your head in greeting, a bright, watery smile painting your complexion golden.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” you said.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she murmured, shaking her head and using her free hand to rope you into an embrace. “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to watch you flourish into one.” Tears welled up in your eyes when she leaned forward and whispered into your ear, “Your brother Harwin would be so very proud of you.”

Your breath caught within your throat. “Thank you,” you told her, voice cracking with emotion. The purple of her eyes gleamed with gentle affection. You glanced, down eyes widening upon seeing her swollen belly. “Congratulations, Your Grace. Let’s hope the next one is a girl. You’ve had enough sons as it is.”

Your words made Rhaenyra huff out an amused laugh. “Yes, a daughter would be lovely. Though, you’ve filled that position for long enough, I would be happy with yet another son.”

A bright beam pulled your lips impossibly wider. After a few more minutes of exchanging pleasantries and catching up, you said hello to little Aegon and Viserys, before urging them into the Keep, not wanting to keep them waiting after such a long journey. Luke had talked your ear off about how he had puked thrice over the side of the ship from his relentless seasickness. 

The entire time, you pointedly avoided making any mention of your betrothal to Aemond, wanting to remain in blissful ignorance for just a bit longer.

The Red Keep was almost unrecognizable to the young boys. As the years passed without Rhaenyra there to watch over the kingdom in Viserys’ stead, the Targaryen heraldry was taken down, slowly replaced by symbols of the Seven in the form of erected stone statues and carvings of seven-pointed stars. The change had been so gradual that you’d barely noticed, but to Jace and Luke, it was a shock to see their home completely different to how it used to be.

You took them on a guide throughout the expansive castle, exchanging stories of their times throughout the years. They asked you how you’ve fared here, and you hesitated to tell them about everything going on with Larys, with Harley Piper, with… with Aemond…

Instead, you chirped on about Helaena and her children, and how they were always the brightest part of your day. 

“Have you still been training on your own?” Jacaerys asked just as you rounded the corner to lead them to the training yard. 

You paused, thinking back to all the late nights you spent clashing swords with Aemond.

“Yes,” you replied cautiously. “My brother Harwin would’ve wanted me to keep honing my skills, even after he’s passed.”

A grim look passed over the two boys’ faces.

Once they began descending the stone stairwell to the yard, Luke’s nose wrinkled in disdain. The court was full of training men, a cacophony of steel against steel, of thuds against dummies, and exerted grunts all echoing across the expansive grounds.

“It’s much smaller than I remember,” said Luke.

You spared the younger Velaryon a sweet smile. “Perhaps that’s only because you’ve grown much larger since last you were here.”

“It looks exactly the same to me,” Jace said, bounding down the last few steps to hurry to the rack of weapons. “Come on!” 

Though Jace was willfully oblivious to the stares of the guards and the handmaids and all the rest that were in the yard, keeping his head held up high, Luke was aware of everybody’s eyes on him. Glaring, judging, and piercing every which way. He shifted uncomfortably beside you.

Jacaerys patted one of the large dents in a while, a wide grin to his handsome features. “See? I told you this would still be here! And you thought you could swing Criston’s morningstar. You almost took your own head off!”

Luke gave him a half-hearted grin, but it was quick to melt away when he whispered beneath his breath, “Everyone’s staring at us.”

The older brother pulled a sword from the rack and playfully lowered down into an attack position, Lucerys’ words largely going ignored.

“Of course they’re staring,” you stated matter-of-factly. “You are the Princess’ sons.”

Luke shook his head, dark curls flying about his forehead. “That is not why they’re staring, and you know it. No one would question me being heir to Driftmark if… if I looked more like Ser Laenor Velaryon than Ser Harwin Strong.”

Releasing a deep sigh, Jacaerys hung his head. “It doesn’t matter what they think, little brother,” he asserted. 

You watched as Luke turned to you, as if silently asking you to back him. “Oh, Luke,” you murmured, unsure of what to say. “As I said before, you are Rhaenyra’s son, first and foremost—”

Before you could finish your sentence, a crowd from across the yard burst into raucous applause. Curious, Jace grabbed your hand, dragging you along to see what was going on.

It was Aemond—sparring against Criston.

Your heart sunk into your stomach. You hadn’t prepared yourself nearly enough to face him just yet.

At the sight of their uncle, Luke and Jace visibly tensed beside you.

He was beautiful—spinning around with ease and grace. Criston swung his morningstar at the prince, only for Aemond to duck, blocking the heavy weapon with a wooden shield. It splintered beneath the force, and he shirked it away to the side. Aemond used his speed to his advantage, dancing away from each of Criston’s swings, tactfully tiring him out. Seeing his opportunity when Criston’s arm dropped for but a millisecond, Aemond skidded around the ball-and-chain, pointing the tip of his sword right at his mentor’s throat.

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slowly slipped from your lungs just as the audience began clapping again. 

“Well done, my Prince,” said Criston, setting down his weapon to yield. “You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.”

The purple of Aemond’s eye blazed as he turned his head away from Cole to face you. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” he murmured, taking great pleasure in the way you physically stepped back. “Lady Strong, my sweet betrothed… have you come to train?”

Heat snaked up the skin of your neck and seeped into your cheeks at his words. My sweet betrothed. Jace and Luke both sent you deeply puzzled, almost affronted looks.

“Aemond, no, I—” you began, but he strode forward in no more than three steps, grabbing your forearm and pulling you to the center of the circle, much to Jace and Luke’s dismay.

The Prince paid no mind to your protests. “Criston. Give her a sword.”

The knight, none too fond of you ever since the first incident when you were only a child, thrusted a dull blade into your arms. 

With your jaw set, you huffed out a curse beneath your breath, and stabilized yourself into a defensive position. If a fight was what Aemond wanted, then a fight was what he was going to get.

He struck first, darting forward to arc his sword into your side. You took half a step back and parried, guiding his arm up over your head and ducking beneath his swing. Using this to your advantage, you kicked at the back of his knee, sending him buckling down to the ground. A growl rumbled within his chest. Aemond was quick to react, twisting around to sweep his sword between your legs, knocking you back as well.

Winded and caught off guard, you desperately parried away his continuous strikes, the tip of his sword getting closer and closer and closer to your face. You scrambled to get back up on your feet, but Aemond was unrelenting, pressing on with no restraint. Aemond was practically on top of you at this point, his knee pressing nearly painfully into your thigh. 

“Yield,” he hissed, breath hot against your ear.

You glared up at him. Briefly, you allowed your eyes to slip past Aemond, to the two young boys behind him, worryingly watching you.

Humiliated, you huffed out a shaking breath, wishing to just end this here and now. “I yield.”

The crowd began clapping for Aemond again, though, this time much more hesitant and sparse. Scandalous murmurs rippled through the audience. From the side, Criston smirked at your defeat.

Satisfied, Aemond stepped back, offering you his hand. You let him help you up, dusting your trousers off with a huff. 

He briefly let go of your hand to wind his arm about your waist, tugging you closer. An internal part of you screamed in embarrassment, not wanting him to behave in such a way when Jace and Luke were right there—watching the two of you with bewilderment. He smelled of smoke and steel and leather, and you couldn’t bring it in yourself to push away. “You are skilled, Lady Strong—but your arrogance betrays you.”

“Arrogance?” you whispered back, eyes roaming over his expressionless features, your brows knitting together. “I let you win. Release me, Aemond. People are watching.”

The prince’s eye momentarily flitted down to your parted lips, then back up to meet your tumultuous gaze. He hummed in thought, before relinquishing his hold on you completely, swiftly turning to Jace and Luke.

“Nephews… have you come to train, as well?” he asked them, straightening himself, practically oozing with intimidation.

Jace’s mouth parted, still stupefied. 

Before anyone could utter another word, a guard bellowed out, “Open the gates!”

The large metal gratings groaned as they were pulled open. Velaryon banners filled the training yard—and in the center of all of them, stood Vaemond Velaryon. Corlys’ brother, and, according to him, the rightful heir to Driftmark.

You swallowed down the bile that rose in your throat.

Fear splattered clear as day over Luke’s features. Aemond only grinned at that.

The gardens were much more intimidating in the nighttime. Large statues of the Seven hid behind the rose bushes in a menacing fashion, and the fountain bore a seven-pointed star in the center that looked sharp enough to cut. You never frequented the place after sunset, deliberately taking Helaena and the children out on walks when it was still light out.

Nonetheless, it was one of the only few quiet places in the Keep where you could be sure curious ears wouldn’t be able to hear your whispers over the gushing of the water fountain. Though, you couldn’t be too certain that your brother wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows. 

Jace and Luke were standing across from you, both of their arms crossed expectedly.

The older of the two seemed disappointed, as if he’d expected better from you. Luke, on the other hand, looked crestfallen, feeling as if you’d betrayed him.

“I’m sorry for not telling the two of you earlier,” you quietly said. “I couldn’t find a way to break the news.” 

The silence stretched thin between the three of you.

“I don’t want it,” you said, wringing your hands nervously. “My brother, Larys, and the Queen are forcing this upon me. I had no choice in the matter. Aemond is my friend, as much as I know you two mislike him… he’s my friend. He had no say in the matter, either. I don’t know—perhaps I should just be grateful I’m betrothed to him rather than a pure stranger. He would not hurt me, I’m sure of it.”

Jacaerys’ expression seemed to soften upon your confession. It was no wonder you were so afraid to tell them. You must’ve been so confused and scared. Silent, the taller boy reached out to pull you into a hug, gently patting your back. Tears of relief began to well in your eyes—you’d truly been expecting them to turn their back on you.

“I… I feel as though my control of my own life is slipping right through the cracks between my fingers,” you whispered, voice crumbling with emotion. 

You began to softly cry into Jacaerys’ shoulder. Luke joined in the embrace, wrapping his arms around you from behind. 

The three of you stood in the eerie garden, each of you equally upset and uncertain for the future to come.

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds…” Otto Hightower began, descending an instantaneous hush upon the throng of lords and ladies in front of the Iron Throne, “we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice in this—and all other matters.”

Otto’s last sentence made bile climb up your throat. Not too long ago, your own father held the position as Hand, and held it in a just, and unbiased manner. You were afraid you couldn’t say the same for Otto Hightower.

You stood a couple steps away from Rhaenyra and her sons, hands tightly clasped behind your back. To the right of the Iron Throne was Alicent and her children—Aegon with rumpled hair as if he had just rolled out of bed, Aemond with his gaze flickering back and forth between his nephew and his betrothed, and Helaena, who was staring at the warbling light of the torches on the wall. All you wanted to do was get this over and done with—the succession of Driftmark was not a subject you cared for, seeing as you strongly believed it should go to Luke. Bastard or not, it mattered little to you—he was Laenor’s son regardless of blood and deserved his own inheritance. 

“The crown will now hear the petitions. Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

The man stepped forward, head held high. 

“My Queen. My Lord Hand. The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies… House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebears came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name. I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin—his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

Tongue as sharp as ever, Rhaenyra interjected, “As it does in my sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No—you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition.”

Looking down at the Princess, Alicent raised her brows. “You will have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra. Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing him to be heard.”

From the side, Aegon hid a snicker behind his palm.

Vaemond turned to Rhaenyra. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you—and you still wouldn’t recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.” Luke took a small shuffle back when Vaemond rounded his scalding glare on the younger boy. “My Queen, Lord Hand. This is a matter of blood. Not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above it all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor—the Lord of Driftmark, and Lord of the Tides.”

Satisfied, Otto nodded once. “Thank you, Ser Vaemond.”

Smug and confident he had swayed the decision in his favor, Vaemond stepped back to his respective side.

“Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.”

The white-haired woman took three steps to the center, one hand holding her large, pregnant belly. 

“If I am to grace this farce with some sort of answer,” she began, already exhausted of the entire ordeal, “I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago, in this very—”

Before she could finish, the doors swung open. Everybody turned their heads back. Your breath caught in your throat.

It was King Viserys. 

The last time you’d seen him… was most probably longer than a year ago. 

And how the tall and mighty fall from such grace. He was practically rotting away, skin patched and peeling, teeth gnarled and black, figure fragile and bent. The white of his hair fell in but sparse strands from his scalp where the crown sat, lopsided but gleaming nonetheless. A gilded mask was placed on one half of his face, hiding the decaying flesh on right cheek, and the pulsing cavern where his eye used to be. He hobbled forth on his cane, one of his feet dragging along behind him, not unlike your brother Larys, shoulders heavy with his cloak. He was in a great deal of pain—that was made abundantly clear with his wincing and groaning. But he pushed forth nonetheless, determined to voice his support for his daughter, Rhaenyra.

The guard by the door announced his presence: “King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Shock fell upon the court at the sight of the King up and out of his chambers, much less walking on his own. It did not slip past you when Vaemond and Otto exchanged concerned looks. You bowed your head as Viserys passed by, biting down on your tongue. 

The royal family seemed to have different reactions to the King’s presence. Rhaenyra was stunned into silence, which was quick to meld into one of subtle gratitude. Rhaenys turned her head away at the sight of her brother in such a pained state. Helaena smiled faintly, though you weren’t quite sure what she was smiling for. And Alicent appeared the most conflicted out of all.

“I will sit the throne today,” he told his Hand. Otto looked none too pleased, but dipped his head, stepping away to the side for Viserys to pass.

He began to lose his breath as he climbed up the steps, leaning forth on his cane. The crown slid from his head and clattered onto the stone floor. Prince Daemon—his brother—was the one to pick it up for him, and patiently helped him up the rest of the steps to his seat. He gently placed the crown back on Viserys’ head, before stepping back down to stand beside his wife.

“I must… admit… my confusion,” said Viserys, breathless. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes, is the Princess Rhaenys.”

His older sister lifted her head. “Indeed, Your Grace.” With cautious strides, she made her way forward. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Your lips parted in surprise. The two boys… betrothed? Just two minutes ago they were both barely tall enough to reach for supper in the middle of the dining table, and now they were already going to get married? Though, you supposed you were speaking rather hypocritical, as you had just gotten betrothed not too long ago yourself.

Muted frustration befell Alicent’s expression.

“Well… the matter is settled. Again.” The King blew out a sigh. “I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

Clear disdain painted itself green across Vaemond’s face. 

“You break law… and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.”

Confused, Viserys’ brows drew together. “Allow it?” he echoed. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

Suddenly raising his voice, Vaemond turned and jabbed a finger straight in Luke’s direction. “That is no true Velaryon! And certainly no nephew of mine.”

Desperate to keep the accusations at bay, Rhaenyra pushed Luke behind her. “Go to your chambers, boys. Vaemond, you have said enough!”

Taking great offense to his words, the King said, “Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you… are no more than the second son of Driftmark.”

The man shook his head. “You… may run your house as you see fit… but you will not decide the future of mine.”

Gasps rang out across the court. What Vaemond had just said to the King was treason.

Despite this, on Vaemond continued, “My house survived the Doom—and a thousand tribulations more! And gods be damned… I will not see it ended on the account of this…”

Prince Daemon cocked his head, challenging, “Say it.”

“Her children… are…” said Vaemond. “BASTARDS!”

The audience murmured scandalously. Your brows raised in shock, gaze wildly swinging from Luke to the King.

Vaemond was not yet done, having one final blow to serve. “And she… is… a whore.”

Disgust coiled within your stomach. It made you even angrier to see a smirk toy with the corners of Aemond’s lips.

Viserys angrily limped onto his feet, unsheathing his dagger. “I… will have your tongue for that!”

In a blur of black and red, Daemon swung his sword as quick as a bolt of lightning, cleaving it clean through Vaemond’s head. A sick squelch of flesh and blood and steel rang across the court, quickly blending into the startled shrieks of Lords and Ladies. You had flinched back, hands raising to cover your mouth. 

Helaena had gasped the loudest, her hands flying to rest over her ears and hurriedly turning her face away from the grotesque sight. From all the years you had been her dearest friend, you knew blood was one of the few things she could not handle.

Right beside her, Aemond had stepped back, hand defensively falling to his sword. His purple eye was wide and trained onto the body, but quickly flicked up to look at you, as if ensuring that you were alright. 

Though you couldn’t see Luke’s expression, you could see the way his shoulders flinched and his feet began to panickedly shuffle away.

Vaemond’s body fell to the ground, dark red blood dripping over the stones and meandering into the cracks and crevices. 

Satisfied, Daemon observed the blood begin to graze the bottom of his shoe. “He can keep his tongue,” he commented nonchalantly.

“DISARM HIM!” screamed Otto. Half a dozen guards drew out their swords, pointing it straight at Daemon.

“No need,” said the Prince, cleaning his sword with the bottom of his shirt, uncaring of Vaemond’s blood getting all over him. He sheathed the steel and backed away with a small, victorious grin.

It was then that Viserys collapsed back onto the throne, groaning in pain.

“Call the maesters!” Alicent yelled, rushing up the steps to her husband. “Please, my love, you must take something for the pain!”

“I will not cloud my mind…” said the King. “I must… put things right…”

The King commanded a supper—with all of his family to attend, as this was the first time they were all gathered in the Keep since nearly a decade ago. Seeing as you were now betrothed to his second son, you supposed you were officially considered part of the family now. Though, you had considered yourself one of Rhaenyra’s daughters ever since childhood. 

Your handmaidens had washed you in a tub full of flower petals, the warm water heaven to your tense muscles. They scrubbed you with soap that smelled of honey and milk, a sweet scent that pleasantly burrowed beneath your skin. 

Afterwards, they laid out a dress for you. It was a beautiful, dark green garment with golden linings, no doubt a gift from Queen Alicent. The dress fit you perfectly, falling over your form like a stream of water over a stony bank. The collar was modest enough, but dipped down just beneath your clavicle bone, where a necklace of gleaming silver pearls rested against your sternum. As you stared at your reflection in the mirror, you couldn’t help but notice that the dress looked nearly black in certain lighting.

It was strange to be so dressed up—you weren’t quite fond of skirts and dresses in the first place, finding it much easier and practical to don trousers for everyday use, uncaring of its impropriety. People of the court often joked that House Strong no longer had a Lady, as you were often seen doing traditionally male activities, such as sparring and educating yourself. You paid them no mind—fighting and reading made you no less of a Lady than all the other women in court. 

There was a knock to your door just as the handmaidens finished with pinning up your hair. They rushed to swing it open, Princess Helaena stepping in with a mild grin to her lips, though it was not enough to mask the sadness in her face.

“Helaena,” you said, surprised at her sudden visit, grasping her hands within yours. “It’s lovely to see you. It feels as if we’ve hardly spoken as of late.”

The memory of Vaemond’s blood and Helaena’s distraught flashed at the forefront of your mind. If only you had the chance to speak with her afterwards—but Alicent was adamant on sending her daughter straight to her chambers that instant.

“Are you… are you alright?” you gently asked, not wanting to pry. “After all that happened earlier today… I know how much you mislike blood.”

“I’ll be fine,” the Princess wispily replied, carefully sidestepping the subject that made her queasy. “I miss you. The children miss you.”

A lump formed in your throat. “Oh, how are the little terrors? I promise to take them out on a promenade soon.”

“They are well. Jaehaerys never ceases asking about you,” she replied, before allowing her gaze to roam over your attire. “You look wonderful, Y/N. It is surely a rare sight to see you so dressed up.”

A laugh bubbled in your throat. “Well, I’ve certainly never had to go to a supper as important as this one. I’ve hardly ever had a reason to dress up in such a way before. Thank you, though. You’re looking radiant as ever, as well.”

Helaena smiled at you, wide and genuine. It disappeared after a brief moment, and her plum-hued eyes seemed to mist over.

“A storm is on the horizon,” she murmured. “A dance of dragons. They will keep dancing, even once the music has stopped. They care naught for when their feet begin to bleed.”

The Princess’ strange words echoed in your head for the next few hours. What had she meant by that? Before you had the chance to ask her what she was talking about, Helaena had excused herself to go check on the kids before dinnertime, floating out of your room as if she hadn’t just spoken the most mystifying words to you.

Overwhelmed and desperate for fresh air, you made your way back out into the gardens. The sun was just barely beginning to set, spilling soft clementine and dark tangerine hues across the canvas of the sky. 

You stood in front of the water fountain, watching the clear water burble over the stone and fall into the pool below. 

It was not long until your betrothed came to join you, his hands neatly clasped behind his back. 

“Lady Strong,” he greeted with a dip of his head. “You are more beautiful than ever before, which says much as you were already beguiling enough to begin with.”

Firmly, you shook your head. You were still angry at him for humiliating you in front of Jace and Luke earlier that day. “Stop it, Aemond. Do not speak your sweet lies to me. I have no taste for your saccharine words.”

“Tis not a lie, Y/N,” he whispered your name, all soft and heavenly on his tongue. “You are beautiful.”

You blew out a frustrated breath. The two of you stood in a precarious silence for a moment longer.

The muttering of your question shattered the quiet between you. “Are you not upset, Aemond? About the betrothal?”

The Prince hummed, and took a few seconds to consider what you were asking. Finally, he replied, keeping his eye trained on the fountain. “I’m glad it’s you,” he simply said.

Your breath hitched within your throat.

Rotating on his heel, Aemond was now fully facing you, lifting his hands up. Cold fingers grazed over your jaw, before he cradled your face in its entirety, the pads of his thumbs smoothing over your flushed cheekbones. It was not unlike the first time he had kissed you—but there was something softer about this atmosphere.

Acceptance. Affection. Yearning.

His purple iris darkened, the orange light of the setting sun bathing him in a warm glow. Shadows arched over his face, only highlighting his most handsome, sharp features. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander to his lips, curled with fondness, lax with temptation.

Aemond could see the conflict dance about your visage. 

He dipped forward to press a kiss to your forehead, lips grazing against your hairline. 

“I shall see you at supper,” he whispered into your skin.

With that, he stepped back, dipping his head respectfully, and left you in the garden, completely alone with only your tumultuous thoughts to accompany you.

Candles were lit everywhere, the flames warbling in the air, melted wax dripping down the sides. The servants were still placing down dozens upon dozens of dishes—ranging from grilled cod, to seared mutton chops, to creamed potatoes, to various platters of fresh fruits and cheeses. Chalices of wine and honeyed cider were passed around, all full to the brim.

You were seated with Helaena to your right, and Aemond to your left, at the end of the table. From across the room, Rhaenyra had flickered her gaze from you to your betrothed. She had only received the news from her sons moments ago, and was still processing the shock of it all.

From the center of the expansive feast, Viserys began to speak. “How good it is… to see you all tonight… together.”

“Prayer before we begin?” asked Alicent, ever the religious figure.

Viserys agreed, nodding his head weakly.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

Daemon rolled his eyes in exasperation at the Queen’s last sentence. You clasped your hands together as she prayed, but kept your eyes open. Luke mirrored you, shooting you a look as if to say, “Do you do this every day?” 

With small movements you shook your head, and the younger boy could only suppress a smile in response. Aemond kept his head down and his eyes closed as he listened to his mother’s prayers. He’d always been the more devoted out of the two of you.

Once Alicent was done, Viserys said, “This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons… Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena. The daughter of my former Hand, Y/N Strong… will marry my second son, Aemond. These marriages will further strengthen the bond between our great houses. A toast to the young princes… and their betrothed.”

Chalices raised, everybody took a sip. You exchanged a look with Aemond, offering him a small smile as you drank from your cup. Tentative, you reached beneath the table to take his hand—a truce of sorts. It was your silent way of telling him that you were willing to move forth with the marriage—that you were glad it was him, as well. Aemond showed little reaction, other than a small twitch of the corner of his lips, nearly reminiscent to that of a grin. 

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman,” said Aegon to the dark-haired prince, somehow already quite drunk. Jacaerys set his jaw but paid him no mind other than that.

Again, King Viserys spoke, “Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys. The future Lord of the Tides.”

Luke’s betrothed, Rhaena, clinked her cup against his. “You’ll be great,” she told him kindly, eyes gleaming with warmth.

Unrelenting, Aegon bent to the side to lean closer to Jacaerys. “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that…”

With a sharp tongue, Baela whispered, “Let it be, cousin.”

Jace scowled. “You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

Aegon rolled his eyes, grabbing another cup of wine and knocking it back in no less than a few seconds. “Aemond is well versed in the art of bedding—are you not, brother?” Before giving him a chance to respond, Aegon continued on with his rambling. “I took him to the Streets of Silk when he came of age. Didn’t even see him come out! Must have been enjoying himself. At least Y/N will be in good hands… though I am always willing to show him the ropes lest he forgets how to man the ship.”

The eldest prince’s words made your skin flare with heat. Aemond’s grip grew tighter around his own cup, but he remained silent as ever. You were only grateful that the adults at the other side of the table were too busy chattering amongst themselves to hear the obscenities the children were speaking of.

With great difficulty, Viserys made to stand up. He nearly buckled under his own weight, but a gnarled hand shot out to rest against the table, steadying himself before he could fall forward into a bowl of soup. The mask that was tied to the rotten side of his face gleamed with the warped reflections of the candlelight.

“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.” With trembling fingers, the King began to untie his mask, revealing the decaying flesh in all its glory for everyone to see. His empty eye socket was sunken and dry. “My own face… is no longer a handsome one—if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a King, but your father. Your brother. Your husband. And your grandsire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer amongst you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. Set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man, who loves you all so dearly.”

Tired, the King settled back down into his seat with the help of his wife. Alicent’s eyes were pained and misted over with unshed tears.

With pursed lips, Rhaenyra suddenly stood up, holding her chalice up high. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”

As if wounded, Alicent reared back slightly and blinked away her tears. She refused to meet Rhaenyra’s eyes. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow.” Surprising you, Alicent stood up, holding her goblet in her hand. “I raise my cup to you and to your house. You will make a fine Queen.”

The rest of you drank to the toasts, an amicable atmosphere settling over the family. 

Always one to ruin the mood, Aegon stood up, making his way over to Baela, pouring himself another glass of wine. He leaned down close to her, murmuring, “I, uhm… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

At his limit, Jacaerys slammed his fists against the table, rising to his feet and glaring at Aegon. The white-haired Prince slunk back to his seat, a salacious grin toying at his mouth. Startled by the sudden noise, Alicent and Rhaenyra looked to Jace, who was now awkwardly standing up. 

It surprised you when Aemond let go of your hand to stand up himself, as if challenging Jace, his single eye blazing with an unreadable expression. Your gaze bounced back and forth between the two, unsure of what was going to transpire between them.

Jacaerys pursed his lips, patting Aegon on the shoulder, with a bit more force than necessary. “To Princes Aegon and Aemond, and the Lady Strong. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. To my uncles, as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.” 

Aegon cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the formalities thrust upon him. “To you as well,” he begrudgingly grunted out once his mother shot him a warning glare.

Reluctant, Aemond sat back down, and reached underneath the table to take your hand once again. He sought your touch to console the bitter green wildfire that roared within his chest. 

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” muttered Helaena as she fidgeted with a wooden carving of a cockroach. Suddenly, the Princess stood up, a dazed glimmer to her expression. “I would like to toast Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad… mostly, he just ignores you. Except sometimes when he’s drunk.” With a sweet smile, she sank back down into her seat. The rest of the table glanced at each other awkwardly, whilst Aegon just pulled at his face in exasperation.

In an effort to save the atmosphere, you stood up with your chalice in hand. “There have been many toasts this evening,” you murmured, a bit intimidated. It suddenly occurred to you that this was the first time you had the King’s undivided attention. “But I’d like to direct one to Princesses Rhaenyra and Helaena. The former, I owe the deepest of my gratitudes for treating me with kindness throughout my childhood, and taking me in as if I were her own. The latter, sweet Helaena, for being my dearest friend for years, and hopefully for many more to come. As I am to be married to Aemond soon, I look forward to being both of your sister-by-laws.”

Rhaenyra smiled at you kindly, raising her glass to drink to your toast. Helaena did the same, beaming into the rim of her chalice. The Queen, however, was far more reluctant to touch her goblet at your toast—which had pointedly avoided any mention of her. 

“Good,” said the King, weakly nodding at you. “Let us have some music. Please, eat, everyone.”

A soft symphony of strings and bells and drums began chiming away, and you contentedly began digging into your food, nearly ravenous after all that waiting.

A few minutes into the feast, Jacaerys bent towards his betrothed, murmuring a polite, “Excuse me.”

He then made his way around Aegon, to Helaena, offering his hand for a dance. Surprised, the Princess took his arm and Jace led her away to the dance floor. You watched with a warm smile gracing your expression, happy that your friends from opposite sides seemed to be mending bridges together. 

The table began engaging in amicable chatter—Luke and Rhaena were excitedly speaking about dragons and their eating habits, Rhaenyra and her husband began quietly laughing at how he already managed to splatter crab sauce all over his tunic, and Alicent spoke with her father about the gradual changes in weather. 

“You and my brother will make a fine pair,” slurred Aegon, his eyes fixed on you as he lounged back on his chair. “He’s had his gaze set on you ever since childhood.”

“Is that so?” you responded, casting a fond gaze to Aemond, who only shook his head with amusement. “I can’t say I wasn’t the same. After all, how could I take my eyes off the handsome Prince who rode the largest dragon in the world?” 

A ghost of a smile graced Aemond’s face. He was never one to take compliments well—for they were sparsely ever given to him.

Aegon, always one to spoil the mood, quipped, “I heard rumors that red-headed Piper idiot stole your maidenhood.”

Aemond’s head snapped towards his brother. You gritted your teeth, narrowing your eyes at him. “Lord Harley Piper was a friend. There was no romance between us, sexual or otherwise,” you hissed, lowering your voice to a whisper.

“Really? And here I thought my brother was marrying a whore,” snorted Aegon. 

Before either you or Aemond could react, Helaena flounced back to the table with a joyful beam, taking your arm. “Come dance with us, Y/N!” she exclaimed, breathless and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Jace stood behind her, grin equally wide and hands clasped behind his back.

You shot a look at Aemond, as if telling him not to lash out at his brother during such an important supper, and stood up to join Helaena and Jace in their dance.

None of you were really that good—you hadn’t danced in years—but it was great fun, nonetheless. You twirled Helaena in your arms until she grew delightfully dizzy, and Jacaerys accidentally trod on your feet thrice, but you only laughed harder each time, cuffing his shoulder affectionately.

Amidst your dance, Alicent called for the guards to take the King away, for he was tired and aching. He departed the room with one last look to his family—all united, together as one. 

It was surely a beautiful, rare sight to behold.

One that was destined not to last.

The dance came to an abrupt halt when Aemond suddenly slammed his fists against the table, so hard that the platters of food clattered with the sudden force. The music suddenly stopped, and all the conversations ceased. You turned your head away from your dance partners to see what was going on.

Oh. 

In front of Aemond was a roasted pig, still sizzling with oil. And all the way across the table, Luke was not-so-discreetly hiding a laugh behind his palm.

Oh, no.

“Final tribute,” said your betrothed, lifting his glass. There was a dangerous fire to his eye. “To the health of my nephews. Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…”

No, Aemond, you silently begged. The Prince kept his gaze trained on Luke, refusing to meet your desperate stare.

“... Strong,” he finished, after an extensive pause.

“Aemond—” Alicent began.

“Come,” her son quickly said, cutting her off. “Let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys.”

From right next to you, Jace gnashed his teeth together. “I dare you to say that again.”

“Why?” asked Aemond, feigning innocence, pushing away from the table to step closer to Jace. “‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”

A gasp lodged in your throat when Jacaerys dove forward, landing a punch right into Aemond’s face. 

“Jace!” yelled Rhaenyra.

It did little effect on the taller man, and Aemond’s head merely snapped to the side but his body remained rooted to the same position. A smug smile etched across his features. Simultaneously, Aegon rose to his feet and grabbed Luke by the scruff of his collar, shoving his face straight into a searing hot platter of fish. 

“A gift for the new Lord of the Tides!” Aegon cackled with glee, indulging in the chaos.

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” commanded Alicent to her sons, but neither of them listened to her.

Scrambling forward, you tried to stop Aemond from retaliating, but he shoved Jace so hard the younger boy went sprawling against the dance floor. Jace was quick to get back up on his feet, an angry growl erupting from his throat. Before he could reach Aemond, two guards sprung forward and held him back, another pulling Luke away from Aegon as well.

You found yourself torn between the two sides, resulting in an indecisive dance between Jace and Luke struggling against the guards, and your betrothed smiling into his cups.

Queen Alicent got to him before you could, grabbing her son’s arms roughly. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?” she hissed.

“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother. Mmh, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs. It wounds me so, seeing as my sweet betrothed is soon to be my family, as well,” said Aemond, ripping his hand away from Alicent. 

Breaking free of the guard’s hold, Jace made a charge at Aemond again.

“Wait,” Daemon ordered his stepson, striding in between the two boys before they could bash heads with one another once again. Jacaerys immediately halted in his motions, though not without great restraint. 

Stern, Rhaenyra turned to her sons. “Go to your quarters. All of you, go. Now.”

The two boys were reluctantly led away by the guards, shoulders drooping with both embarrassment and anger.

Daemon released a sigh, fixing his gaze upon Aemond. They stared at each other for a moment longer, before Aemond huffed out a small, discontented hum, and began walking away.

“I’m sorry, Rhaenyra,” you told the Princess, so very tired of the ceaseless fighting and the constant torn feeling within you. 

The stern expression she held softened when she looked at you. Her hand came away from her pregnant belly to rest gentle upon your cheek. “It is not your fault, sweet girl. Go on… get some rest. I shall have the servants send up food to your chambers since you didn’t get to finish your supper.”

With a grateful bow of your head, you took your leave, bidding Helaena and the Queen a quiet good night, before hastening out of the dining hall, and up the stairs to your chambers.

Your feet ached and your head pounded with stress. What a day it’s been.

Imagine your utter shock when you gently opened the doors to your bedroom, and slowly shut them behind you—only to turn and see your betrothed standing by your desk, scattered with quills and stained bottles of charcoal ink and stacks upon stacks of unopened letters you had yet to read or send off.

“Aemond,” you whispered, brows furrowing. “What are you doing here?” 

The Prince remained silent, watching you keenly as you strode forward, until you were nearly nose-to-nose with him.

“What is wrong with you?” you murmured. Just moments ago, you were ready to forgive him, move on with all your grievances and accept your betrothal with not another thought. And he went and ruined it—all because his hatred for Jace and Luke were greater than his affections for you. “Are Rhaenyra’s sons that much of a bane that you must go out of your way to insult them?”

“And why do you care so much for them? For two little boys that you knew a lifetime ago? It is I who stayed by your side your entire life. It is my sister Helaena who never strayed from you. They have done nothing but leave you in their dust, retreating to Dragonstone with their tails tucked between their legs at the first sign of danger,” murmured Aemond, hands coming forth to grip your forearms, drawing you nearer to him. 

“Because they are family,” you choked out. “And I love them. They are like brothers to me.”

A tantalizing hum fell from Aemond’s lips. He dipped forward, running the tip of his nose along the curve of your exposed neck, inhaling the addictive honey-lavender scent wafting from your skin. “Oh, but they are not your brothers, are they? Say it, my love. They are not only my nephews… they are yours, as well.”

“No…” you said, breathless when he began laying kisses along your heated skin. You couldn’t resist his deliberately light touches, melting against him for more. It was humiliating, how easily you caved for him. “What you are saying is treason, my Prince. Please, just think about what you—”

“There is no one else in the room but us,” he murmured, gently biting into the junction between your shoulder and neck. “Just us, jorrāelagon. You need not hide your true thoughts from me.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you shook your head. “I can’t. I just can’t. Aemond, please… put this to rest. They are Rhaenyra’s sons, without question. That is all that matters.” You lifted a hand to grip his chin, forcing him to look straight at you. “If you have but a shred of affection for me… you will stop this relentless fighting. Do it for me, Aemond. It pains me that the most important people in my life are constantly at odds with one another.”

A beat of silence stretched thin between you. He dipped his head once more.

“Yes, my love,” he whispered, leaning forward until his nose was slotted against yours. “For you.”

For that moment, you let yourself believe him. And you allowed yourself to love him, unconditionally and without restraint—for it was only you and him in your chambers, and no other was there to waver your opinion.

You released your hold on his chin to wind your arms around his neck instead, tugging him close and melding his lips over yours. A soft sigh fell from your lungs. He tasted of fresh fruit and earthy smoke, something you wished to drown yourself into. 

You began blindly walking in the general direction of your bed with Aemond’s guidance, falling against the feather-stuffed mattress once it hit the back of your knees. The entire time, you refused to separate from his kiss, willing to suffocate from lack of air if it meant you got to continue kissing him.

It briefly occurred to you how improper this was—you were not yet married to Aemond, after all. But you couldn’t find it within yourself to care, and neither did Aemond. He wanted you now—and judging by the look in your eye, he knew you craved him equally so.

He began reaching behind you, unlacing your dress and yanking the dark green fabric off your shoulders, shoving it down your chest and abdomen and hips, kicking the nuisance material away once it bunched to the bottom of your legs. As he began to expertly undo your shift beneath it, you hurriedly tugged his tunic off, a button ripping loose in your haste. Aemond could only smile at your desperation. You swallowed heavily upon seeing his toned chest, seasoned with training.

“It is a shame,” he gruffed once he finally got your thin shift off, admiring you in all of your nude glory, shamelessly allowing his eyes to roam over your breasts and arched back. “The dress looks so much prettier on your floor.”

You groaned at his words, yanking him back down to meet him for another kiss. It grew more frantic as more time lapsed—all tongue and teeth and bites and moans. A throbbing ache flowered between your legs—not a foreign sensation, but certainly the first time it was to be vanquished by something other than your own hand.

“Aemond, please,” you pleaded, unsure of what you were asking for. “I need you, please.”

“My sweet betrothed,” said the Prince, hands wandering up and down your sides, occasionally moving to squeeze your breasts and pinch your stiffened nipples, before moving further down, purposefully avoiding the sensitive parts between your thighs. “I’ll give you everything.”

With one final kiss to your lips, Aemond shifted himself further down your body, trailing his hot tongue along your skin in his wake. He met your gaze once he gently pried your legs open, his pretty hands gripping your thighs tightly. 

The sight he was met with made his cock twitch angrily within his briefs. Your cunt was drenched and glistening with your arousal—and it was all for him. A greedy sense of possessiveness consumed him whole. You were his, and his alone.

He blew a stream of cold air right against your clit, which made you suck in a sharp breath, unconsciously bucking your hips closer to his face in a desperate seek for relief.

A pleasured cry—verging on a sob—tumbled from your lungs when Aemond surged forward, lips wrapping around your sensitive button, his tongue curling in the most devilish of ways over the bundle of nerves. Wailing his name, you fisted the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do with yourself. Aemond just about moaned into you, one hand letting go of your thigh to prod your slick hole, slowly pushing in two fingers.

“Oh, please—Aemond!” you groaned, simultaneously trying to pull away from his touch and pushing yourself closer to his face. 

“My good girl,” he praised, the vibrations of his words against your cunt making you keen with undulated pleasure, as he began pumping his fingers in and out of you. “You taste heavenly, jorrāelagon.”

A gasp hitched within your throat once Aemond yanked your hips closer, practically burying himself within your thighs. 

“Aemond, my darling,” you sobbed, one hand falling into his hair, tugging at the long, pale strands, and the other squeezing your breast. “I’m going to…”

“Cum for me,” your betrothed said, unrelenting as he circled his wicked tongue along your clit.

And who were you to disobey the Prince?

With a breathy shout, you were pushed over the edge, clenching viciously around his still-thrusting fingers. Your orgasm slammed into you like a tidal wave, leaving you winded with green stars dancing about your vision. 

“That’s it,” murmured Aemond, gently pulling away once you came down from your high, the lower half of his face gleaming with your arousal. He crawled back up your form, shirking his trousers off, leaving him just as nude as you, save for his leather eyepatch still fixed over his scar. His cock—long and hard and angrily weeping with pearly beads of precum, slapped against his lower abdomen.

You pulled him down again, kissing him with wild abandon, sighing when you realized that you were tasting yourself on his tongue.

He flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. Despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. You whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. Aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.

He was a monster—and no amount of sweet talk would be able to change his mind from such a cemented fact. Not even from you, whose opinion he valued the most in the world.

“I love you,” he whispered, nose brushing down your jaw, still appreciative of your efforts nonetheless. “You are my everything. My heart, my soul, my life. I only wish for nothing but your happiness.”

You wrapped your legs around him, his throbbing cock pressed right against your fluttering cunt, clenching around nothing in anticipation. Lowering your voice to a whisper, you gently bit at the outer shell of his ear. “And I love you, my darling Aemond. All I wish for right now… is your cock inside me.”

Your lewd words made his length throb impossibly harder. “Your wish is my command,” he softly replied.

And with that, he eased himself inside of you. Your warm, pulsating cunt was gripping him like a vice, a shuddering groan choked out from his lungs. You mirrored his reaction, squeezing your eyes shut and holding onto him for dear life as he began to rock into you. 

With each snap of his hips into yours, you found yourself murmuring his name like a mantra, pressing sloppy kisses to his bare shoulder. One particularly hard thrust had you scratching angry red lines down the expanse of his back. Aemond didn’t seem to mind—in fact, this only seemed to spur him on further, as he growled an obscenity, grabbing your ankle to throw over his shoulder and slamming his length back into you with no abandon.

Your eyes rolled in the back of your head once he snaked one of hands down to thumb at your clit, eliciting a lewd moan from your kiss-swollen lips.

“So good, Aemond,” you cried, cunt spasming around his cock once the beginnings of your second orgasm began creeping up on you. “Cum inside… oh—make me yours, darling, please!”

A near animalistic noise tore through Aemond’s chest and he began to pound his cock deeper into you, the thought of you growing round with his child filling his thoughts as he desperately sought his own release. You tightened around him one last time when your orgasm surged forth, so hard that it had Aemond’s quick rhythm faltering. With a broken groan and a mutter of your name, he spilled his seed into you, thick spurts of white coating your slick walls.

A content hum danced between you once you kissed him again, easing into a wince when he slowly pulled out of your overstimulated cunt. He drew back to watch his seed drip out of you, hot and thick and so very arousing, it nearly made his cock hard all over again.

“You did so well for me,” Aemond murmured into your sweaty skin, freckling kisses over the bridge of your nose and over your eyelids, hooded with exhaust. “Are you alright?”

“Quite,” you replied, smiling at him kindly. “I suppose Aegon was right. I certainly am in good hands.”

The Prince hung his head, shaking it fondly, mildly embarrassed by your praise. “Do not speak of my brother while we are in bed, dear betrothed. It is unseemly,” he said, though his words lacked any true bite.

“Forgive me, Aemond. I seem to forget my manners when I am with you,” you said, a laugh dancing alongside your words. “You make for a grand distraction.”

“Mmh, do I, now? I am glad to be of service.” Your betrothed gathered you in his arms, easing you down amongst your pillows and brushing away loose strands of hair that stuck to your damp skin. “Rest, my love.”

You let yourself acquiesce to his words, sinking into the comfort of your bed. 

“Stay,” you whispered sleepily, pressing a light kiss to the back of his palm. “Stay with me.”

And Aemond did so, with little protest. His eye was soft and his touch was loving as he laid down beside you, holding you close to his chest, nose buried within your hair.

You fell asleep hopeful that night. Hopeful that your soon-to-be husband loved you more than he hated your nephews. Hopeful that perhaps marrying Aemond was the best thing for you. Hopeful that things would be alright, eventually.

Hopeful that a war was not on the horizon.

There was a cold stillness to the air the next day. Jace and Luke left early in the morning back to Dragonstone before the sun had a chance to rise, with solemn goodbyes and grim faces. You knew not when you were going to see them again.

It weighed heavy on your shoulders as you sat beside Helaena, sharpening one of your daggers with a small whetstone. There was a certain uncomfortable feeling twisting about your stomach—but you couldn’t quite tell what was wrong.

You had tried distracting yourself by playing with the twins, gifting them new wooden dragons you had bought from a carver in town, but it was not enough to take your mind off of the unsettled feeling within you. When the twins hadn’t worked, you thought about Aemond, and the time you shared last night… along with the early morning following, with his touch sweltering and his voice gruff from slumber.

It still didn’t work. Perhaps you were just having an off day.

“It is our fate, I think, to crave always what is given to another,” said Helaena, working on her embroidery of a spindly black spider with a red abdomen, seeming impervious to your nervous state. “If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away.”

“Balancing the scales,” you murmured. The princess hummed in agreement. 

All of a sudden, Alicent burst into the room, strides quick and fists clenched into the fabric of her emerald-hued dress. Otto was hot on her heels, though his expression did not betray nearly as much as that of his daughter’s. 

“Where is Aegon?” she asked, eyes wild. 

The two of you exchanged worried, yet curious glances. Lifting her shoulders, Helaena stoically replied, “Not here.”

“He’s not in his room?” clarified Otto, as if angry at the two of you for not having kept an eye on the Prince.

You had to fight the scowl threatening to make an appearance across your face. Helaena dipped her head to avoid eye contact with her grandfather, but you held his gaze with a squared jaw. 

Gnashing his teeth together, Otto turned on his heel and marched right out of the room. 

“Father—” Alicent said, but he was already long gone.

The Queen glanced at the twins—Jaehaerys, babbling his father’s name and clapping his hands together, whilst Jaehaera only tightened her small grip around the wooden dragon you gave her. 

“What has happened?” whispered Helaena, addressing her mother directly, something she sparsely ever did.

A morose expression folded over her features. Alicent sat beside Helaena, a film of tears misting over her eyes.

“Your father…”

Helaena’s usually calm features twisted into one of anger. Viserys was hardly a father to her. “There is a beast beneath the boards,” she hissed, repeating her whispered words from yesterday’s dinner. 

Alicent’s conflicted eyes searched her daughter’s distraught form. “Oh, my dearest love…” She reached out to hold Helaena, but the Princess frantically flinched closer to you, smacking the Queen’s palms away.

“No, no,” she whispered, crossing her arms across her chest, as if to shield herself from her mother. 

Crestfallen, the Queen shifted her stare onto you, her fists clenching even harder around her dress. It did not escape your notice when her pupils darted down to glance at the freshly-sharpened dagger in your lap.

“What has happened to the King, Your Grace?” you asked, tone cautious and wary not to overstep any bounds.

Before she could reply, Aemond stepped from the shadows out of seemingly nowhere, a jaded, nearly haunted look of realization befalling his features.

The King was dead.

Aemond’s hand tightly clasped yours as you sat in front of the crackling fire pit. The dagger you had sharpened was clutched in your other palm, having not left your side for even a second. These were dangerous times—the scales had never been this lopsided before.

Alicent paced in front of the chairs a few feet away, murmuring incoherently under her breath at the puzzling disappearance of her eldest son.

Not too long after, Ser Criston Cole made his way into the chambers, shutting the door behind him. “Prince Aegon is not to be found within the castle walls, Your Grace. Your father has sent Ser Erryk into the city to find him.”

The Queen hung her head. “Ser Erryk knows Aegon… he has the advantage.”

Both your and Aemond’s heads turned at her words. There were treasonous schemes brewing within the Keep, that was made abundantly clear. If Alicent was not the one who sent Erryk after Aegon… it must’ve been Otto Hightower. Known to show little remorse, you could only guess that the Hand wanted his own grandson on the Iron Throne rather than Princess Rhaenyra. A sinking feeling twisted your guts upon realizing that he not only intended to usurp Rhaenyra with Aegon, but to be rid of her entirely, knowing full and well the Princess would never bend the knee to her younger brother. 

Criston glanced at you with an obvious disdainful suspicion painted crystal clear over his face. For once, however, you were on Alicent’s side on finding Aegon before Ser Erryk did. You would rather Aegon be crowned King than Rhaenyra be executed.

“I trust again to you, Ser Criston, and to your loyalty. Aegon must be found, and he must be brought to me. The very fate of the Seven Kingdoms depends on it.” She stepped closer to the knight, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Everything you feel for me… as your Queen.” 

The Dornish man bowed his head. “I will not fail you.”

Surprising you, Aemond declared, “We shall come with you.”

Head snapping towards the two of you, Alicent strode away from Criston to her son. Aemond’s hand fell away from yours to hold his mother’s forearms in a placating fashion. 

“That would not be my desire, Aemond. If anything has happened—”

“Cole needs us, Mother. Ser Erryk isn’t the only one who knows Aegon’s doings. Y/N has spent many a night prowling the streets outside the Keep. She knows much about the nooks and crannies Aegon might be hiding within.”

It was no secret that you often used to sneak out of the castle during your childhood, eager to see King’s Landing outside of the Red Keep. The habit continued on during your teenage years, where you would often explore trade markets and smithies. By now, you knew the town as if it were the back of your hand. 

Though reluctant, Criston bobbed his head in agreement. A quiet sigh slipped past Alicent’s lips, and she let go of her son. You brushed past her, following after your betrothed straight out the door.

You may have hated Aegon, but you’d do anything to keep him away from Otto and his treasonous hands. 

As Helaena had mystically informed you yesterday—a storm was on the horizon. A dance of dragons.

“Aegon brought me to the Street of Silk on my thirteenth name day,” said the Prince, dark grey cowl pulled over his long, silver hair. You and Criston both had matching cloaks draped over your shoulders. The cobbled steps of King’s Landing were uneven and often damp with an unknown substance. People milled about, chattering loudly and without care. None of them had a clue that war was upon them. “It was his duty as my brother, he said, to ensure I was as educated as he was. At least that’s what I understood him to mean.”

“How pleasant,” you replied, voice dripping with contempt for his older brother, and your soon to be brother-in-law.

“I don’t follow,” Criston said, brows furrowing.

The Prince leaned forward. “He said, time to get it wet.”

Criston recoiled ever so slightly in disgust. “Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.”

You scoffed at that, rolling your eyes to the side. 

Humming, Aemond tilted his head. “He paid half a dozen whores and thrust them upon me, then left the room. Two of the girls there were younger than I, barely ten years of age and trembling like leaves… never before had I been more revolted by my brother. I crawled out of the window and ran back to the Keep.”

You glanced appreciatively to your betrothed, finding yourself once again glad that it was him you were to be married to. 

Leading the two men in front of a wooden door, you gestured for them to knock, stepping back to give them space. It was a pleasure house—one of the most popular in all of King’s Landing. Aemond’s single eye roamed the building, a spark of recognition dancing within the mauve of his iris. This was where Aegon had taken him all those years ago.

The door creaked open, revealing a woman draped in a sheer assortment of yellow silks and dozens upon dozens of golden jewelry littered across her skin. She narrowed her kohl-lined eyes at Ser Criston, glancing at you and Aemond right behind him.

“Sometime last night, we… misplaced our drinking companion,” said the knight. “Knowing that he has been, in the past, a patron of your fine establishment, we thought to inquire here as to his whereabouts.”

“Describe him,” replied the woman, bracelets clinking loudly against one another with every small movement. 

Cole shifted his weight from foot to foot, before quieting his voice to a mere whisper, nearly lost to the crowd. “That is… a delicate matter. You see, the man we seek is the young Prince Aegon. I may trust, I hope, in the discretion of your trade.”

The woman let out an amused chuckle. “The Prince is not here,” she told him. 

“Has he been here as of late?” you asked.

Curious, she laid her eyes upon you, roaming over your cloaked form. “Not as of late. Years ago, yes.”

“But more recently?” pressed Criston.

She shook her head. “He does not frequent the Street of Silk any longer. His tastes are known to be… less discriminating.”

“Meaning what?” Criston queried.

The woman smiled, wisely keeping her cards close to her chest. “I wish you luck, good Ser. And my best to your friend.” She swiveled her intense gaze to Aemond, who had bowed his head. “How you’ve grown,” she told him.

Aemond’s jaw clenched. With a hum, he took your hand, and began leading you away from the whorehouse, Criston in tow.

“It seems you were mistaken to Aegon’s habits,” said the knight. 

“He could be in the hands of mercenaries, on a ship to Yi Ti. He could be dead, for all we know,” Aemond replied, nonchalantly speaking of his brother’s death as if he were discussing tomorrow’s dinner. 

You allowed a hollow, humorless laugh to bubble within your throat. “It would be a cause for celebration, would it not?”

Criston sent you a sharp glare. “Let us hope, for your Queen mother’s sake, that is not the case.”

On you strode, twisting and turning through the narrow streets. The further into King’s Landing you walked, the dirtier the roads became, and the more poor, homeless folk were seen scrounging through trash for food and drinking out of barrels of muddy water. The air was humid and stank of rotten flesh. 

“Here I am, trawling the city, ever the good soldier in search of a wastrel who’s never taken half an interest in his birthright,” spat Aemond, growing frustrated at the fruitless search for his wretched brother. “‘Tis I, the younger brother who studies history and philosophy, it is I who trains with the sword, and I who rides the largest dragon in the world. It is I who should be…”

Aemond bit down on the inside of his cheek, effectively stopping himself from continuing his sentence. 

It upset you that he was behaving this way—just yesterday he had whispered his promise into your ear that he would halt his treacherous tongue. Had his words meant nothing to him? The death of his father had surely spun his mind into one of frantic chaos, despite his calm outer demeanor.

Pursing your lips, you could only gently reply, “There is no doubt that you are the better brother, Aemond. It does not deter the fact that we have to find him—lest your half-sister, Princess Rhaenyra, be murdered by his command under the influence of the Hand.” 

Your betrothed parted his lips, as if he wanted to say something, but wisely kept his thoughts to himself. 

“I know what it is to toil for what others are freely given,” Criston told Aemond, stepping closer to the younger man.

Aemond quietly grunted in frustration. “We can’t find him, Cole. You are a decent man with no taste for depravity. His secrets are his own, and he’s welcome to them. I’m next in line to the throne—should they come looking for me… I intend to be found.”

Your lips trembled as you staved away the burning within your nose, threatening tears pricking the corners of your eyes. It seemed that Aemond was truly far gone in his thirst for revenge, for power—you were a fool to believe his promise, even for a short second. 

It was growing more and more dangerous for you to stay in King’s Landing, surrounded by venomous Greens. You had to hold your Black-biased tongue, for it could now result in treason of the highest orders, and, consequently, your death. You were to pose as a Green now, for the sake of your own safety.

Helaena’s words from all those years ago rang in your head. “They are to trick the larger animals into thinking they are eyes. It is a defense tactic. The butterfly is not who the rest thinks she is.” Masters of trickery—beautiful and deceitful, both equally true.

The Prince could feel the slightest of regrets once you pulled away from him, surging several feet ahead with angry steps. Your loyalty to Rhaenyra and her sons knew no bounds, and Aemond was well aware that if it came down to it, you would've chosen them over him. He loved you, truly, more than anything in the world—but his deep-rooted hatred for the Blacks had festered strong for the majority of his life. That was something that not even you could remedy, no matter how much you tried.

It was by pure luck the three of you happened upon Sers Erryk and Arryk, along with Otto Hightower, speaking to the infamous White Worm by a spice market. You followed the twins in front of a great Sept—where Mysaria had hidden away Aegon for safekeeping. 

Not five minutes later, a familiar voice began shouting out obscenities and colorful curses to his captor, Ser Arryk. Criston brandished his sword, and you unsheathed your dagger beneath the protection of your cloak.

“I do regret this, friend,” said Cole, blocking their path. 

Seeing this as a chance to flee, Aegon kicked at Arryk’s foot and sprinted away, down the Sept’s wide stairwell. Criston engaged Arryk in combat while you and Aemond darted away to chase after Aegon.

Quick on your feet, you were the first to tackle Aegon to the ground, shoving the Prince’s face into the uneven stone of the ground. He choked out a yell, flailing about beneath you like a fish out of water. 

“No! Stop, you wretched woman! Stop!” he cried once you grabbed his arm to yank him up. Aemond came to the other side of his brother, helping you drag him up. The older Prince began to laugh maniacally when he punched you across the face, sending you reeling back with stars dancing about your vision.

A growl caught in Aemond’s throat and he grabbed at the lapels of his brother’s tunic, hauling him closer. “I was hoping you disappeared,” he said, voice dripping with venom.

Purple eyes gleaming, Aegon asked, “Is our father truly dead?”

“Yes,” replied Aemond, “and they’re going to make you King.”

A sick feeling twisted within your stomach. 

Equally angry at his brother’s words, Aegon spat a thick glob of saliva right into Aemond’s only eye, trying his best to escape the two of you, to no avail.

“Let me go!” he screamed when the both of you grabbed his arms. “Let me go! Brother! I have no wish to rule! No taste for duty—I’m not suited!”

Aemond barked out a dry laugh. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

With surprising strength, Aegon shoved you away, gripping his brother’s face in his filthy hands. “You let me go—and I will find a ship and sail away.”

His proposal was most certainly a tempting one—even Aemond had given pause to his words, freezing in place. If Aegon were to be presumed dead… he would be crowned King, and you would be his Queen.

“The Queen awaits,” said Criston, pulling Aegon away from Aemond, having bested Ser Arryk in combat. 

You let out a soft sigh of relief. At least, with Aegon by his mother’s side, there was no way he would order the execution of Rhaenyra. The battle has been won, but the war was still lost. 

Aegon was still to be crowned King.

Once you returned to the Keep, you had locked yourself in your chambers, refusing supper. You had little appetite, and hadn’t the heart to face any of the Greens. Aemond had stopped by to check on you, knocking on your door.

You opened it reluctantly, face streaked with reflective tear tracks and eyes red-rimmed. 

“Aemond, my love,” you whispered, allowing him to step into your chambers. “I fear I am no longer safe in King’s Landing.”

It broke your heart when your betrothed had no words of comfort to spare you—for you were right to worry. As a supporter of Rhaenyra, you weren’t safe here. 

The Prince remained silent, cupping your cheeks in his hands, and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

And though the two of you were enemies on rival sides of the war—you still loved him for the man underneath all that. And Aemond would never stop loving you, no matter how much he hated his nephews, and his half-sister.

For just a couple hours, the two of you allowed yourselves to be free of thought. No Blacks and Greens, no Princes and Ladies, no violence and hatred. 

Only you and him.

The butterfly and the dragon.

Aegon’s crowning was witnessed by thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people. You were forced into a bright green dress by Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting, your hair done up and silver jewelry pinned around your neck, and to your ears. You stood beside Aemond, playing your role as the faithful wife-to-be. On your other side was Helaena, in a dress of sweet blue, and her watering eyes trained to the ground. In front of you was Alicent, in a dark dress of viridescent hue, a golden seven-pointed star resting on her chest, her face grim.

“People of King’s Landing!” announced Otto Hightower. “Today is the saddest of days. Our beloved King, Viserys the Peaceful… is dead.”

The crowd murmured in surprise upon the announcement.

“But it is also the most joyous of days! For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him.”

Shock spread across the audience. After a few moments, they began to cheer and clap. Your insides roiled with disgust at their blatant disregard for Princess—now rightfully Queen Rhaenyra.

Not too long after, trumpets were sounding, and Aegon began walking down a pathway cleared for him by Goldcloaks. His silver-white hair shone, standing out starkly from the crowd. His expression was stony, and the corners of his eyes were red with unshed tears.

“It is your good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this! A new day for this city—a new day for our realm! A new King to lead us!” announced Otto.

Queen Alicent pressed a kiss to her eldest child’s head and led him forward to the Septon. Aegon knelt down before him. Helaena stared at her brother-husband, purple eyes misting over.

“May the Warrior give him courage. May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need. May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom.” With each sentence, the Septon dipped his thumb in blessed water and dragged the finger across Aegon’s brow.

The crown was then given to Ser Criston Cole, to place upon Aegon’s head.

“The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations,” he proclaimed, resting the heavy silver ring against Aegon’s silver locks. “Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Aegon rose to his feet. Criston and Alicent bowed their heads before their new King. Helaena set her jaw, looking none too pleased that her monster of a husband was now the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, but bowed slightly nonetheless. You were next, dipping your head ever so slightly—a deceitful butterfly. 

“All hail his Grace, Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!” said the Septon.

“Aegon the King!” bellowed Criston.

The crowd burst into raucous applause.

The newly crowned Targaryen let his eyes roam over the audience. They were all cheering… for him. All his life he’d been searching for praise, for validation, and now they were all giving to him on a silver platter. 

“Aegon the King!” they all screamed. “Long live Aegon!”

He unsheathed his Valyrian steel longsword, Blackfyre, and held it up with a victorious smile. The crowd cheered loudly with every thrust of his sword into the air, and he spread his arms out, feeling powerful for once in his life. A ghost of a smile crossed Alicent’s lips. Helaena shut her eyes tightly.

A beast beneath the boards.

The ground shook as the stone of the floor gave way. Plumes of dust and smoke filled the air. Screams of terror erupted from the throng of common folk and they scattered every which way.

The shrill roar of a dragon echoed loud and true. It was Meleys, the Red Queen of dragons, her scarlet scales rippling with each movement, having burst out from the Dragonpit below. Dozens of onlookers were trampled beneath her large copper-hued claws as she snarled out an ear-splitting screech. 

Out of pure instinct, Aemond had grabbed your arm, pushing you behind him protectively, placing himself in between you and the large dragon. You gripped his shoulder tightly.

Once the smoke and debris had vaguely settled, you could start to make out her rider—Rhaenys Targaryen. The Queen who never was.

Alicent grabbed her eldest son, standing in front of him, terror painted across her features. She shoved Criston towards Helaena, ordering him to protect her.

The large dragon growled as she prowled closer to the royal family—smoke falling from behind her bared teeth and golden eyes blazing. Rhaenys watched you from above, eyes narrowed. For a moment, she caught your stare, bowing her head ever so slightly in your direction. 

It was as if she were offering you a way out. She was well aware of your strong allegiance to Rhaenyra, and your fondness for her granddaughters’ betrotheds.

You glanced at Helaena, then to Aemond, and swallowed the lump in your throat. How could you find it in yourself to leave them both?

The Princess met your eyes, her purple ones softening ever so slightly. “Go,” she mouthed silently, nodding once. Tears blurred your gaze.

Ever so slow and trembling slightly, you stepped out from behind Aemond, much to the rest of the family’s shock. Aemond held onto your wrist, unwilling to let you go—how could he? How could he let go of you, the person he was meant to marry? The woman he loved with the entirety of his being? 

You turned to your betrothed just as a hot tear slipped down your cheek.

“Goodbye, my love,” you murmured, voice cracking with emotion as your free hand lifted to cradle his cheek. You surged forward to kiss him, one last time, uncaring of the onlookers. It was quick and chaste and you could only wish for it to last longer. Raw despair and anguish and muted fury flickered across his pale visage all at once. “Let me go, Aemond. I love you, darling, please, let me go.”

Not so long ago, you were begging him to stay. And now you were asking him to let you go.

You were the only thing he had left to himself—for everything else in his life was not truly his. The two of you belonged to each other, Aemond knew this to be true… and yet you were still leaving. He refused to cry, but could feel his throat burning with restraint. If he didn’t let you go, he feared the dragon would burn his entire family alive. His wretched brother, he would’ve been alright with, but his sweet sister and mother deserved a better fate. Aemond set his jaw, and loosened his grip on you.

You rotated away just as the second tear fell, and strode towards the terrifying creature that was Meleys. The rest of the Greens remained rooted in their spots, deathly afraid of the beast in front of them. She lowered herself for you to climb on behind Rhaenys—your green dress ripped loudly in your haste. The dragon’s scales were warm, nearly burning to the touch.

Alicent shut her eyes, accepting what she thought to be her fiery death.

No dracarys ever came.

Instead, the dragon only planted her feet and bellowed out another loud, ear-splitting shriek—a warning of sorts. 

With that, Rhaenys urged her dragon to turn and fly over the terrified citizens, away from King’s Landing. Cold wind blew against your face, drying your tears, and undid the intricate hairstyle your ladies-in-waiting had worked so hard on. The two of you were going to Dragonstone, where Rhaenys was to inform Princess Rhaenyra that her father passed away and her half-brother had just been crowned King. 

A clashing symphony of sorrow and relief buried deep within your chest.

You craned your head back as Meleys soared away, hoping to look upon Aemond and Helaena one last time—but they were too small to see, growing into blurred figures in the distance.

Lucerys could not take his eyes off of the map of Westeros, intricately carved into stone. His hand reached out to graze over that of Driftmark—which was to be his, when Lord Corlys Velaryon passed away. It felt as if there was a heavy stone sinking within his stomach.

“There you are,” said his mother, which made Luke’s gaze snap upwards.

Rhaenyra strode towards her son, both her hands rested on her pregnant belly.

“The Sea Snake is going to die, isn’t he?” asked Luke.

Shocked at his sudden words, Rhaenyra began to say, “Luke—”

“I can’t be Lord of the Tides! Grandsire was the greatest sailor who ever lived. I get greensick before the ship even leaves the harbor! I’ll just ruin everything, mother. I don’t want Driftmark. It should’ve passed on to Ser Vaemond,” the young boy said, brows furrowed.

Rhaenyra shook her head, long silver hair swaying over her shoulder. “We don’t choose our destiny, Luke. It chooses us.”

“Grandsire let you choose whether you’d be his heir. You told us so, Mother. Grant me the same mercy—I do not want Driftmark.”

Her features softened, understanding her son’s turmoil. 

“Do you want to know the truth of it?” she asked, voice quieter. “I was frightened. I was four-and-ten… same as you are now. I wasn’t ready to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—but it was my duty nonetheless. And, in time, I came to understand I had to earn my inheritance.”

Luke swallowed the lump in his throat, casting his gaze to the side. “I’m not like you,” he murmured.

His mother tilted her head. “In what way, sweet boy?”

“I’m not so… perfect.” 

Rhaenyra could only smile at that, stepping closer to her second son and cupping his face, kissing the skin right beside his dark brown eyes. “I am anything but,” she whispered. “My father looked after me and helped to prepare me for my duties. Your mother will do the same for you.”

A small, accepting smile danced over Lucerys’ expression. He nodded, before noticing the guard approaching the two of them from behind.

“Good morrow, Princess,” said the guard, making his mother turn to face him. “Princess Rhaenys has just arrived on dragonback, with Lady Y/N Strong accompanying her. She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon.”

Shock flashed across Luke and Rhaenyra’s features. They hadn’t received any news of either of your plans to visit. Though he had just seen you a few days ago, Luke was excited to see you once again—you had never been to Dragonstone before.

“She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon,” the guard added. 

Luke’s shoulders slumped. It seemed he’d have to wait a bit longer before he could greet you.

Your legs were sore from the long ride, and wobbled as you began walking into the large castle, hot on Rhaenys’ heels. It was not long until the guards led you into a large, expansive room, where Rhaenyra and Daemon awaited the two of you.

“Princess Rhaenys. Might we hope for news of Lord Corlys’ recovery?” she acknowledged as soon as she spotted the older woman, with not a clue about her father’s passing. Her purple eyes lit up when she saw you, but her expression quickly melded into one of unfiltered concern. You were a mess—dress ripped, cheeks still-damp with tears, lips bleeding with how hard you’ve bitten them in the midst of your anxiety. “Y/N, sweet girl, what is the matter? Are you alright—?”

Princess Rhaenys’ sharp words cut Rhaenyra off, loud and echoing. “Viserys is dead.”

There was a long moment of silence.

Daemon turned upon the unexpected news, eyes wide.

“I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra. My cousin… your father, possessed a kind heart.”

Rhaenyra’s expression faltered.

“There is more,” continued Rhaenys. “Aegon has been crowned as his successor.”

A sudden jolt of pain struck within Rhaenyra’s belly. “They crowned him?” she murmured, eyes darting between you and Rhaenys in disbelief. The green dress you were wearing finally made sense.

“How did Viserys die?” asked Daemon, heartbroken over his lost brother.

“I could not say,” said Rhaenys. You remained silent, hands clenching and unclenching into fists.

Pain lacing her tone, Rhaenyra asked, “How long ago?”

“A day ago, perhaps two,” said the older woman. “I was made a prisoner in my quarters while the Queen made her preparations. Y/N tracked down Aegon in an effort to keep him away from Otto Hightower, so as to not order your execution.”

If it were under any other circumstance, Rhaenyra would have smiled at you gratefully. But she couldn’t, doubling over in agony as more rivulets of pain struck her stomach.

“Viserys has been slain,” said Daemon, anger rising within his voice. 

Affronted, Rhaenyra spat out, “Alicent demanded you declare for Aegon?”

“She did. I refused her,” replied Rhaenys.

“And yet you are still alive,” hissed Daemon, gaze suspicious and sharp.

Rhaenys cocked her head. “The High Septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit. I witnessed it myself just before I fled on Meleys.”

For the first time you arrived, you spoke, voice hoarse. “There were thousands of people there, all bearing witness to Aegon’s coronation.”

“They crowned him before the masses,” Rhaenyra said, horrified at the news.

Rhaenys nodded. “They will see him as their rightful king.” 

Accusingly, Daemon gritted out, “That whore of a Queen murdered my brother and stole his throne and you could have burned them all for it.”

Rhaenys stood her ground, remaining endlessly calm and patient. “A war is likely to be fought over this treachery—but that war is not mine to begin. I only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and to my house. The Greens are coming for you, Rhaenyra. And for your children. You should leave Dragonstone at once.”

Tears glossed over Rhaenyra’s eyes. She glanced at you, practically her daughter in every way but blood and name—aware that your life was in danger now that you had run away from the Greens. 

Another wave of pain. She cried out, hands splaying out over the table in front of her. With frantic motions, Rhaenyra reached under her dress.

Her hand came out from beneath the fabric bloody.

“The babe is coming.”

Rhaenyra had stripped down to her shift, walking around her chambers with her hands on her hips and breathing irregularly. She was sweating profusely, skin a blistering shade of red and silver hair sticking to her sticky flesh.

The midwives were all murmuring to themselves, unsure of what to do and how to help her, especially when Rhaenyra kept waving them away, telling them, “Just fuck off!”

Even the maester appeared worried, murmuring low beneath his breath to the eldest midwife, “Her term is far from complete… this should not be happening.”

Rhaenyra had stormed up to them, growling out behind gritted teeth, “It is fucking happening!” 

“Keep your head about you, Princess,” the midwife crooned. “We’ve done this five times before—just keep your spirit and the sixth will be no different.”

“Get off, get off, get off me!” Rhaenyra hissed, yanking herself away from the fussing midwives. “Ow, ow, oh…”

Salt pricked the corners of her eyes when she turned her head in a frustrated manner, gaze landing on you. You were in the corner of the room, having been the one who ushered her here, hands shaking and cheeks damp with a constant stream of worried tears. Your mother had died giving birth to you—and you couldn’t imagine what it would be like if Rhaenyra died in front of your eyes, as well.

“Sweet girl, darling, fetch me some water, please,” she gasped, breathless, reaching out to you with a wince. 

With a frantic nod, you scrambled to the bedside table to pour Rhaenyra a cold cup, rushing to the woman who had taken to leaning against a stone pillar, chest heaving. A cry left her throat as she felt another wave of pain overtake her body.

She collapsed into you as she screamed through the pain, and you braced yourself with her weight, clutching her close to your chest.

“Drink, Princess,” you urged her, holding the rim of the cup to her chapped lips. Rhaenyra tipped her head back and swallowed a few mouthfuls to quench her dry throat, nearly choking as agony struck her belly once more.

Ten minutes later, Jacaerys and Lucerys were summoned, descending down the stairs to their mother’s chambers with confused and concerned expressions.

“Mother?” asked Jace, mouth parting upon seeing you by Rhaenyra’s side. 

“Fuck!” groaned Rhaenyra, huffing out a warbling breath. She turned to look at her two boys, both their brows furrowed and worry splayed plainly over both their faces. “Your grandsire, King Viserys, has passed.” 

Both the boys straightened at the news, their eyes widening with shock.

“The Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne. Aegon has been crowned King,” Rhaenyra said, through bouts of intense pain.

Jacaerys’ jaw set. “What is to be done about it?”

“Nothing yet,” she replied. 

“Where is Daemon?” asked her eldest son.

“I don’t know. Gone to madness—gone to plot his war,” she bit out, lips trembling.

Furious that his stepfather wasn’t by his mother’s side, Jacaerys turned and began striding back up the stairs. “Leave Daemon with me,” he said.

“Jace!” called Rhaenyra. “Jacaerys!”

Jace halted in his strides.

“Whatever claim remains to me, you are now its heir. Naught is to be done but by my command. Do you understand?”

The young man dipped his head in a nod, and he disappeared out of the room.

Her purple eyes landed on Luke, appearing frightened beyond belief. 

“Are you going to be alright, mother?” he whispered.

“Yes, sweet boy,” she replied, the lie falling off her tongue easy. “Go. You mustn’t see this.”

Hesitating once more, Luke caught your eye, and you gestured for him to leave, a reassuring warmth to your gaze. The boy scampered away, leaving you to Rhaenyra once more. 

As soon as her boys left, she bent at the waist and began screaming again, nails digging into her thighs. You were the only one she allowed close to her, barking at the midwives to stay away anytime one of them tried to get near her. But there was little you could do, and so you just pressed a cold, soaked cloth to her head, wiping away her sweat and drew her hair away from her face. 

The seconds blurred into minutes.

Blood stained her shift.

The minutes blurred into hours.

 “Get out, get out!” she screamed at the babe within her, voice breaking, teeth clenched so hard it was a wonder they didn’t crack beneath the pressure.

The hours blurred into half a day.

Her agonized yells rang so loud it echoed across the entirety of Dragonstone. After a long while of strenuous pushing, blood pooled out from beneath her shift—and a minute later, a sick squelch befell the chambers as the stillborn baby came out of her. Its small, undeveloped body fell to the stone floors.

The babe was a girl.

And she was silent. Unmoving.

The midwives all turned away with tears in their eyes. 

With tired, shaking, bloodied hands, Rhaenyra fell to her knees and picked up her baby, wrapping her shift around its tiny form. Red soaked through the fabric, drenching her skin, her hair, her face.

You wanted to cry some more—but you forced the burning urge away, steeling yourself to stay strong for Rhaenyra. And so you sat beside her, with a hand resting upon her shoulder, face stoically set.

The two of you stayed that way for the rest of the day, long after the sun had set, with Rhaenyra rocking her dead daughter in her arms and her other daughter dutifully by her side, swallowing down her tears.

Sparse few attended the funeral.

Visenya, the babe’s name was. Rhaenyra had whispered it to you right before she had gotten up to wrap up her daughter in linens for the burning.

It was a dreary event, the sky covered with grey clouds and the oceans quietly lapping at the shores of Dragonstone. You stood beside Luke, his hand held tightly within yours. Rhaenyra did not cry, for she had done so for hours on end and had no tears left to spare.

A familiar figure passing through the thin crowd made your brows raise in surprise.

“I mean no harm, brothers,” Ser Erryk Cargyll said when two guards drew their swords upon him. The man took off his helmet, kneeling down before Rhaenyra and Daemon. He then pulled out a golden crown from his satchel, presenting it to the two. “I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”

It was, by no means, a lavish coronation. After all, it was unexpected and sudden, and took place during the funeral of her stillborn daughter.

But it was better than any amount of gold could ever buy for Aegon.

Daemon took the crown from Erryk and placed it upon Rhaenyra’s head. He was the first to kneel. “My Queen.”

The rest of her people followed suit, bending the knee towards the true Queen.

“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” announced Daemon, standing at the head of the stone-carved table of Westeros. “Your Grace.”

Rhaena Velaryon offered the Queen wine, and Rhaenyra graciously took the chalice, beckoning for her to come closer to the war table, along with her sister Baela.

You stood beside Jacaerys, staring at the glowing markers on the table, eyes fixed upon King’s Landing—where Helaena and her darling children were. Where Aemond was.

“What is our standing?” asked Rhaenyra.

Swiftly, Daemon replied, “We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms. Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch—I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

A maester chimed in, “We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, along with Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “My lady mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

“Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace,” said the maester. “With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

“Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed,” Rhaenyra said. “He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position, and that we will support him, should it come to war.”

Seeing as Grover was the head of the overlord house of Harrenhal, you knew much about the man, and were also aware that he was not one to put trust in. Feeling the need to speak up, you cleared your throat. “If I may, Your Grace—Lord Grover is old and sickly. He is bedridden, and far too aged to act with haste. It would do us well to address his grandson and heir, Elmo Tully, instead. Ser Elmo is sensible and loyal to a fault. He would surely support your cause.”

A ghost of a proud smile traced Rhaenyra’s expression. “That would be wise, Lady Strong. Maester, see to it that you do as she says.”

“What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?” asked Ser Erryk.

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath,” said the maester. “With House Stark, the entirety of the North will follow.”

Rhaenyra toyed with the ring about her finger. “We cannot speak to Storm’s End with surety—Lord Borros Baratheon will have to be reminded of his father’s promises first.”

Finally, the Queen turned to face Rhaenys. “What news from Driftmark?”

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone,” said Rhaenys.

Still ever so suspicious of her, Daemon narrowed his eyes. “To declare for his Queen?”

Rhaenys did not wither beneath his glare. “The Velaryon fleet is in my husband’s yoke. He decides where they sail.”

“We shall pray for both you and your husband’s support, then,” said Rhaenyra, “just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health. There’s no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet. What of our enemies?”

Fingers flexing against the hilt of his sword, Daemon replied with a venomous tongue, “We have no friends amongst the Lannisters. Tyland has served Otto Hightower too long to turn against him… and he needs the Lannister fleet.”

“Without the Lannisters, we are not likely to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth,” said Rhaenyra.

Daemon huffed out a breath. “The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.”

One of the lords began speaking from the other end of the table. “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth slackened. “The Greens have dragons as well—”

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer,” said Daemon, counting off on his fingers.

“Daemon, none of our dragons have been to war,” replied Rhaenyra, tone sharpening. 

Unrelenting, Daemon pressed on, “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.”

“And who is to ride them?” asked Rhaenyra, baffled. 

“It does not matter. A dragon needs no rider to be an asset. We have thirteen to their four. I have another score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont. Now, we need a place to gather—a toehold large enough to house a sizable host.” Daemon stepped around the table to place a marker on the map. “Here, at Harrenhal. And Lady Strong is our key to that—she is its rightful heir, after her older brother Larys Strong—and he is not a favorable man. The people there are more likely to bend the knee if they know we have their Lady’s support. We’d cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with the dragons, and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

Surprise filled your expression at the mention of your hometown. Though you’d never been to Harrenhal, you knew Harwin and your father were well-liked. Perhaps they could be swayed in your favor instead of slimy old Larys, as well.

Before anyone could respond to Daemon’s hot tongue, a guard ran up to Rhaenyra. “Your Grace, a ship has been sighted offshore. A lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”

Your heart leapt to your throat. Could it possibly be Aemond?

“Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies,” said Daemon, already making his way out of the room. 

Fully expecting to be sent to your private quarters, you were shocked when Rhaenyra laid a hand on your forearm. “Y/N, my sweet girl, you are of great value in this war. You are quick-witted in the political tongues of battle and a good fighter. You shall come with me.”

You blinked in surprise, before bowing your head. “Yes, My Queen.”

Otto Hightower was most certainly not a sight for sore eyes. His face was set in stone, powerful and commanding and pretentious all at once. This was the most power he’s held in his entire life, and he was relishing in it.

“I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of his Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms,” he uttered, somehow managing to look down upon Daemon despite him being taller than Otto. “Where is the Princess?”

From the skies, Syrax’s roar rumbled the very clouds with its piercing volume. She descended upon the bridge you were standing on, yellow scales rippling as she lowered herself for Rhaenyra to climb down.

The knights Otto had come with cowered at the sight of the golden beast.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Otto greeted, not even bothering to bow in the slightest.

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now,” she coldly replied. “And you all are traitors to the realm.”

The older man narrowed his eyes. “King Aegon Targaryen, Second of his Name… in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms.” After a beat of silence, Otto took it as his cue to continue talking, despite Daemon’s restless fiddling with his sword. “Acknowledge Aegon as King and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. Return Lady Y/N Strong to her husband-to-be, the King’s younger brother, Aemond. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be reaffirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark, and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon. Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honor at court—Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, and Viserys as his cupbearer. Y/N will be treated well and married to Prince Aemond, after which she can choose to live with you on Dragonstone if she so pleases, until it is time for her to collect her inheritance of Harrenhal with Aemond. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”

Otto Hightower was a clever man, with a sharp tongue of persuasive influence. 

But Daemon saw right through him, scowling deeply. “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a King.”

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Otto reaffirmed. “He wears the Conqueror's crown, wields the Conqueror's sword, and has the Conqueror's name. He was anointed by a septon of the Faith before the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him. And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon—houses that have also received and are at present, considering generous terms from their King.”

Rhaenyra clasped her hands together. “Stark, Tully, and Baratheon all swore to me, when King Viserys named me his heir. Has that perhaps slipped from your mind, Lord Hightower?”

“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess,” reminded Otto. “The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

With deliberate steps forward, Rhaenyra marched towards Otto, grabbing the Hand of the King’s pin on the front of his coat, tossing it somewhere over the stone bridge. “You are no more Hand than Aegon is King. Fucking traitor.”

Otto seemed unmoved by this.

“Grand maester,” he said, holding out an awaiting hand.

“What the fuck is this?” Daemon muttered under his breath from beside you, fingers clenching and unclenching around the hilt of his sword.

The maester gave Otto a worn piece of paper—one that Rhaenyra seemed to recognize from her childhood growing up with Alicent.

“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other,” he said. “No blood need be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace. Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”

“She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father’s mouth, along with his withered cock!” spat Daemon. “Let’s end this mummer’s farce.”

With that, he drew his shield, prompting every knight present to also pull out their swords. You wrapped your hand around the hilt of your dagger, hidden within your cloak, but you made no move to unsheath it just yet.

“Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself,”  growled the white-haired Prince, ever the impulsive hothead. 

A tear slipped down Rhaenyra’s cheek as she stared down at the page. From behind Otto, Syrax gave an outraged growl upon seeing her rider upset.

“No,” Rhaenyra said, glancing back at her husband with a warning stare. Daemon put his sword down and hung his head with a sigh, deeply frustrated he was denied the pleasure of cutting off Otto’s head. “King’s Landing will have my answer on the morrow.” 

With that, Rhaenyra turned to leave. Daemon followed close behind.

“Lord Hightower,” you said, drawing his attention to you. “Tell Prince Aemond he is on the wrong end of the scales. Tell him I will be forced to balance them, whether or not he is on my side. He will understand what this means.”

With not another word further, you turned on your heel, striding away from the former Hand, hurrying to catch up to Rhaenyra.

The next morning was much busier than last night. More lords had keener insight to offer, and plans were starting to roll into place. 

“The Lord of the Tides,” announced Erryk Cargyll, “and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

You paused in your conversation with Jacaerys to watch the Velaryons descend the staircase. Baela came to Jacaerys’ side, the two of them nodding at each other stoutly. Rhaena strode over to Luke, a bright smile to her face, which was equally mirrored by the young boy.

Corlys’ cane echoed loudly as it stamped against the floor. There was a slight limp to his step, but there seemed to be nothing else dire in terms of his condition. 

“Lord Corlys,” greeted Rhaenyra. “It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”

The Sea Snake leveled her with a calculating gaze. “I’m very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man.” He hobbled closer to the stone-carved map. “Your declared allies?” he asked, glancing at the markers strewn across the table.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said.

“Too few to win a war for the throne,” surmised Corlys.

Rhaenyra hesitated, before saying, “Well, we would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”

“Hope is the fools’ ally,” the Sea Snake said.

The Queen drew herself to her full height. “Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house. But all of them swore oaths to me.”

Corlys cocked his head. “As did House Hightower, if I can recall correctly.”

Tone sharp, Rhaenyra responded, “As did you, Lord Corlys.”

The Lord of the Tides found himself at an impasse for a reply. He glanced back at his grandchildren—Jace and Baela, along with Luke and Rhaena. 

“Your father’s realm was one of justice and honor,” said Corlys. “Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand. You have the full support of our fleet and house, Your Grace.” He bowed his head low to his Queen.

Gratitude shone through Rhaenyra’s expression. “You honor me, Lord Corlys. Princess Rhaenys. But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war’s first stroke is to fall, it shall not be by my hand.”

Surprised, Corlys’ brows shot up. “You do not mean to act?”

“Taking caution does not mean standing fast,” said Rhaenyra. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.”

Allowing yourself to play the fool for once, hope clutched at your ribcage. Rhaenyra would make for a good Queen.

“The consequence of my near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them. I took care to fully garrison the territory, this time. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already,” Corlys told Rhaenyra with a firm nod. “The triarchy has been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours. If we further seal the gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King’s Landing.”

Stepping forward, Rhaenys offered, “I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.”

You studied the positions of the Blacks on the map before voicing your input, “With the Narrow Sea obstructed by the Velaryon fleet, King’s Landing can be easily surrounded, and a bloodless siege could be levied onto the Red Keep. It is a strong castle, but more than vulnerable, given the right number of knights and extensive knowledge of the inside. I know the castle like it’s the back of my hand—along with the secret tunnels to smuggle people in and out unseen. Once the Keep is impregnated, the Greens’ would be forced to surrender.”

Rhaenyra smiled at you, perhaps the first time she’s genuinely smiled since the death of her daughter. “If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.”

The maester bowed his head. “I’ll prepare the ravens, Your Grace.”

From beside you, Jacaerys spoke, “We should bear those messages. Dragons can fly faster than ravens—and they’re more convincing. Send us.”

Corlys regarded his grandson with an impressed look. “The Prince is right, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra nodded her head once after a moment of thought. “Very well. Prince Jacaerys will fly north—first to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm’s End to treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. Lady Y/N will go with you, Luke. She is quick-of-tongue, has been trained in the art of combat, can bargain against Lord Borros’ temper if need be, and is around the same age as his four daughters. Hopefully that will make for some common interest.”

Surprise rippled around the room, but you determinedly bobbed your head once.

“I’ll do my best, Your Grace,” you said, earning you a warm dip of her head.

“We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore,” Rhaenyra proclaimed. “And… the cost of breaking them.”

The waters lapped voraciously against the tall, stony cliffs, the sea’s waves crashing loudly against them. You turned your gaze up to the sky, watching the dark, heavy clouds slowly shift with the whistling winds. 

There was a storm on the horizon.

And it’d be your second time mounting a dragon.

“It’s been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men,” Rhaenyra said to her sons. “And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms… we must answer to their gods. If you take this errand, you go as messengers—not as warriors.”

Luke sent a worried gaze to his brother and then to you. He was frightened and terribly nervous, of course he was—this was the first time he’s been sent off for something this high of importance—but he was immensely relieved that you were to go with him. He knew you were a formidable fighter, even if they were avoiding violence, it was comforting to know that he wasn’t going to be alone.

“You must take no part in any fighting,” Rhaenyra told them, expression solemn. “Swear it to me now, under the eyes of the Seven.”

“I swear it,” said Luke without hesitation.

Jacaerys took a moment longer to follow after his brother. “I swear it,” he parroted.

“You as well, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra said, turning her dark purple gaze to you. “I need this ordeal to be bloodless.”

“I swear it, Your Grace,” you whispered, bowing your head. “I’m honored you trust me with such a task.”

A smile traced Rhaenyra’s lips. The rolled up pieces of parchment in her hands shifted as she held one out to Jace. “Cregan Stark is closer to your age than is mine. I would hope that as young men, the two of you can take a mutual liking to one another.”

Jacaerys nodded determinedly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra regarded her eldest son fondly, before turning to the younger boy. She noted the unadulterated worry in his eyes.

“Storm’s End is a short flight from here. You have Baratheon blood from your grandmother, Rhaenys. And… Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to host a prince of the realm—and his dragon. I expect the both of you will receive a very warm welcome.” The Queen smoothed down his cloak, and brushed his curls away from his face. 

“Yes, Mother. I mean, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra shook her head, an affection glint to her eyes. Her sweet boy… grown far too quickly.

Finally, she turned to you, handing you the parchment. “Lord Borros is a temperamental man, but you are smart—smarter than most your age—I have faith you will easily persuade him for support. Let us hope he will see his daughters within you… you and his eldest, Cassandra, are of the same age.”

“I will not fail you, Your Grace,” you said.

Rhaenyra cupped your face, dipping forward to slant a chaste kiss upon your temples. “I will see you soon, daughter. Get to it, then.”

A warm smile brushed across your features. You pulled away, bidding Jacaerys a warm goodbye, before walking away with Luke.

“Are you ready?” he asked you.

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

The two of you grinned at each other, nervous.

You placed a comforting hand on his shoulder before he could mount his pearlescent dragon, Arrax. “Luke… everything’s going to be okay. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The younger boy rolled his eyes. “I should be the one saying that to you—I’m the one with a dragon.”

With that, he mounted the small beast, commanding Arrax to bend down so you could climb on, as well. The dragon seemed to purr contentedly when you stroked his pale scales.

And to the dark skies the both of you took, the howling warnings of the wind falling upon deaf ears.

Storm’s End was cold and dreary and grey all over. Pinpricks of frigid rain stung your skin.

The flight was short but uncomfortable, as the winds made for a difficult journey and the saddle was really only made for one person, since Arrax was still a young dragon. Nonetheless, Luke helped you down, and the two of you made for the castle. 

A shrill roar in the distance made the two of you flinch, looking west to see Vhagar in the distance, shrouded with cold fog and smoke, more than five times the size of Arrax. The two of you exchanged worried glances.

Aemond was here.

Fear clutched at your chest.

Determined, Luke stepped forward to the guards manning the castle doors.

“I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon. I bring a message to Lord Borros from the Queen.”

The guards nodded, turning to lead him through the massive stone archway.

Thunder rumbled angrily through the sky, rivulets of white lightning carving pathways between clouds.

Somehow colder inside than out, you drew your blue cloak closer to you, sticking close behind Luke.

The guards brought the two of you into the castle’s great hall, where Lord Borros was seated upon a stone throne. He was a burly man, with a mane of black curls and a thick beard shadowing his jaw. To his left were his four daughters, each tall and dark-haired and fair of skin.

To his right was your betrothed.

He was calm as ever, hands clasped behind his back, foot tapping rhythmically against the ground. His purple eye was fixed on you, expression unreadable. You could feel your heart stutter within your chest—despite everything, you missed him terribly.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon, son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen,” announced the guard. “Lady Y/N, of House Strong.”

Luke shifted uncomfortably at the sight of his uncle.

“Lord Borros,” he started, voice trembling. “I brought you a message from my mother, the Queen.”

The Baratheon lord showed little interest in the young princeling. “Yet earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King. Which is it? King or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.” He began laughing to himself, loud and hollow, bouncing off the cold stone walls of the castle. “What’s your mother’s message?”

With your head held up high, you stepped forward to hand the Lord the bound scroll. He eyed you with disdain, a sigh falling from his lips.

“Where’s the bloody maester?!” he yelled, his patience growing thin. Borros was not a man of words, and could not read for himself.

Aemond’s stare pierced into Luke, nearly scalding. Subconsciously, Luke rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The maester stepped forward to read for him, before bending down to whisper the message into Borros’ ear.

Fury painted itself golden across his grizzled features.

“Remind me of my father’s oath?” he echoed, voice booming with anger. “King Aegon at least came with an offer! My swords and banners in exchange for a marriage pact!”

Your eyes widened, and you chanced a glance to Aemond. Had he offered his hand to one of the Baratheon girls? Had he already cast you to the side as if you were nothing?

“Aegon’s youngest brother, Daeron, is to wed one of my daughters. Prince Aemond was just negotiating dates and dowries,” said Borros in a boastful manner.

A strange sense of relief befell you, one that you didn’t quite understand.

“If I do as your mother bids… which one of my daughters will you wed, boy?”

Voice quaking, Luke shook his head. “My lord… I am not free to marry. I’m already betrothed.”

“So you come with empty hands,” said Borros, an incredulous scoff following his words.

A slight smile crossed Aemond’s features. You gritted your teeth.

“My Lord, if I may,” you began, holding the Baratheon’s graze strongly. “It matters not what we offer. This is a warning to you, from the Queen. The might of the Velaryon fleet has already sworn fealty to Queen Rhaenyra’s cause. Winterfell has never forgotten their oaths and will support Her claim, along with the entirety of the North. The Tullys and the Arryns and dozens more great houses are also to be loyal to the Queen’s cause. Will you be willing to risk your own noble house against the strength of the Blacks if war is to come?”

Borros Baratheon was stunned into silence. He wasn’t a man easily swayed, stubborn to a fault—but your words had struck a chord within him. The threat of the entirety of the North was not one he could hold defense against, not to mention the Velaryon fleet, the Vale, and the Riverlands.

A grumble resounded in his chest. Borros was not one to back down. “Rhaenyra has taken House Baratheon for granted far too long. A son—a male heir—is of higher order than a daughter. Aegon is the true King.”

You pressed forth, “Lord Borros, I beg you to think about the future of your house—”

“NOT ANOTHER WORD FROM YOU!” he shouted, effectively cutting you off, thick brows drawing together. You fell silent, angrily biting down on your tongue. The burly man drew out a heavy sigh, addressing Prince Lucerys once more. “Go home, pup. Tell your bitch of a mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not a dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

The both of you stiffened at his blatant disrespect.

“I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord,” said Luke.

The two of you turned to take your leave of the blasted place. 

“Wait.”

You froze in place, turning only your head to see Aemond staring straight at his nephew.

“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm with my dear betrothed… trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he said, words as sharp as knives. 

Luke straightened himself, remembering what he swore to his mother. “I will not fight you,” he told his uncle. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge,” said the one-eyed prince. You protectively moved to stand in front of Luke. Aemond hummed at this, regarding you with a heated stare. He reached behind his head to pull off his leather eyepatch—where a gleaming sapphire was placed within the scarred socket. Memories of when he had bared himself to you fully and wholly that one fateful night flashed across the forefront of your mind. You yearned for that time back. “No… I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine. Just one will serve. I would not blind you. Hm… I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

With that, he reached down into his coat, brandishing a curved dagger. He tossed it down to the ground in between you, the blade glowing with the light of the torches lining the walls.

Revenge was consuming him. He was angry—infuriated that the Blacks had stolen his wife-to-be, and now they were parading about the realm, falsely claiming Rhaenyra to be the rightful Queen.

“Aemond, stop this madness,” you hissed, stepping closer to him, your hand resting over your own dagger hidden within your cloak. “He will do no such thing.”

“Mmh, then he is craven as well as a traitor,” said Aemond.

“Not here!” bellowed Borros.

The prince paid him no mind, surging forward with quick steps. “Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!” 

You met him halfway, just as he scooped up the dagger he had tossed. One of your hands found his chest and you shoved him back, the other coming forth to slant your dagger right against Aemond’s stomach. The prince met your eyes briefly, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn you saw regret dancing amongst the mauve of his iris. But it was gone just as quickly as it came.

“Touch my nephew and I will cut you open from head to toe,” you threatened in a hushed whisper, lips grazing his ear.

Aemond found himself chuckling lowly at your slip up. “So you finally admit it, my love. He is a Strong, just as you are, hm? Look at this sad creature, my sweet betrothed… little Luke Strong, the bastard. He is drenched. Is it raining outside or has he pissed himself in fear?”

With a growl, you shoved at him again, which only barely made him take a step back.

Luke had drawn his sword, hands trembling around the hilt.

“NOT IN MY HALL!” yelled Borros. “The boy came as an envoy. I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof! Escort Prince Lucerys and Lady Y/N back to his dragon. Now.”

Luke sheathed his sword, and Aemond twirled the dagger in his grasp, before doing the same. You were the last to put your weapon away, glaring at your betrothed with the might of a thousand suns.

“For what it’s worth, Aemond,” you told him as a lump formed in your throat, “I’ve missed you. Or, at least—I miss the man you used to be.”

You did not wait to see his reaction. 

Instead, you turned to tell Lucerys, “Go, Luke. I will stay and try to barter with Lord Borros. With time, I think I can convince him.”

The princeling shook his head, wet curls flying. “No, Y/N, you must come home with me. We can tell mother together!”

You brushed his damp hair away from his face. “I can do this, Luke. Go. I will see you at Dragonstone—I shall take a ship back.”

Reluctant, Luke nodded once, before rotating on his heel and heading out the door. 

When you looked back, Aemond was already gone. Unease settled within your chest.

The storm seemed to have worsened—the rains were far heavier and the gusts of wind were stronger. You made your way out of the castle to watch Luke go on his young dragon.

Vhagar was nowhere to be seen.

Your eyes widened. Aemond must have already taken her to the skies—no doubt to torment his nephew further.

Or… or worse than torment…

You ran out into the muddy clearing, screaming Luke’s name. Your voice was lost to the storm. Frantic, you made your way out of Storm End’s walls, desperately trying to see through the thick fog.

“LUKE!” you screamed. “AEMOND! No, no, no…”

Vhagar’s rumbling roars echoed loud and true over the stormy seas of Shipbreaker’s Bay. 

Raw terror sank its dark hands around your ribcage, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing—

In the faint distance, you could see parts of a pale dragon streak from the sky.

A fluttering wing membrane.

A spined tail.

A gnarled talon.

A dragon head.

And along with it, the corpse of your nephew, falling down, down, down, into the waters below…

You screamed your throat bloody until your voice gave out. 

In three days' time, you would find yourself back in Dragonstone, and be the one to tell Rhaenyra that her son was dead. You were weathered and broken, and had to write the words out for your own voice had failed you.

Daemon was enraged upon hearing the news.

“An eye for an eye, a son for a son,” he had said. “Lucerys shall be avenged.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond fluff #aemond smut #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fanfiction #hotd angst #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #lucerys velaryon x reader #helaena targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond targaryen e2l #aemond targaryen x strong!reader

[misguidedasgardian]

The white dragon

An alternative universe for The House of the Dragon

Summary: How the existence of Rhaenyra's younger sister can change the course of history, the youngest daughter of King Viserys Targaryen and the Queen Aemma Arryn.

To cover the heir to the throne's transgressions, you are obligated to marry his lover, Ser Harwin Strong

Main pairing: Harwin Strong x Targaryen!Femreader

AU Warnings: violence, blood, murder, cheating, adultery, mentioned incest, (more tags added by chapter)

Main Story

Prologue

A Dragon or Goat

Collateral damage

The wreckage

What is left

Forced Landing

Name day

Seeds of mistrust

Two headed dragon

While you were gone

Taking roots

Kicks of a drowning man

Harrenhal

Driftmark

Dragonstone

The Seed is Strong

Sow what you planted

Claimed, not given

Second sons

Were loyalties lie

Were loyalties lie part 2

The Hour of the Owl

The Hour of the Bat

The Blacks

Storm's End

The North Remembers

In the dragon's den

The Greens

The march

The crossroads

The Red Keep

All roads

I bring the storm

Shield bay

Kings of Nothing

Jorraegalon

Under seige

The man of Gold

The Kraken and The Dragon

The Rock

King's Landing

Maegor

Monsters of Land and Sea

The Trident

The Dragonpit

The Great Council

Kept Promises, Epilogue

Archive of Characters

The archive of characters of The White Dragon

Headcanons & Oneshots

The White Shadow: Ser Steffon Mangold, sworn protector and sword of the princess and how he came to be

Vhaelar: how the bond between dragon and rider happened

The hunt: what was the princess doing during the hunt?

A hellish match: Jace dances with Aemma, and Baela with Aemond, but they wish it was the other way around

What If Series

what if... Harwin never stopped his affair with Rhaenyra?

what if... Reader married Cregan Stark?

#misguidedmasterlist #misguidedhotd #harwin strong x targaryen reader #harwin strong #harwin x reader #ser harwin strong #harwin breakbones #daemon targaryen #princess rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra #house of the dragon

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

insolence

pairing: harwin strong x reader

synposis: the commander of the city watch's unexpected departure from king's landing prompts a long overdue confession to the handmaiden of princess rhaenyra.

warnings: angst, fluff, swearing

notes: justice for harwin, our baby who deserved better and more than 10 minutes of screen time &lt;3

"There was an incident at the training yard today. Involving the commander and Ser Criston."

*yn*'s body froze, her hand hovering over the chalices as the words slithered into her ears.

"What kind of incident?"

She straightened up and placed the pitcher of wine down before the cup could overflow. Her knuckles bone white as she chaperoned the two glasses of wine over to the table placed in between the princess and her husband.

"The kind where Ser Harwin nearly beat Ser Criston to a pulp."

*yn* had to use all of her willpower to not drop the gold goblets at the princess's words. Surely there had to be some explanation, some misunderstanding of sorts.

"Seven hells, whatever for?" Laenor's words were slurred, his tone high pitched. Drunk.

"For the same reason the Queen dragged us up to her room when Joffrey was born."

*yn* could feel Laenor's eyes burning into her as she placed the goblets down on the table.

"The vile accusations are circling us husband. On all sides."

Rhaenyra's tone was firm but her face was ever expressionless. One that was impossible to read. Forever wearing a mask that *yn* rarely ever saw removed. Some never did.

"I wish to speak to my wife in private."

*yn* turned to Laenor and curtseyed quickly.

"Of course your-"

"*yn* has served me for many years, she is well aware of the rumours spread about us. We can speak openly in front of her." Rhanerya gestured to her handmaiden lazily, her piercing eyes never leaving her husband as she spoke.

"I am not asking this time."

*yn* swallowed and glanced between the pair. Neither were paying her any attention, their gazes solely fixed on each other, daring the other to blink. Neither wanted to back down.

Before *yn* even had time to fix her anxious expression, Rhaenyra's stare was on *yn*. Rhaenyra's eyes glided over her features, *yn* could practically feel her deciphering every micro-expression etched into her skin.

If Rhaenyra sensed *yn*'s anxiety, she did not reveal it. Instead she curtly nodded and sent her a tight lipped smile. It was more than most people ever got.

"You may go, *yn*."

"Of course princess." *yn* curtseyed. "I will be back to help put the boys to bed."

"No need, me and Laenor can manage tonight."

"But-"

"-That will be all *yn*." Rhaenyra's tone was gentle but firm as she cut *yn* off before she could protest.

*yn* knew what that tone meant. Now was not the time to argue with her or question her commands. Rhaenyra had always treated *yn* with respect and kindness, almost as if they were friends, but she was still a Targaryen. The future queen.

This time *yn* merely nodded and curtseyed before hastily making her way to the door.

"Oh and *yn*." Rhaenyra's voice stopped her from curling her fingers around the door handle.

She spun around, her lips parted to answer. Rhaenyra beat her to it.

"I heard Ser Harwin was at his usual tavern, drinking away his sorrows."

The ghost of a smile flashed across Rhaenyra's lips as she spoke. It was gone so quickly *yn* thought she might have dreamt it.

"Just if you were curious as to where our commander might be."

*yn* could feel a blush creeping up onto her cheeks, her face growing a deep shade of crimson red. Laenor's brow furrowed as he glanced between the two women in confusion.

"Thank you princess." *yn* stared down at her feet as she curtseyed once more, her fingers finding the door handle as she did.

Rhaenyra inclined her head in response before turning her attention back to her husband. *yn* turned her back once more just as Rhaenyra brought the goblet up to her lips to hide her amused smirk.

The stench of liquor, sweat and sex infiltrated *yn*’s nostrils. Tavern goers barely spared her a moments notice as she slipped into the chaos. Ducking and weaving through the crowd, her eyes flitted from one face to the next.

He was hard to miss. His massive frame dwarfing the table he was crouched over. An intimidating mass of muscle shoved into a dingy corner. A mass of brown curls concealed his face as he bent down to press his lips to the pint of lager he was nursing.

Harwin Strong looked up from his cup. His eyes glassy and unfocused as *yn* slid into the seat opposite him.

"You should not be here. It is not safe." His voice was gruff and deep. The type of voice that crept down *yn*'s spine, leaving shivers in its wake.

"Well lucky I have the commander of the city watch to protect me then." Her attempt at lightening the mood seemed to have the opposite effect, Harwin's eyes darkening and his jaw tightening at her words.

“Have you not heard darling?” He hiccuped as he paused to take another long swig from his drink.

“It’s ex-commander now.” His words slurred together into one convoluted string of vowels.

He had completely consumed himself in drink, something *yn* had not seen from him before.

“What?" *yn* blinked in disbelief. "How is that possible? Does the King not know what Cole said to you?”

She could feel her voice rising as her anger grew. She had never liked Cole, not since he had attempted to guilt Rhaenyra for refusing to give up the crown for him. And now that he was Queen Allicent’s lapdog, his cunt-like attitude had only worsened.

“It does not matter what he said to me.” Harwin shrugged as he slouched back in his seat.

“Of course it matters. He goaded you. You have every right to do what you did.”

“I should not have let him get under my skin. I have disgraced myself. My family. I deserve it.”

“You absolutely do fucking not.” *yn* growled. “That man is an insipid little cuck who is bitter at the world because he got so cunt drunk on-“

She cut herself off, inhaling sharply before she could say anything further. She had to watch her tongue in places like this. Where rats with beady eyes watched from their little spider holes and sewer pipes.

Harwin studied her intently, as if he was only just realising she was sitting across from him. Like her words had finally snapped him out of his drunken haze.

She watched as his face morphed from one of anger to one of humour as he took in her bright eyes and clenched jaw.

“I like when you are angry.” Harwin mused.

“Brings out a fire in you.” His eyes danced with amusement as he peered at her over his drink. “Makes you even more ravageable.”

*yn* felt heat creep into her cheeks at his words. These types of compliments from Harwin were completely foreign to her. He was always kind, humorous, but never flirty. It appeared that drink loosened his tongue.

*yn* had been Princess Rhaenyra's handmaiden since she had turned eight and ten. The second born daughter of a wealthy merchant, Dreyos Valrin was more than willing to offer his daughter to the King.

She had grown up beside Rhaenyra, and by proxy had grown to know all the other members of the royal court, and their protectors.

Harwin had always been there, although it took *yn* a few years to notice him. He had always been in the background, observing.

But then Criston wreaked havoc at Rhaenyra's wedding and Harwin had stormed through and scooped her and Rhaenyra up under each of his arms as if they weighed no more than a feather, carrying them to safety. She could remember him placing her down on the ground and staring down at her with those big brown eyes of his as he asked her if she was ok.

It was like she was properly seeing him for the first time.

Once Harwin became commander, the pair grew closer. Hours spent waiting in the corners of feasts and tournaments lead to in depth conversations and stories. To secrets and inside jokes. Knowing glances and stifling giggles.

Rhaenyra grew fond of Harwin to, the three becoming close friends. Then the rumours started. *yn* had always dismissed them, especially with the way Rhaenyra so convincingly denied them.

But as each child was born and *yn* saw the scientifically mystifying dark brown roots instead of starch white ones, her doubt only grew.

And her heart broke a little more. Because it was further proof that this infatuation was entirely one sided. An unrealistic fantasy.

“Seven hells, you are drunk.” Was the only thing that she could muster up under his intense gaze.

Her sheepish mumbling only made Harwin’s smirk widen.

“That I am.” He conceded.

“But my inebriated state does not make you any less beautiful.”

*yn* felt the blush spreading across her face darken.

She must have done something to gain the gods favour because at that very moment a drunken customer bumped into her back, sending his drink flying through the air. It missed her by an inch, but it was enough of a distraction to save her from having to construct a reply to Harwin's forward comment.

"Sorry love." The man gurgled as he stumbled past.

Harwin glared at him as he walked away. *yn* did not miss the way his gloved hand tightened around the handle of his drink.

"You should not be in a place like this." He reiterated as he finally dragged his eyes from the man.

"Neither should you." She countered.

"This is precisely where I should be. With the other fuck ups and outcasts."

*yn*'s smile vanished at Harwin's words, watching as he tilted his head back to finish the remnants of the liquid sitting at the bottom of his cup.

"Come. Let us leave this place." She spoke as he slammed the empty cup onto the table. "You have wallowed here enough."

"Why do you care where I wallow." He muttered, his eyes following her every move as she rose up to her feet.

"Because you are my friend." She stated matter-of-factly. "It is my duty to care."

"Friend huh?" His mumbling was so quiet and slurred that *yn* did not even hear him as she glanced around at her surroundings.

"How much?" A gruff voice called out from behind her.

"I'm sorry?" Her forehead creased in confusion as she turned to see a man staring at her.

"How much for an hour of your time darling."

Her eyes darted behind his shoulder to see a few man luring at her. She swallowed and fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself as the hairs stood up on the back of her neck.

"I'm not a whore."

Her response made him chuckle and his pack of friends snigger in cohesion.

"Everyone's a whore if you've got enough money." He answered her as he took a step closer. His eyes were raking up and down her figure in a way that was making her skin crawl.

"So tell me, how much is that little cunt of yours worth?"

"What the fuck did you just say?"

Harwin was now sitting up tall in his chair. His brown eyes suddenly sharp as they locked onto the man. *yn* cursed under her breath as she watched the anger ripple through him.

"I suggest you go." She spoke, her voice firm as she turned away from Harwin to glare at him. The man merely let out a dry chuckle and a low whistle as his eyes dragged down her once more.

"Must be pretty fucking good to get this one so riled up."

The table scraped against the ground behind *yn*.

"Apologise to the lady."

His voice was so deep that she felt the rumble of his chest against her back as he spoke. Her eyes never left the man in front of her.

She watched as the man's eyes drifted up past her face, all the way to Harwin's behind her. He had always dwarfed her in size, like he did most people, and she could see the realisation begin to dawn on the man's face that he had made quite the fuck up.

His friends behind him were whispering to each other, taking turns to steal glances at Harwin.

".....breakbones......"

Her ears plucked those words out of the air at the same time the stranger's did. She watched him visibly pale as he realised who he was picking a fight with.

"Apologise. Now. I will not ask again."

The man shrunk into himself at Harwin's words. A glance over his shoulder revealed his friends had scattered in all directions, leaving him without backup.

"I am sorry m'lady."

She watched him as he made an attempt at a bow, staring up at her pleadingly through his lashes. She let him stew there for a few moments, taking the time to glare at him.

"It is fine."

"I do not think it was sincere enough." Harwin growled as he stepped around her to approach him.

She reached out and placed a hand onto his forearm. The feeling of her touch made him stop and turn to look down at her.

"He apologised. Let us leave and be done with it."

He studied her for a few moments as he felt the white hot rage begin to melt away under her touch. He gritted his teeth and turned to look at the man trembling in front of them.

*yn* felt relief wash through her when he nodded his head stiffly in agreement. Her hand was still on his forearm as she guided him past the man, leaving him shaking where he stood. Harwin let her lead him through the tavern, his glare keeping anymore drunks away.

It was clear his anger had not fully dissipated once they stepped out onto the dimly lit street. She finally let go of his arm as they began to walk back towards the castle.

"I do not want you going there again." The silence finally broke after a few minutes.

"Well stop going there to get offensively drunk and I I will not have to."

"The lack of respect I endure from you will never cease to amaze me." *yn* could hear the smile in his response which in turn made a small smile appear on her lips as the energy around them shifted.

"I did not realise an ex-commander required a certain level of respect." Her stomach dropped the second the words slipped past her lips.

It was a low blow. A gamble. Possibly the diciest quip she had ever delivered to him. Something she most definitely regretted.

"You know." He said after a few moments. Nerves wracked her body as she opened her mouth to apologise.

"I always blamed the princess for your insolence, that you had spent too much time in her company. But now I am second guessing that theory."

A moment of silence passed as the pair caught eyes. His face was solemn until one side of his lips began to twitch up into a smirk. Then they both burst out into hushed laughter. Relief coursed through her veins at the sound of his amusement.

The couple slipped back into comfortable silence as they approached one of the back entrances into the castle. *yn* turned to say something to him as she began to scale the stairs but was caught by surprise when she realised he was no longer beside her.

"Harwin?" She peered down at him questioningly when she saw that he had come to a stop at the bottom of the stairwell.

"This is where I bid you goodnight Lady Valrin."

"What are you talking about? You are not returning to your chambers?"

Confusion brewed in her when he shook his head.

"I do not think it appropriate for me to stay here anymore given these recent events."

"But this is your home. Ser Criston is as much to blame as you-"

"Ser Criston did not publicly humiliate the hand of the king." He cut her off firmly.

"I have taken up lodgings elsewhere." He spoke just as she opened her mouth to protest.

"Besides, I do not want to tarnish your reputation by being seen with me at this hour by the castle's preying eyes."

His words made a humourless chuckle escape her lips.

"I am a second born daughter of a merchant, the handmaiden to the princess. I do not have a reputation to tarnish. I am of insignificance to preying eyes."

He shook his head at her words. "That is a lie *yn*."

She felt her heart hammer in her chest as a gloved hand came to cradle her face.

"And you and I both know it." His thumb brushed against her chin as he spoke. His voice was low, his gaze gentle as they looked at one another.

An unreadable expression crossed his face as he dropped his hand from her face and took a step back. She exhaled a shaky breath as he bowed deeply in front of her.

"Goodnight Lady Valrin."

She swallowed as he looked up at her through his mass of curls, his deep brown eyes locking with hers. The confession she had so desperately wanted to rid herself of hung tantalisingly on her lips. But she shoved it down once more, like she had done a thousand times over.

"Goodnight Ser Harwin."

"Can we go to the dragon pit yet?"

"Once your mother is finished with the council. I heard she wants to watch you train today."

Lucerys Velaryon moaned as he flopped down beside *yn*.

"But I want to go now."

"We all wish we could have things when we wanted them young prince." *yn* teased him lightly.

"But patience is a virtue, we know." Jacaerys huffed as he bounded over to join them.

"Yes Jacaerys, that is correct." *yn* nodded as the two boys joined her under the shade of the tree.

"You have only told us about three hundred times." He answered back sarcastically which made Lucerys giggle.

"Well now I have told you three hundred and one times and I will continue to until you learn it." *yn* raised a brow at him, unable to hide the smile on her face as she tried to be semi-authoritative.

The boys could read her like a book, and play her like a fiddle. They knew she was all bark and no bite.

"How do you 'learn' patience?" Lucerys queried as he moved to rest his head in her lap.

"Well, I am getting quite good practice right now."

It took the boys a few moments to realise what she meant, but when they did they let out gasps followed by fits of giggles.

"When will mother be done?" Lucerys asked once their laughter had died down.

He was like a dog with a bone.

"I am not sure, it should not be much longer. Then you can go to the pit." She answered him as she ran a hand through his hair.

"I thought we were saying goodbye to Harwin after the council."

"What?" *yn* could not hide her surprise as she turned to look at Jacaerys. "What are you talking about?"

"Mother told us he was leaving and that we had to say goodbye."

"Leave? To where?" Jacaerys' brow furrowed at her tone, noting the concern on her features.

"To Harrenhal."

*yn* felt like she might be sick, her brain racing at a million miles an hour as she tried to process the information provided to her by two young children.

"Did your mother say when he was leaving?" She could feel her voice wavering as she spoke, her eyes beginning to sting as she kept her gaze fixed on the grass below her.

The two children exchanged worried glances when they noticed the expression on her features.

"Mother said he was leaving tonight." Jacaerys answered her.

"Did Ser Harwin not tell you?" Lucerys piped up from her lap.

"No. No he did not."

"I thought you two were friends." He frowned, sitting up to study her when he saw the grief flit across her face.

"As did I."

*yn* did not think it possible to experience so many different emotions in such a short period of time.

She had gone through sadness, confusion, humiliation and betrayal all in the span of one afternoon.

Now she had settled on anger. Pure, unbridled rage that was directed at one person and one person only.

The last thing she wanted to do this evening was to traipse up through the castle to the princess's chambers. Yet that was exactly what she was doing. Having been summoned by her princess to discuss something 'urgent'.

All she wanted to do was to curl up in her bed and cry.

She squared her shoulders and painted a pleasant smile on her features as she opened the door. She could thank Rhaenyra for her learned ability to hide her true emotions.

Swirls of pink and orange light filtered in through the large windows, bathing Rhaenyra's room in a beautiful golden haze. Dusk had always been *yn*'s favourite time of the day in King's Landing.

Her body went rigid when her eyes fell on an unexpected figure standing at one of the windows on the far side of the room.

"What are you doing here?" Even she was surprised by the bitterness laced through her words as they left her mouth.

Harwin turned, clearly caught off guard by her presence as his lips parted in surprise. He composed himself quickly, his face expressionless as he studied her.

"The princess sent for me." His words were calm and soft. The complete opposite to hers.

She huffed and crossed her arms in front of her chest, sending him a glare before purposely turning her head to avoid his gaze. Some might call her petulant for this but she did not care in the slightest.

It also pained her to look at him.

"I take it you have heard the news?"

She could feel her anger begin to rise to the surface at his question.

"Yes, the princess's sons informed me." She kept her gaze fixed to the window opposite her.

"I am sorry."

"Are you sorry you did not tell me or sorry that I found out?" Her words were venomous as she finally turned to direct her rage at him.

"That was your plan, was it not? To scamper away to Harrenhal without a word."

He did not burr up as she pelted him with her anger. Instead his gaze only softened as he took a step towards her.

The dusk light filtering through illuminated his figure as he stood in front of the window. It made him look more ethereal than usual.

"I thought it would be easier this way."

"So you are a coward then." She snarled, her eyes glowering with anguish as she watched him step closer.

"In this situation, I am." He murmured.

His confession took her by surprise. She froze, her lips parted as she stared at him. However, it only quelled her rage momentarily before she was aiming her venom laced words at him once more.

"Why are you leaving?"

"My father has instructed me to return to Harrenhal and start my duties as heir. These rumours have left me no choice but to leave."

"Are they true?"

Harwin blinked at her in disbelief at her question. *yn* never thought that she would ever be brave enough to say those words aloud, but now with the prospect of never seeing the man she loved ever again, she felt oddly liberated.

"The rumours, are they true?" She pressed when she did not receive an answer.

For the first time in their interaction an expression that resembled anger flickered across Harwin's face.

"You really think that low of me?" His voice was low as he glared at her. "That I would go off and father three children with a married woman when my heart so clearly belongs to another?"

The brief sense of relief that she had felt was very quickly drowned out by his confession. His heart belonged to another. Of course it did.

"I jest about your insolence but I never expected such an insult from you."

His words brought her back to the present. Her eyes narrowed as she stepped forward, her fists clenched at her side.

"You dare speak of insolence to me? You care so little of our friendship that you were willing to leave, perhaps to never return again, without so much as a wave goodbye." She was aware there were hot tears streaming down her face now, but she found herself unable to care. He was leaving, she might as well bare all of her ugly parts to him now.

"I do hope you did not extend such little courtesy to the woman you profess to love. I shudder to think how she must feel right now."

Her words were designed to hurt. Perfectly crafted to pierce through his skin. It was safe to say that she was quite confused when his shoulders slumped in defeat and he let out a halfhearted chuckle at her words.

"From where I am standing right now, she seems to be understandably quite enraged."

His words left her speechless and frozen. Like a blanket stifling her anger as if they were flames.

"And although I usually find her anger very alluring, I am actually quite frightened this time." A sad smile that reached his eyes spread across his lips.

She watched as he took a few steps forward, closing the gap between them.

"You love me?" She breathed out.

He nodded in response as he came to a stop in front of her. Their height difference forced *yn* to tilt her head up to keep their eyes locked. Her anger had completely dissipated now, dissolving completely as his hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

"For as long as I can remember."

"Why have you never said anything?"

"I am not sure. Terrified of your rejection most likely. Scared of how my heart so entirely belongs to you." He mumbled as his eyes scanned every inch of her features.

"That is why I did not want to say goodbye. Because I was terrified that I would not be able to bring myself to leave if I saw you one last time."

*yn* felt her heart break as he glided the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip. She had so much she wanted to say, but she could not find the words to articulate her thoughts.

So instead she did what Rhaenyra would do. Take what she wanted with no apologies or embarrassment. With that thought in mind she reached up onto her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck to guide his head down to meet hers.

She felt her stomach do flips as their lips met. Her fingers curled into his thick hair as his hands found her waist. Her head was spinning as the kiss deepened. A rumble emitted from Harwin's chest as her fingers entwined further into his hair and he dug his fingers into the flesh of her hips.

The pair only pulled apart when they could no longer breath, their chests rising and falling at a rapid pace as they stared at each other.

"It is quite extraordinary how quickly you reduce me to a quivering bundle of nerves, you know." He remarked, an amused smirk flashing on his lips.

"Ser Harwin Breakbones Strong a bundle of nerves? Impossible." She managed to stop herself from shaking under his touch, a smile on her lips as she spoke.

"My heart has always been yours too." She admitted quietly after a few moments passed. Harwin's brown eyes were filled with tears now too.

Both were aware of how bittersweet this moment was, finally confessing their love to one another just to be ripped apart for who knows how long. Perhaps forever.

The sound of footsteps approaching made the pair spring apart, only just detangling from each other when the door opened.

"Princess." They both spoke, bowing in unison as Rhaenyra appeared in the doorway.

Her hands were clasped firmly together in front of her as she came into the room. Her eyes flitted between them, silence stretching on as she took her time in studying them.

"*yn*, a word." As she spoke, her two sons came bounding in after her. They made a beeline for Harwin, both talking over the top of eachother to tell him about their afternoon in the dragon pit.

*yn* did not risk a glance at Harwin as she nodded to the princess and made her way over to her.

"We are leaving." There was no attempt at quieting her voice as she spoke. Loud enough that Harwin could hear every word over the boys animated shouts.

"To Dragonstone?"

Rhaenyra nodded. "We have been here for far too long, we should have left years ago. It is about time we escaped the whispers that keep us prisoner here."

She agreed with Rhaenyra. The castle had grown poisonous as Allicent's boys aged and Viserys withered. It was no place for Rhaenyra's boys to grow up, or for Rhaenyra to thrive.

"A good decision, princess. We will leave soon?"

"Tomorrow."

Rhaenyra glanced over her shoulder at Harwin, before turning to *yn*.

"You should bring him." *yn* could not mask her surprise at Rhaenyra's words, her head jerking around to look at Harwin.

"I am afraid I do not understand."

Her answer made Rhaenyra cock her head to one side as she studied her.

"Someone needs to train the boys. Besides, you will need the extra company, or else you will grow tired of me."

A smirk appeared on Rhaenyra's lips, her eyes dancing with amusement as she glanced over at Harwin once more.

"I think he will do a fine job of keeping you entertained."

Before *yn* could protest, Rhaenyra stepped around her and made a beeline for the boys chambers.

"Come boys, it is time for bed."

The boys knew better than to protest as they excitedly bid their goodbyes to Harwin and bounded after their mother.

*yn* stood rooted in place as she watched the three disappear from sight. The sound of their bedroom door shutting echoed in the cavernous room.

Harwin and *yn* were alone once more.

"Did you hear all of that?" *yn* murmured to him once she finally mustered the courage to turn to him.

"I will come with you. To Dragonstone." Her lips parted in surprise at his words.

"But you are the heir of Harrenhal Harwin." She answered as she watched him approach her.

"Fuck my inheritance." He stated as he closed the gap between them.

"I never wanted to be a Lord anyways. Or inherit a cursed castle. Larys can have it." He shrugged.

She shook her head in disbelief, her eyes shining as tears began to pool in the corners once more.

"I cannot ask you to give that up for me."

He smiled as he cupped her face in both of his gloved hands and bent down to place a tender kiss to her lips.

"Good thing I am not asking then."

I love that this man had like 4 lines and I've just given him an entire personality.... anyway hope you all loved it!!! Enjoy this hyper fixation for a while because I want to keep writing for him hehehe. As always, feedback would be super super appreciated and you can give it back HERE!

#hotd #house of the dragon #hotd imagine #hotd fanfiction #hotd spoilers #hotd season 1 #hotd imagines #hotd oneshot #hotd one shot #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon oneshot #house of the dragon fanfiction #harwin strong #ser harwin strong #harwin strong x reader #harwin strong x oc #harwin strong imagine #harwin strong fanfiction #harwin strong oneshot #harwin strong imagines #harwin strong fanfic #harwin strong smut

[theforgottenmcrmy]

Safety (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

***please note that this oneshot now has a sequel, “Captivated”, which can be read HERE***

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: GOT typical sexism, canon divergence, extremely subtle references to violence, spoilers for the House of the Dragon... I think that’s it. I’ll add more as I realize them.

Word Count: 3700 ish.

Summary: You’ve been brought to King’s Landing by Princess Rhaenyra’s search for her next lady in waiting. While your father, Lord Tyrell, and brother are hopeful for your prospects should you be chosen to serve the Princess, you’re having doubts about leaving the Reach and your family behind in favor of the storied but unfamiliar capital city. Thankfully, and perhaps a little ironically, you may be able to find some refuge in the man that they call Breakbones.

A/N: Oh look- the Strongs and the Tyrells. Two families who deserved better. Falling head over heels for a minor character with limited dialogue and screen time? Sounds like me. (What the heck is my deal with falling for men with doomed fates?) Anywayssss, I hope you enjoy this highly self-indulgent blurb.

The processional line was a long one. It was nearly unbearable to wait in it- despite the handsome prize that was to be given out at the end of it all. One could hardly imagine what it must have been like to sit and sort through it.

The Princess, and Heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen, was in search of a new lady in waiting.

Ladies from all across Westeros had made their way to King's Landing for the occasion. Escorted by their fathers, brothers, mothers, or other extended family, the capital had been overflowing with people for the past few days. The crowds might have been enough to deter some, but for most, they had stayed firmly put. The potential reward to be bestowed upon a lady of their house was far too tempting to turn back now.

It had been several hours of waiting, as each and every hopeful was presented to Princess Rhaenyra and King Viserys. The end finally looked to be in sight, once you had made it into the throne room. You’d had your doubts throughout the duration of your journey to the capital, and said doubts were only amplified by worry upon the realization that many members of the King’s court had attended the festivity. You hadn’t anticipated an audience for the event.

Your father provided a welcomed distraction when he more directly pointed out what he had been vaguely commenting upon all day: most of the other hopefuls were nowhere close to the Princess’s age. You couldn’t help but agree- nearly every noble lady in line around you seemed either far too old, or far too young. The girl in front of you, escorted by who appeared to be her brother, couldn’t have been more than five years of age.

“You may stand a chance yet, my dear,” your father said to you under his breath, before pointedly grinning at an observer who was eyeing him.

Though your father sounded hopeful, you weren’t sure how to feel about it. Being chosen by the Princess to be one of her ladies in waiting would be an honor, that much was indisputable. But, should you be chosen, it would mean a semi-permanent relocation to King’s Landing, which was leagues away from her father and brother.

The Tyrells were notorious among the Reach for being one of the few noble houses that outwardly cared for one another. Some of the other noble houses suspected that it was an act, merely a ploy used to gain the trust and support of the common folk. Perhaps in previous generations, it had been. But that was not the case for the current one. Your father, Lord Larris Tyrell, your brother, Derron Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden, and yourself, had always been close.

Too soon, the girl in front of you was being introduced to the King and Princess as the Lady Rosyn Tully. As the scene unfolded, the most prominent of your worries came to the forefront of your mind.

You knew that your father and brother were hopeful that, should you be chosen to serve Princess Rhaenyra, your list of potential suitors would grow exponentially. Already the only daughter of the current Lord Tyrell, you’d always known that you were expected to marry and secure a smart match for yourself. Though your father and brother had never forced your hand in the matter, you also knew that you were getting to be an age where others may begin to question why you had not yet been matched. Princess Rhaenyra, who was also your age, would undoubtedly be married herself in perhaps a year or two.

You’d come to peace with the fact that you’d be expected to marry, not out of love, but out of duty to your family and House. But the men in King’s Landing were strangers. Though it simply was not possible that all were heathens, you’d heard plenty of rumors. Some of the men who walked around the Red Keep were snakes, scheming and plotting with nearly every breath they took. Others were cruel, and took joy in the misfortunes of others, which, unfortunately, seemed to be plentiful in King’s Landing. The third group of them, and the scariest and most formidable to you, were the licentious scoundrels who placed little to no value on women, and preferred to think of and treat them as mere objects.

Being the lady in waiting for Princess Rhaenyra would guarantee some safety, perhaps. But while you would have to stay in King’s Landing, your father and brother would return back to Highgarden, and with it, they would take the security they’d always provided you with.

In front of you, King Viserys bantered with Lord Elmo Tully, Lady Rosyn’s designated escort. As their conversation echoed faintly in your ears, your eyes drifted to beside you, where many curious members of court observed the proceedings with intrigued whispering.

You hardly recognized a single one of them, but you hadn’t expected to. Though several noblemen from the Reach were active members of King Viserys’ court, most of them came from the Houses closer to and around Oldtown. Your eyes glossed over a lot of them briefly, never situating themselves on any one of them in particular, lest you got caught staring.

But there was one amongst the crowd that caught your eye, despite your efforts. A young man, perhaps a few years your senior, stood closer to the front of the room, where the Iron Throne was situated, but along the side wall. Though he was several rows of people deep into the crowd, it was doubtful anyone could have missed him.

The young man was massive. He was tall, insanely so- perhaps that was the reason he had fixed himself towards the back of onlookers. His broad shoulders did nothing but encourage his outward appearance of a potentially looming individual. Rich brown hair adorned his head; the earthy tone was almost comforting amongst the rest of his unique and otherworldly physique.

The rumors you’d heard about the men in King’s Landing had not excluded him. And as you took in the sight of the nearly daunting man across the room, you knew in an instant who he was. One more quick glance about the room confirmed your suspicions- no one else held a candle to him. It had to be him.

Ser Harwin Strong.

Or, rather, Breakbones, as some would call him. But you tried not to think too much about how he might have earned that nickname.

Son of Master of Laws, Lord Lyonel Strong, and Heir to Harrenhal, Ser Harwin Strong was the strongest knight in all the seven kingdoms. It was said that he was able to pull a fully occupied carriage on wheels all by himself. Someone else had told you they’d heard he was single handedly able to open and close the burdensome doors to the Red Keep once, when the chains had broken. You weren’t sure whether you believed those rumors at the time you’d heard them, but looking at Ser Harwin Strong now… perhaps you ought to have given them more merit.

Before you could come to your senses and look away for propriety’s sake, you realized with mild mortification that Ser Harwin’s eyes were locked with your own. You wanted to tear your eyes from his, and keep whatever dignity you could scramble together for yourself, but something stopped you. The way his eyes entrapped yours was undeniable. They were a lovely hazel shade, by the looks of it- though it was hard to tell from across the room. You wanted to look away- and you knew you should have. There was no reason to occupy his gaze in such a manner. You hadn’t even been introduced to him.

Still, it wasn’t until your father’s guiding hand on your arm urging you forward that you finally broke eye contact with the knight.

Instead, you were met with the inquisitive gazes of the royal family.

There was King Viserys, looking fatigued but yet still present, seated upon the imposing Iron Throne.

Queen Alicent sat beside him. You recognized her almost immediately, despite the ornate gown and crown upon her head. Before she had moved to King’s Landing, she, along with her father, Lord Otto Hightower, who was seated right behind the King and Queen, had paid your father several visits over the years. And since you and Alicent were near the same age, the two of you had often been encouraged to entertain and spend time with one another. It was odd- in your youth, your station might have been considered above hers, given your father’s House. But now that Alicent was Queen, the roles had certainly been reversed. Her marriage to King Viserys had arguably created the need for this very event. Queen Alicent, once friends with Princess Rhaenyra, had almost been a lady in waiting of sorts before her marriage. But now that she was married and otherwise occupied, it had been determined that the Princess required additional assistance with her affairs.

Princess Rhaenyra was seated on the other side of the King. She looked… dare you say it, bored. You’d heard of her sharp tongue and witful rapport, and could only hope that she would choose to be merciful and spare you any difficult conversation.

“Lord Larris Tyrell of Highgarden, Defender of the Marshes, Lord Paramount of the Reach, and Warden of the South… and his daughter, the Lady Y/N Tyrell.”

Lord Hightower’s introduction echoed off the walls of the throne room, and upon hearing it, you and your father curtsy and bow respectively to your gracious hosts.

“Lord Larris,” King Viserys greeted, smiling warmly. “It has been some time since we last met, my old friend. And as for the Lady Y/N- your daughter is very lovely. She is truly the image of your late wife, if I may say so.”

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” your father replied, sparing you a glance out of the corner of his eyes. “Y/N truly is the pride of our House.”

You smiled humbly, feeling honored by your father and the King’s words, though a bit wary as to wear the conversation might turn next.

Princess Rhaenyra regarded you thoughtfully. “You look familiar, Lady Y/N- have we met before?”

You had not expected to be addressed directly by either the King or the Princess. From what you could tell, not many in the line before you had been. Your father sensed this as well; he turned to you slightly, and gave you an encouraging look.

“I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure, Princess,” you responded, still not entirely confident, though trying to fight through your nerves. “Although, I did accompany my father last year, when he swore fealty to you.”

Princess Rhaenyra’s eyes widened in mild surprise. “The journey from Highgarden to King’s Landing is quite a long one, and to make that trip twice… That must have been difficult. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Perhaps it is for some, Your Grace,” you replied carefully, not sure as to whether her phrasing was meant to trick you.

The Princess smiled softly, as if sensing your nervousness. “That is a fair point… We welcome you to the capital, just the same.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“How was the trip?” she asked politely.

You bit your tongue at first. You’d heard rumors of the Princess’ normal disposition, but knew not how true they were… But then you recalled the rumors of Ser Harwin Strong, and now that you had seen him with your own eyes, they weren’t likely to have been rumors at all… Perhaps Princess Rhaenyra would be receptive to your blunt response. It was a risk, but it was a risk worth taking.

“Well, the weather was very agreeable,” you answered. “However, the smell has not been so forgiving. But, I suppose that, with time, one grows accustomed to it.”

An eerie silence fell over the throne room then, despite the gaggle of attendees and onlookers. You knew it only to be in your mind, but you could have sworn that the stench of King’s Landing only grew stronger following your acknowledgement of it. Out of the corner of your eye, you could feel the panicked eyes of your father upon you, but you could not tear your eyes away from the King and the Princess.

King Viserys looked contemplative for a few moments. Those brief seconds felt like hours as you waited with bated breath, rapidly growing fearful that you had erred. But suddenly, the King erupted into a fit of joyful laughter. Princess Rhaenyra soon joined him, as did most everyone who was within earshot. The rest of the room continued about their hushed whispers. Queen Alicent did not look very amused.

The King’s eyes shined with mirth as he attempted to calm himself. “Very amusing- I dare say she gets that from you, Lord Larris.”

Your father laughed from beside you, but you could tell some of the laughs were still riddled with nerves.

“Well,” King Viserys said then, directly to your father, in an attempt to conclude the conversation. “It was truly nice to see you again, Friend. Perhaps we will have some time to reaqqunaint ourselves during your visit.”

“That would be most welcomed, Your Grace,” your father replied.

Taking that as your queue to leave, your father moved to bow and you to curtsy, but the pair of you were immediately stopped by Princess Rhaenyra’s inquiry.

“Lady Y/N,” she beckoned.

You froze, and after sending a subtle, wary glance to your father, you rose back to your full height and regarding her.

The Princess was looking at you through slightly narrowed eyes. However, the look was not menacing- it was more curious than anything else. “Tell me- what is a quality I should seek in my next lady in waiting?”

You knew this was a test. The audience hushing themselves as they strained to hear your response, as well as the Princess’ interested look as she regarded you, only proved your hunch as fact. Though your father might have preferred you to offer up a safe answer to appease her, you decided against it. You’d been honest thus far, it had yet to lead you astray. You conveyed as much to the Princess.

“I would recommend seeking someone honest, Your Grace.” Your eyes briefly flitted over to Lord Hightower. “Like the Hand of the King- and someday, the future Hand of the Queen- offers the King truthful, unbiased advice. So should your ladies in waiting offer you the same counsel.”

You could tell by the look on her face that your words resonated with Princess Rhaenyra. In light of this, you felt empowered to continue.

“Many of us have been conditioned from a young age to offer up solely what others wish to hear. Pretty words can do wonders to soothe worried minds. But offering up pretty words to the future Queen of Westeros at the expense of honest advice would be a detriment to the realm. A good monarch ought to seek honest counsel, and- if I may be so bold, Your Grace- you seem very inclined to do just that. It would be best then to surround yourself with those who are just as inclined to offer it to you.”

It was quiet in the throne room once again. You feared for the health of your father beside you, but you dared not to look at him just yet.

King Viserys looked tired once again, but at least he did not look angered. “Those were some wise words, My Lady.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Princess Rhaenyra looked absolutely pleased, but you weren’t sure if that was a good thing. Regardless, she said, “It was an honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Y/N Tyrell. I anticipate that you shall be hearing from me soon.”

“I look forward to it, Your Grace,” you heard yourself say, forcing yourself to finally curtsy to the royal family.

Your father quickly escorted you out of sight. Though he was not cross with you, and would never admit to as much, you could tell he was a little disappointed. He feared that your words had rubbed the royal family the wrong way, and ruined your chance.

But he would forgive you. And you could both return back to Highgarden, where no strange men roamed the halls, and the only scheming to be found was by the young children who attempted to sneak some desert from the kitchens.

As it turned out, your choice words had not rubbed the royal family the wrong way, after all.

Only a few days later, you received a letter from Princess Rhaenyra herself, formally offering you the position as one of her ladies in waiting.

Your father was thrilled. You felt humbled to have been chosen, but the goodbye you shared with him was tearful. And once your father’s carriage had disappeared from the Red Keep and out of sight into the narrow streets of King’s Landing, the fear and realization of the fact that you were truly alone for the first time in your life became all the more evident.

The following morning was the first one you were to be in the Princess’ service. You walked to her chambers swiftly, being selective about whom you made eye contact with on the way there. You were still learning names and faces, and were trying your best to decide which among those who resided within the Red Keep would one day be worthy of your trust.

You donned one of your best dresses, the fabric was in your favorite color. While you had worn a green gown during your first audience with the King and Princess, as it was one of the colors of House Tyrell, you reasoned that standing out from the crowd of your peers had more likely than not earned you your post. While green was a lovely color, wearing one of your favorite dresses was a sure way to make a statement, and give yourself the confidence boost you desired.

… Admittingly, your confidence did waiver slightly upon arriving outside the Princess’ chambers. You had expected another knight to be keeping guard- not Ser Harwin Strong.

“Lady Y/N,” he greeted, with an amused twinkle in his hazel eyes that did not go unnoticed by you.

You felt your face heat up with mild embarrassment as you recalled that you had been caught red-handed staring at him only a few days beforehand. You nodded to him politely in greeting. “Ser Harwin… I was told Ser Criston usually keeps watch here.”

“That is true,” Ser Harwin acknowledged. “But Princess Rhaenyra has tasked him with some personal business today, and I am afraid you are stuck with me instead.”

For a man named Breakbones, he was far more soft-spoken than you had ever anticipated him to be.

You cleared your throat briefly, and lowered your voice slightly, so as not to be overheard. “Ser Harwin… I wanted to apologize, for the other day. I did not mean to-”

“Worry yourself not, My Lady,” Ser Harwin dismissed politely. “I am quite used to being gawked at.”

“Gawked?” you repeated blankly. “I assure you, My Lord, I was not gawking at you! I merely…-”

You trailed off as you noted the mischievous glint in his eye. And then you realized- he was messing with you.

You frowned disapprovingly, leaving Ser Harwin no choice but to chuckle at your antics. The sound echoed off the narrow stone hallway, warming the surrounding space and your heart just the same.

“I apologize, Lady Y/N,” he said, though he was still smiling. “I mean no offense… as I have taken none from you.”

It was your turn to smile now. “Good,” you declared, relieved, but also amused by your entire conversation thus far. “I am glad to hear that.”

“I am glad you are here,” Ser Harwin admitted. “The Princess clearly has taken to you, and I have the feeling you will serve her well.”

You could tell his words were sincere. It surprised you, but you probably shouldn’t have been. The strongest knight in the seven kingdoms probably had little want or need to deceive or scheme. Ser Harwin Strong seemed like a man who wore his heart on his sleeve… and, like you had preached yourself in the throne room, you believed honesty to be an extraordinary quality in a person.

Perhaps he was one of the few amongst this strange place that could be trusted. However, only time would tell.

“Thank you, Ser Harwin.”

“You are very welcome, My Lady,” he nodded cordially. “You should also know- any friend of the Princess is a friend of my own. Should you find yourself in need of anything, or should anyone give you any trouble, I do hope you think of me. You need only ask for help, and it shall be yours.”

Another smile came to your lips at his endearing offer. You tried not to think too much about it, but you doubted the words would ever stray far from your mind.

“I will certainly keep that in mind, My Lord.”

Ser Harwin stood to attention, and looked at the door beside him. “I should not keep you any longer, I’m afraid… I wouldn’t want you to make a bad impression with the Princess on your first day.”

“And I should let you return to your post,” you agreed, though part of you felt a bit remorse that the charming conversation was coming to an end. However, you had a sneaking suspicion that this would not be the last of your conversations with the one they called Breakbones.

You turned to face the door to the Princess’ chambers, but paused right as your hand fell upon the metal handle when the knight beside you spoke one last time.

“I bid you a good day, Lady Y/N.”

“And I you, Ser Harwin.”

There were still strangers in King’s landing. And you had little doubt that there were plenty of men who roamed the Red Keep that could pose a threat to you. With your father and brother at home in the Reach, you had assumed that meant you would have to fend for yourself.

You had not anticipated finding an ally so soon. But perhaps there was safety to be found yet, amongst the likes of Ser Harwin Strong.

I’m not setting out to make this a series, but I do have a couple follow up one shot ideas, so please let me know if you’d like to see those, and if you’d like to be tagged. Thank you for reading! 🖤 

PART 2, “Captivated”, can be found HERE.

#harwin strong #harwin strong x reader #house of the dragon #ser harwin strong #ser harwin strong x reader #ser harwin #harwin strong x y/n #ser harwin strong x y/n #harwin strong x you #ser harwin strong x you #hbo #ryan corr #hotd #got #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #game of thrones fanfiction #harwin strong fanfic #harwin strong fanfiction #ser harwin strong fanfic #ser harwin strong fanfiction #ser harwin fanfic #ser harwin fanfiction

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

Everything and More

summary: The reader finds herself completely and utterly exhausted, and her husband takes care of her. Plays in the same universe as "I am his and he is mine" but can totally be read as a standalone

notes: I used my Strong!OCs names for this oneshot, but they have no connection to this story. I just love the names and decided to reuse one of them.

warnings: smut, afab!reader, dom/sub dynamics, soft!dom harwin, harwin calls reader his queen :)

tagged:  @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins @levithestripper @cookielovesbook-akie @a-beaverhousen @ilikeitbetterangsty (msg me to be added/removed to any taglist)

masterlist | based on this request

Alaric Strong had to be the babe with the largest lung capacity in the entire world. Again and again, you rocked your firstborn son, praying to the Gods that he would fall asleep. In the Westerlands, it was common to have an army of wetnurses to care for a babe, but Harwin was of the Riverlands, where even one wetnurse was not always common.

You had decided that you wanted to keep to his tradition, which meant that you had to wait another few minutes until you could hand over Alaric for the night. Truly, you loved your son with all your heart, but there was also another headaches beginning to pound away in your skull, and Harwin was always busy with the City Watch.

When the wetnurse finally did arrive, you almost feel to your knees then and there, smiling at her as she took your son out of your arms.

She told you to take a rest with a motherly smile, and you felt your eyes water from exhaustion on the spot. Still, you pushed that down and began to drag yourself to your chambers, only a few steps away.

Alaric’s cries faded in the background as you opened the door to your shared bedroom. You’d already asked the maid to run a bath for you after not having showered for a week, but as you saw the dinner that was spread out in front of you, you only sat down at the table silently.

The smell of roast, potatoes and gravy, soft bread and tomatoes filled your nose as you sat at the table. In one bowl, you spotted strawberries so red they could only have been imported from your home, the Westerlands.

As the other door to your husband’s solar opened, you dragged yourself to stand up. It was a thing of respect to greet your husband, a manner that had been hammered into you by your mother for as long as you remembered.

“My lord.” You greeted tiredly, your knees protesting as you gave a small curtsy. Harwin quickly closed the distance between the two of you, helping you sit. He took your hand, a kiss dusting your knuckles.

“My wife. My queen.” He greeted quietly.

“How was the City Watch?” you asked, beginning to assemble his plate. You knew that, in the evenings, Harwin preferred a smaller cut of meat, so you gave him a larger portion of potatoes instead. Gently, Harwin held your wrist, and you looked up at him, confused.

“Rest.” Harwin said. “I owe you an apology. I had not realised how tiring it was to take care of my son until the wetnurse almost smacked some sense into me. I am sorry, my wife, for not taking care of you earlier.”

He took the plate, making another as you liked it and handing it to you.

You barely managed your prayer before you began to eat, not having realised how hungry you’d been up until now. Harwin ate more slowly, and you could feel his eyes on you. His gaze was usually something you could read, but today, a range of emotions seemed to be hidden behind gentle brown eyes.

“Alaric is growing fast.” You said, clearing your plate. “He is healthy, and the wetnurse says he’s one of the most intelligent babes she’s ever taken care of.”

“No doubt all thanks to you.” Harwin replied with a small smile. You snorted, trying to clear the table before Harwin stopped you and did so himself.

Harwin only sighed, letting the servants carry out the remainders of dinner. As they bustled around in the room, you saw some of them returning with buckets of hot water, filling your tub to the brim. Another servant carried a small tube with expensive oil, pouring some of it into the water.

You wanted to protest, but by the time you thought you had found the courage, Harwin had already sent the servants away.

He made to help you with your dress, and you wanted to stop him again.

“I reek.” You said.

“Precisely the purpose of this bath. And even so, you do not.” Harwin assured. “You have helped me bathe after long days of patrolling Flea Bottom. Please, let me help you.”

With a sigh, you nodded, letting Harwin unlace your dress. You pulled your shift over your head quickly, sinking into the hot water with a sigh. With a man like Harwin, no one would expect gentleness from him at first glance.

You had learned to expect just that. Carefully, he unwound your hair, taking out braids and pins until the pull on it disappeared and you felt as if you could breathe normally again. You rubbed your temples in annoyance.

The hair itself was not too bad, but wearing it for an entire day was a whole other story.

Harwin was already attending to it by the time you leaned back, carefully washing your tresses before he moved on to your shoulders, working the knots out of them. You sighed in relief, smiling up at him.

Gently, Harwin kissed your cheek before he returned to work, large hands kneading your neck and shoulders, before he began working on your back.

“Thank you for this.” You mumbled, and Harwin smiled.

“Anything for my lady.” He replied.

“I thought I was your queen.” You joked, and Harwin sighed.

“Oh gods, how could I forget. My lady, my queen. The mother of my child.”

You turned around, placing your arms onto the edge of the tub and looked up at Harwin again. He knelt down at the side of the tub, until his and your face were at one height. You kissed him without hesitation, letting Harwin hold you as he always did, his arms security in an unsure world as the Red Keep.

“I was going to keep going.” Harwin whispered, but the darkness in his pupils told you he was already thinking of something else. Your smile lingered for a moment, before you turned back around, excitement growing in your belly.

“Go on then.” You said calmly, your tone almost as commanding as his sometimes was. Harwin let out a rasp of a laugh, his hands dutifully returning to your shoulders. It did not escape your notice that he let them drift lower, fingers dipping below the water and ghosting over your chest. You tried not to shiver as a thrill ran through you.

Between everything, it had been too long.

You waited, anticipating Harwin’s next move as his hands dipped under the water, shamelessly palming your breasts. There was no way in all seven hells that you could let him know the effect he was already having on you. Yet.

As tension began to gather in your stomach, you bit down on your lower lip, hands not-so-idly playing with water.

Then, you sat up straight, sweetly asking Harwin for your towel. You swore you could hear him chuckling under his breath.

“My queen.” He said dryly, holding out the fabric for you. You stood, taking it from him calmly and wrapping yourself in the towel.

“Now that will not do.” Harwin mused.

“No?”

“Not at all. You look so much more beautiful without the towel.” Harwin replied. You were sure he could see your blush, and still, you maintained your façade.

“Really?” you managed, your voice shaky.

“Yes, really. I would never lie to my queen.”

You held out your hand, Harwin steadying you as you stepped out of your bath. He adjusted your towel, pulling it a little higher as if he cared for your modesty.

“Wouldn’t want my queen to be dressed improperly.” He said. You laughed at that, holding the towel with one hand and his face with the other, kissing him with a smile. You could feel him smiling as he kissed you back, and in that moment, you felt inexplicably relieved.

Soon, the kiss turned hungry, and Harwin was guiding you away from your already cold bath and towards your shared bed.

“There’s no need for a towel.” He rasped. “No need.”

You nodded, your hand dropping from your chest and instead steadying yourself on his. Quickly, you made work of his doublet, the thick garment dropping to the floor. Harwin broke the kiss, taking his time to look at you.

Long gone were the times where you would have covered yourself, now much too comfortable to think of your insecurities. Harwin would have incessantly reminded you of how beautiful he found you anyway, and, though you loved your husband, you had no time for talk tonight.

Harwin hoisted you up, setting you down on the bed as he undid his tunic and breeches. You laughed as he kissed up your stomach, his beard tickling you.

“What is it you want, my love? Hmm?” Harwin asked as he reached your neck.

“I don’t know.” You replied mindlessly, pulling him up to kiss you.

“That will not do.” Harwin sighed. “Good queens use their words to get what they want.”

You paused for a moment, trying to think through the thick haze of your mind. Then, you smiled at him.

“Do you remember our wedding night?” you asked quietly. You remembered how Harwin had spent what had to be hours between your legs, only to make sure that you were fully comfortable with him.

“How could I forget?” Harwin replied. “Is that what you want? For me to kiss your cunt until you’re squirming?”

You nodded, smiling at him perhaps too enthusiastically, for Harwin bared his teeth in a smile you knew you’d remember later on. His mouth wandered downwards, Harwin taking his time to mark you, sucking lovebites into your breasts and onto your thighs.

Impatiently, you tried to have him where you wanted him, but Harwin simply laughed against your inner thighs, the vibration just enough to be felt. He teased you, stretching minutes into an eternity as he kissed and licked your thighs, moving just around the points of pleasure you wanted him to be at.

He wants you to break down, to beg for it like a good wife, like the good little lady he trained you to be, and you’re too desperate not to. Your thighs wrap around his head in an attempt to push him down, but your husband is the strongest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, and so, he only laughs.

“Please, Harwin.” You whine. “You promised. Please, please-“

It is little encouragement that he needs in order to return between your thighs, this time licking a stripe up your cunt that leaves you reeling. Despite what little he has done, you are ridiculously close.

His hands are everywhere, grasping yours, groping your breasts, pulling you closer, teasing you. They circle your hole, dipping inside of you carefully, almost experimentally. And then, he pushed inside of you, fingers curling up and your eyes rolled backwards, mouth open in a silent plea.

Suddenly, all the patience was gone from Harwin. It was always like this. He could control himself as long as you could, and when you lost control, truly began to squirm under him, he did not hold back any longer either. And why should he? You deserved this.

His mouth was on you in a feverish, obsessive way, Harwin licking you like he was a starving man. Before you could say anything else, he crooked his fingers up again, rubbing against that sweet spot and sucking your clit until you saw stars. The coil in your belly snapped, and you distantly heard yourself moaning his name.

Harwin did not stop, he kept going until you felt hot and the pleasure became too much.

“Please, Harwin, I can’t.” you gasped, and he paused, looking up at you.

“Already?” he laughed, his mouth back on you before you before you could answer, your nod left unseen.

“Please, Harwin, please. I need to-“ you gasped, and Harwin slowly lessened his onslaught, moving from your cunt to your thighs, until he was face to face with you again. His face glistened with your juices, and still, Harwin kissed you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You grabbed his hips in a desperation to have him buried inside you, and Harwin obliged, filling you up so quickly that it left you gasping, hands pawing at his back as he thrust forward.

“Let us make another.” He said, eyes still dark, smile still predatory. How you loved seeing him like this.

“What?” you gasped, trying to catch your breath.

“We should make a baby.” He said. “A little sister for our son. Please, my love.”

You nodded almost automatically, and Harwin let his hand wrap around the back of your neck. He kissed you hungrily, as if he hadn’t already had enough from you, but you returned his actions with equal fervour.

“Gods, how I love you.” Harwin whispered, his kisses warm on your neck.  

And when his movements became more uncoordinated, and Harwin’s hips began to stutter, you held him close, so incredibly close that it was easy to forget everything else.

“We should get married anew.” He said afterwards.

“And why is that?” you asked.

“I wouldn’t mind having this every night.” Harwin simply laughed. You felt that you were right where you needed to be.

#harwin strong #harwin strong x you #harwin strong x reader #harwin #harwin x you #harwin x reader #harwin strong x y/n #harwin strong smut #harwin strong fanfic #reader insert #x reader #harwin breakbones #harwin breakbones x you #harwin breakbones x reader #ser harwin strong #ser harwin strong x reader #ser harwin strong x you #ser harwin breakbones #ser harwin #ser harwin x you #ser harwin x reader #ser harwin breakbones x you #ser harwin breakbones x reader

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Masterlist

Hi! This is so I don't lose track of my fics so far. I thank you all for your kind reviews and reblogs, they make my day. Main is blueredwrites. Feel free to drop your thoughts be it in the form of asks, replies or reblogs. 😉

REQUESTS NOW CLOSED! SEE THE RULES HERE

What am I working on?

✨️ Indicates smut.

🪆 Indicates possibly triggering.

🍂 Indicates angst.

🧸 Fluff.

House of the Dragon

Alicent Hightower

Oneshots

Crime and Punishment ✨️🪆

The Queen and you get along wonderfully. After all, the strongest friendships are based on shared interests.

Speak now

Alicent is not too sure of how she feels about you. Or about the fact you just proposed to run away. But she is sure about how she feels about the wedding. 

Harwin Strong

Oneshots

Win some, lose some✨️

Harwin and his wife have a disagreement over communication skills. The end result is exactly as the title says.

Lemon cake ✨️

Harwin’s wife is a tough crowd.

Aemond Targaryen

Mini series

Death in four moves 🪆

Aemond and his new partner explore trusting again after SA.

Death in four moves 🧸

Whatever souls are made of 🍂🧸

MAD

Caught in the crossfire of your familiy's ploys, you never expected to catch the eye of the enemy.

Threads of fate

Oneshots

Last man on earth ✨️

No one told King Aemond about the Song of Ice and Fire. As the daughter of Rhaenyra, you have one last mission left.

Categorical✨️

Aemond needs to blow off some steam, so you offer to verbally spar with him. 

Last word ✨️

Aemond instructs you on the importance of protecting your virtue.

Push and pull ✨️

You just love riling him up. Especially on his name day.

Bouquet of Violets 🧸🍂

You are happy in your marriage, even if your husband can be quite hellish. It all starts to go wrong when a secret admirer shows up.

The Seamstress ✨️

Prince Aemond is your favorite client.

We light the way

House Hightower does not have dragons, but they have a magic of their own.

No masters or kings🪆

Aemond has issues around sex. The thought of being married to you, an angel, it's not helping.

Unforgivable

Aemond and you are tired of being pawns. Instead of chess, you decide to play draughts.

Daemon Targaryen

Oneshots

Honesty✨️

Daemon seduces his unwilling Lady Wife.

Mirror

Courting. Daemon's version.

Capital

You think you married the plainest woman on earth, and you look away for one second and suddenly she is not. Typical. At least, for Daemon.

A Thousand Words ✨️

You want to marry him. He wants to fuck you. The two things are not as incompatible as they sound. 

Violent delights 🪆

As a dornish princess, you live by one saying. All is fair in love and war. When Prince Daemon stumbles into your life, you start to reconsider your stance.

Lookalike

Inside the highest tower of the Red Keep, lives a girl with long silver hair...

Bestiary ✨️

Your husband and you do not speak the same language. During your wedding night, you find out that High Valyrian and the Common Tongue pale when compared to the way your bodies allow you to communicate.

Vūjigon ✨️

Companion piece to Bestiary. Daemon has been having sex without love his whole life. It's easy. Marriage should be more of the same, right?

The dragon has three heads ✨️

It's Viserys first day as a King. You and your twin see him off.

You wouldn't believe the things I have done for her ✨️

Daemon lives a dangerous life. You wish you could find a way to protect him, but you are too afraid of guns. Lucky you, Daemon has a plan.

Miniseries

Gold rush ✨️

Your whole life you have been Daemon’s voice of reason. Tonight, you choose to be the impulsive one. 

Little lamb✨️

After the death of Viserys Targaryen, CEO of Targaryen industries, his heirs get into a legal battle over the validity of the will. It's a terrible time to start fucking your sister's brother in law. So of course, you do just that.

Divine intuition ✨️🪆

My take on modern reader meets Daemon

Threads of Fate

Pyrite✨️

A nefarious plot to place Princess Rhaenys on the Iron Throne leaves you, a handmaid, as the sole witnesses. Deciding to save an innocent life, you find yourself an unlikely protector. But Prince Daemon does not make favors lightly.

Helaena Targaryen

Golden Chains✨️

Helaena isn't yours, but you are always hers

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Oneshots

Baby teeth

Cousins. You love them or you hate them. And Rhaenyra knows exactly how she feels about you.

Three-headed dragon ✨️

Three times Rhaenyra marked you, and one time you did too. Or snippets of the love story I so wanted to tell but didn’t feel confident enough to write.

Threads of Fate

Viserys Targaryen (Yuck)

The dragon has three heads ✨️

It's Viserys first day as a King. You and your twin see him off.

#daemon targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #daemon smut #aemond targaryen fluff

[doxypsychlean]

Hi <3

I loved everything you wrote about Aegon. Could you please write some oneshot/headcanons (you decide) in wich Reader is Rhaenyra’s daughter and Aegon always loved her since childhood but they had a enemies to lovers relationship (she is a girl just like Arya/Lyanna personality and is always teasing him). But in episode 8, she is bethroed to Aemond and he needs to say to her his feelings. You can decide the ending, thank you :)

(Sorry my bad english :/)

Quick up 📅 - I kinda forgot abt the part where she's Rhaenyra's kid. It may have slipped my mind as soon as I read Arya's name lol. Anyhoo-

The Wolf And The Dragon

Aegon II Targaryen x Stark!Reader

Oneshot

Warnings: Explicit language

Thou shan't repost/copy/ translate any of my work or I'll sneak into your home late at night and bite your nose off! Maybe indulge in a battle to the death with your sweet ol' granny. Probably steal your beloved pet.

English isn't my first language. I don't proofread. I slap commas wherever I feel they're needed.

A/N: It's kinda long ngl, but sickeningly sweet! Oh, yeah. Aegon isn't married to Helaena in this one. For my own sake, she's with her loving husband, Lord Sth-Sth of Sth-Sth. Cheers!

One of her father's men was dragging the young lady through the training grounds as the boys trained with Ser Criston and Ser Harwin. They all stopped to stare at her and the knight. She was biting, scratching and kicking at him.

"What do you care?! Seven Hells, let go!"

The man stopped and grabbed her by her small shoulders. He'd had enough of the little lady's antics for one day. He shook her as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Child, I've been there for all your life, I won't stand to watch you try and get yourself killed." The knight's face was turning red with anger. "You're of one and ten, you can't be walking around the capital without anyone to keep you safe! Do you realize what could have happened?!"

"Fuck. You." The girl hissed as she stomped down on the man's foot and spat in his eyes. She bolted, the man following close behind, while still trying to wipe the spit from his eyes.

"You wild beast, get back here!"

"She truly is a beast..." Aegon whispered to his brother and nephews as they all watched the knight tackle the kid to the ground.

"Ser Karstark, don't you think that's enough!" Harwin yelled out.

"Oh, want to come and deal with this thing yourself, Breakbones? It's not as easy as I make it look." Ser Brennard Karstark choked on his last few words, a small elbow slamming into his neck.

The girl got back on her feet, making a run for it once more.

On the next day, Ser Karstark was dragged the girl in the opposite direction, towards the training grounds this time. He was sporting a big purple bruise on his neck.

"I've told you so many times now, cub. You want to train, fine! I'll teach you! But picking attacking the guards is not the way to do it!"

The little lady only huffed in response as she reached down to her blade. She turned her head to the side, then struck.

Ser Karstark took a step back, the tip of the dagger almost making contact with his face.

"It is customary to wait for your opponent to bear arms before you try and chop his head off, wildling."

"As if anyone would wait for me."

She struck again, the knight dodging once more. Lady Stark circled around her opponent, her small eyes sizing him up.

To everyone's shock, the knight actually swung at her with his sword. The girl fell to the side as she rolled over, her silk tunic now covered in dirt.

"Good, good!" The knight nodded before he swung sideways.

She lowered her head, the blade of his sword passing right above it.

"Don't stay close to the ground for too long, cub..." Brennard warned as his took ahold of his sword with both hands. "The enemy will catch up on it eventually. And maybe do this!"

He yelled out as he put his whole strength into trying to lodge the sword into the girl's skull. She got back up. Her dagger was quick to find its target, slicing the knight's hand open.

Brennard looked at the blood that was spilling out of his hand, then at her.

"You play dirty, girl..."

"I do not wish to fight with honor when I can just do this."

Her small fist was now aiming for Brennard's nose. He let go of his sword, leaving it to stand there with the tip lodged into the ground below their feet. He caught her small hand by the wrist and punched her instead. The girl fell on her back, head slamming into the ground.

"Karstark!" Both Criston and Harwin yelled out, making their way towards the student and her teacher.

"Stand back! She wants to fight, so she'll fight!" Brennard yelled in return."Get up!"

Lady Stark jumped to her feet, eyes narrowing as she wiped the blood from her mouth. She used the moment to tackle her opponent to the ground.

"Finish the job." Brennard whispered to the child. "Do not let your enemies walk away. Do it!"

The girl's fingers found their way around the dagger that was hanging on the knight's side. She pulled it out and put it to his throat. The child was smiling down at him, eyes glowing.

"I win?"

Brennard laughed out as his hand ruffled through the short locks of hair on her head.

"You win! We'll make a fine soldier out of you, you'll see."

The two got up, each sporting a warm smile.

"Ya promise?"

Brennard nodded his head.

"But your training is not over yet." He turned to look at the two knights that stood close behind him. "We've seen you can tackle a grown man down to the dirt, but how will you manage with someone closer to your age and speed? Perhaps you should go against one of the young princes?"

Criston nodded. Him and Harwin went back to the boys.

"Prince Aegon against lady Stark then." He said as he motioned for the boy to take a step forward.

Aegon didn't move an inch towards the younger girl that was now staring at him with a devilish grin on her face. She scared him. She fought dirty and wasn't scared to take a blow to the face, even when it came from a grown man that was thrice her size. The girl didn't stand above stealing her enemy's weapon and using it against them either. On the contrary, if it were a real threat in front of her, she would have sliced the man's throat. The young prince realized everything he'd learned from both Ser Criston and Ser Harwin was useless against someone like her. Aegon had only heard of tales of the northmen, of their cold hearts and brutal ways. But now there was one in front of him. A child of winter and ice. A ball of rage with unruly, short hair. If Aegon didn't know her already, he would've thought it was a boy that stood in front of him.

There were no lavish dresses for her. No needlework. No singing. She was dirty nails. Unkempt hair. Grime. Blood. Sweat. Dirt. Adventure. Flying arrows. Hiss of daggers. Clash of swords.

"Ye fighting or what, aye? Don't have a whole day to wait ye." Her strong accent came through. She'd gone over and picked her weapon back up. The girl was waiting for the prince to come back to his senses, foot tapping impatiently as she twisted and turned the blade in her hand.

The fight was over pretty soon. The lady had knocked her prince down, elbow to his face. Ser Brennard knew what was going to happen, but made no move to stop his student. She broke his nose with that hit.

"I'd say ya fight like a girl, but... ya know..." She shrugged her shoulders at him as Karstark dragged her away with a proud smile on his face.

Eight years later Aegon had grown into a handsome young man. He'd grown into his soft features. His pale blue eyes stared at his feet, as kicked at some small rocks. Short strands of silver-white hair framed his face perfectly. He kept his hair on the shorter side. It was easier to manage.

Him and his brother stood next to the wide open gates that led into the castle's grounds. Aemond, unlike his older brother, had his hands folded neatly behind his back, waiting patiently.

"I don't understand, why did mother have to send us..."

Aemond nodded his head, signaling to his brother to look ahead. A group of sturdy looking men, covered in steel from head to toe, were coming fast towards them. At the front,just a few feet in away from the rest, a hooded rider. The jet black stallion this mysterious person was riding held its head high. The stomping of the horse's hooves had stopped.

"Prince Aemond! Prince Aegon!" A melodious, yet strong voice rang from underneath the hood.

"Lady Stark." Aemond greeted. "Welcome to the capital!"

The stranger hopped down from the horse and took their hood off. Aegon stared at her slack-jawed. There, in front of him, stood the most magnificent creature that had ever walked the earth. Porcelain skin w a scar here and there she'd most definitely got in battle. Sharp features, almost as sharp as the sword she had on her. Two big, bright eyes that shined with laughter. The only thing that reminded of the girl she once was, was her short dark hair. And her clothing. She'd never been the one to wear dresses. That hadn't changed either. Her long legs were covered in threadbare black pants that matched with her black tunic and boots.

"I trust your journey was pleasant?" Aemond asked out of politeness.

A short "aye" left her full lips, eyes trained on Aegon.

"Yer nose healed well, me Prince. Though it would seem there's something wrong with yer jaw..." She pointed towards his face, calloused fingers showing from underneath the sleeve. Her northern accent made a shiver run down Aegon's spine.

He couldn't bring himself to say something, the words refusing to leave his mouth. He nodded with a faint smile.

"Shall we?" Aemond's voice could be heard again.

"If ye don't mind, me and me men had spent long time on the road without a good challenge. We need a good fight"

Her men had jumped from their horses too, now waiting for their lady. Ser Brennard Karstark was standing next to her.

"Training grounds are that way, aye?" She nodded to the left, her eyes never leaving the older brother.

"Right, let's get ye to the stables, big boy." She finally looked away as she turned towards the stallion and ran a hand through his black mane.

Lady Stark handed the reins to the stable boy that had approached her with a soft smile and a nod of her head. The lad melted at the sight, tripping over his feet as he walked away.

"Ye two comin'?"

The woman walked away, her father's bannermen following close behind.

"Would love some audience while I kick this old bastard's arse to the ground." She pointed towards Ser Karstark as she and her men laughed.

"We'll see about that, Young Wolf." Ser Brennard said, even though he knew that was going to be the most likely outcome.

Two weeks had passed since lady Stark had arrived to the capital. For Aegon, it felt like it was years ago. They'd been spending most of their time together, much to the Queen's dismay. At least they had the decency to drag Aemond along.

On the first night in the capital, the young woman suggested they go for a drink. When the second born son of Viserys the Peaceful suggested they stay in the Red Keep, both Aegon and her laughed in his face.

They snuck out of the castle later that night in search of a tavern. Aegon, being a frequent visitor to most of them, made the choice.

Soon after they'd entered the establishment, lady Stark challenged them to a bet, saying she'd drink them both under the table. Aemond, being Aemond, refused. Aegon accepted almost immediately.

He was in shock. The woman that sat in front of him was perfect. She cursed like a sailor. Told all the dirty jokes she could think of. Even challenged some stranger to a fist fight to celebrate her winning the bet. The Young Wolf didn't even bother to take his hundred gold dragons she'd won fair and square, but instead slapped his hand away.

"It's not about the money, me Prince!" She laughed out as she punched the stranger square in the jaw. "It's the thrill!"

The three returned back to the castle only when the light of the sun had started to bounce off the waters of Blackwater Bay. Aemond walked in front of them, impatient to get as far away from the two drunk idiots. They walked with a slow pace, hands thrown over eachother's shoulder and words slurring.

"One of them cods got ya good, me Prince, no offense meant" She said to Aegon with a grin. "If it weren't for me, that arse would'a split yer head open."

"Good thing you were around to save me then, my fair lady..." Aegon responded. He came to a sudden stop, his face contorting in agony. His hand unwrapped from the woman's shoulders as he bent forward and let out all he'd consumed right where they stood.

Instead of cringing in disgust, the Stark laughed hard, tears pricking at her eyes. She ran a hand through her short hair.

"Now from that yer knight in shinin' armor can't save ye, I am sorry."

Aemond grabbed his brother by the scruff, pulling him back up.

"We'll get caught with all the noise you're making, we have to go. My lady..." He looked at her, hoping at least one sober thought would make its way back into her head.

The Young Wolf howled again, hand patting Aegon on the back as he choked.

"What got yer knickers in a twist, hm? We've got all the time in the world."

" 'Tis but the truth!" Aegon said through coughs. "Do not worry, brother. I'll escort my, how did you say it...Ah, yes! Knight in shining armor back to her chambers."

Aemond didn't need to hear much else. He turned his back to them abruptly and left. The two snickered as they watched him walk away.

"Yer brother-" The woman threw her hand back over his shoulders as they began walking once more.

"Tell me about it." Aegon interrupted, doing the same as her.

After a detour that led them to the Kitchen Keep where they stuffed their faces with whatever was left from the dinner, Prince Aegon and lady Stark made their way towards her chambers. He'd promised to escort his savior back and he intended to do it.

As they neared the door, Aegon stopped her.

"This was the most fun I've had in a long while. Thank you, my lady."

"Aye, same here. Hanging around those old farts ain't as fun as it may look." She snorted.

The two laughed once more, then she dissappeared into her chambers, ready to sleep off the remainder of the day.

Aegon felt the same. He flopped down on his bed the second he found himself close enough to do it without smacking his head in the floor.

The same thing repeated the next day. Except Aemond wasn't with them. As the good prince he was, he'd ran to tell his mother about what his older brother and the lady Stak were busying themselves with.

The lady found herself sitting between the two brothers on that feast. She'd pulled her chair as close as possible to Aegon. On their last "walk" around the capital, she'd introduced him to the Skull and Dice game. The two now sat close to eachother, whisper-shouting the word "skull" as they rolled the dice and drank from their cups.

Aegon's grandsire and Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, was sitting across them. He smiled softly. The two were perfect for eachother. They shared the same interests- be it in books, hobbies or drinks. Why his daughter refused to give her oldest to the Young Wolf, he had no clue. She came from a great house, was trained in battle and proved to be quite intelligent, from what he'd heard her say. Sure, she liked drinking and venturing out of the Red Keep, and would also pick fights left and right. But so did his grandson.

Otto had come to the realization that the woman that sat next to his grandson was the way she was, not because she got to grow up in a castle where servants tended to each and every need of hers, but because she was raised amongst soldiers. Something her father had made sure of, once he agreed with the fact he won't be getting a proper lady out of her. The soldiers' ways had simply rubbed off on her.

Another thing that Otto had come to realize was how observant lady Stark was. She could be laughing and telling jokes, enjoying herself and her youth, but her trained eyes and ears were always turned to what was going on around her. She was a true northerner- rough and savage, but also loyal to the core and honorable. She'd be the perfect match for Aegon. If only his daughter would come to listen...

"This is an occasion for celebration, it seems." Everyone's attention turned to the King. His gold mask was shimmering in the light of the candles as he spoke. "My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena..."

Viserys turned to face his second son, eyes darting to his first one and the Stark girl. He could sense it, all Hells were about to break loose with next couple of words.

"And my son, Aemond, will marry lady Stark, further strengthening the bond between our houses. A toast to the young Princes..."

They all raised their cups, except the silver haired man and the woman that was sitting next to him.

"Hear, hear!" Came from the Prince Daemon as he turned to smile at his brother.

Aegon didn't hear him. He was now staring at the Young Wolf, silently asking if what his father had said was true.

"If you'd excuse me!" He damn near shouted, eyes trained on Aemond, who in turn was staring in shock at their mother. Unlike Aegon, he knew a third betrothal would be announced on this feast. What he didn't know was that he'll be the one marrying the Stark.

"Aegon! Come back!" Alicent yelled after him, ready to follow.

"Don't, me Queen. I'll bring him back."

"Did you know?"

The halls were silent, all that could be heard were the muffled, hushed voices of his family, as the lot tried to listen in on the conversation.

"Did you know about it?!"

The woman stomped her booth on the ground, the sword that was hanging on her side shaking with the intensity. It was a warning for the prince to lower his voice.

"Aye, my father sent me for a reason. I didn't know I'd be marrying yer brother though..."

The young woman had shut the doors as she made her way out and into the corridors. There was no point, the whole room was now sitting in silence, listening on Aegon scream his lungs out.

"You can't!You won't!" The prince yelled out.

"Oh, what do ya care? Yer not the one gettin' tied down against yer will! Yer free to do as ye wish!" She said, her voice booming over his.

"So you don't want to marry him?"

"Are ye fuckin' jokin' , Aegon, yer brother is a twat and a half!"

Inside the room, Daemon could be heard laughing without shame. Aemond's jaw clenched, his smirk dissappearing as he stood up. Rhaenyra slapped her husband's arm, even though she herself was sporting a smile.

"Then don't fucking do it!"

"And what am I supposed to do, huh? Get back in there and tell yer father, my King, that I don't approve? That I, the daughter of the man that had sworn an oath to him, will not do as I'm commanded?"

"You and your oaths and orders... Is your pride so important that you'll willingly go against what your heart desires?!"

"Pride?" The word came out as growl." If it were for me pride, I wouldn't even be here. But I gave a word to me father and did as I was told... And what do ya, ye spoiled cod, know of what me heart desires? Hm?!"

"I know I've come to love you. Just as you have." Aegon took her hands in his, soft thumb rubbing over her rough skin. "I know that I love spending time with you. Just as you do."

Silence fell upon the halls once more as the prince thought of his next words.

"I've never met someone like you before. Someone that is so...me. You like to drink, you curse, you fight. You know all the dirty jokes and all drinking games. And even with all that, you know when to put an end to it, even if you don't want to. You're not afraid to sock me in the face when you know I'm being an arse. Or drag me all the way to the small council meetings, so I could fulfill my princely duties. Sit with me through those never-ending history lessons, even though you'd rather go outside and train. You keep me grounded. You always know what to do. You always know what is right. I'd like to think that I, for once, know too. It's you. But if you insist on carrying out this order..."

His hands reached for her face.

"Marry me instead. You came here to a marry a dragon, right? There's one in front of you right now. Begging, pleading for you to take him."

Silence. Again. Aegon searched for her eyes, searched for an answer in them. But found nothing. He sighed heavily, hands falling to his sides. The prince walked around her, head hanging low in embarrassment. He reached for the door handles, ready to get back inside and drink himself into a stupor. Or untill the high-pitched ringing in his ears went away.

"Ye sure talk a lot... It's a good thing though, I won't have to waste my breath no more...with ya around."

Their eyes met.

"What? Ye plan on standin' there all night?"

The doors swung open before Aegon could reach her. He turned back around, his eyes meeting those of his father.

"Or both of you could just come back inside and sit down? Your King is to make a new toast..."

Rough fingers wrapped around Aegon's. She was standing right there, next to him. He looked up from their intertwined hands. A toothy smile had found its way on his future wife's face.

"As me King commands..."

Viserys turned his back to them as he slowly made his way to his seat. The two followed close behind.

"We're finishing the game, right?" Aegon whispered to her.

"Go find the dice, ye threw it as ya stormed out." She laughed quietly.

The Wolf and her Dragon entered the room once more, hand in hand.

#aegon ii x reader #stark!reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon the second #hotd fanfic #dance of dragons #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #hotd #game of thrones #daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #lucerys targaryen #baela targaryen #rhaena targaryen #accepting requests #requests open

[frankcastleonlyfans]

Hey! could you elaborate this part of 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄 Part 1 "Daemon would teach them to befriended with the Velaryon boys, and pick on Alicent's kin." in an imagine/oneshot, please?

I personally loved this drabble. I wanted a chance to work on Daemon's "questionable" side, because we know that there's no good people in the asoiaf universe, and this is it. Anyway, I know this is not what you wanted but I hope you like it 💓 Here's Daemon Targaryen freely bullying children:

this happens months before aemond loses his eye.

Daemon noticed how close to the greens his children started to become, and it bothered him. He knew they were just children and wouldn't be seeing evil in someone's actions, but he also knew better, and Alicent's children are not to be trusted.

Alyssa played with Aegon more than she should to her father's liking. In fact, she shouldn't be playing with him at all, just like she promised Daemon, years ago. Aegon had charisma, and that was dangerous. Daemon's kids were easily fooled by his nephew's sense of humor. Fortunately, he never had to worry about Aemond, who was too introverted — and an asshole — to play with anyone but his sister Helaena.

Rhaenyra would be staying in King's Landing for a while, and Daemon thought it was the perfect chance to make his kids see Alicent's kin with other eyes. And Jacaerys and Lucerys absolutely adored their uncle. They thought uncle Daemon was fun, and had many things to learn from him. They looked at Daemon with the same admiration they had for Ser Harwin.

So he gathered the boys on the training yard, where was expected of Ser Criston to teach them all. Daemon thought it was a good idea to be their instructor for the day. There was no one to supervise him, and he'd the one supervising the children. Torment the green boys would be a piece of cake.

"Aegon, you're the oldest between them." Daemon stated, "So take your sword and try to attack me."

Aegon looked around, searching for someone.

"Wait, are you talking to me?" The teenager questioned, frowning.

Daemon snorted, "I don't know, Aegon. Am I?"

Daemon attacked the boy without giving him time to think, just act. Aegon's sword blocked the move.

"Nice move. To think you can actually do something right, and not be completely useless like your brother," Daemon teased, looking directly to Aemond.

The elder prince moved again, attacking the boy-prince quickly this time. Aegon couldn't defend himself, so he fell on the ground before letting himself be lacerated by Darksister's blade.

"Too soon. You're just as useless as your brother. Jacaerys, come here and show him how it's done."

"Yes, uncle." Jace stepped forward, smirking, and looking at Aegon fallen in the ground.

Daemon's strategy was based on humiliating the green boys, and inflate his boys' ego. Once they thought they were better than Aegon and Aemond, they'd start bullying them. It was for the best.

So he took easy on Jace and Luke. Both of them were pretty strong in their moves, and Daemon was quite impressed by the precision of their strikes. They were just children, so of course if he wanted to, he could knock them out effortlessly. But they were having fun, and actually learning something. Luke swiftly improved his base, and Jace discovered he was better using his body in combat than sword fighting.

"Rhaegon, Aemond, I want you against each other." Daemon declared.

Daemon knew what he was doing. He knew the envy, the hatred, the bitterness inside Aemond's chest, something that could be simply triggered in Rhaegon's presence. Aemond would try his hardest to harm the prince's son, but the Rogue Prince knew that Rhaegon would do anything to impress his father.

Aemond and Rhaegon shared the same age, thirteen years old. Rhaegon could be taller than the other prince, but Aemond was experienced in melee combat, and was really good for a kid at his age.

"The first one to fall on the ground or disarm the opponent, loses." Daemon stated.

Aegon chuckled, "Don't embarass me, Aemond."

"More than you already embarrassed yourself? I couldn't." Aemond rolled his eyes and picked up his sword.

"You got this." Jace said to his cousin, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance.

"Go for his legs." Luke suggested, "I'm sure you're faster than him."

Daemon observed the boys interacting between themselves, the difference was obvious.

The dispute started at his command. Rhaegon attacked first, but Aemond blocked and used his weight against the other boy. Their lilac eyes met as their swords crashed, and Aemond howled, kicking the other prince away. Rhaegon almost lost his balance, but his feet danced, spinning across the ground, and he posed balacing his weight in his estructure.

"Are we dancing now?" Aemond mocked.

"Oh, shut up. You couldn't dance if you wanted to. You can't do anything right, can you?" Rhaegon teased, his sword swung in his hands, aiming for the other prince's legs, "I bet Alyssa could knock you out."

Aemond groaned loudly, constantly attacking and being blocked, until Rhaegon's back met a wall and Aemond had him cornered.

"Trying to impress daddy, aren't ya? You're reckless just like him." Aemond said between gritted teeth

"At least my father knows my name." Rhaegon passed under the Aemond's high attack and pushed his back, making the prince fall.

Daemon proudly watched the Velaryon boys celebrating his son's victory. Aegon mocked his own brother fallen on the ground, and Aemond burned in anger. The seed of chaos had been planted, his work there was done.

#dad!daemon targaryen au #dad!daemon targaryen x mom!reader au #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen imagines #daemon targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x oc #house of the dragon imagines