LOVED your valarr x reader fic its just chefs kiss🤌 i loved the concept of the characters and your writing, so im here to humbly ask if you would be interested on making a pt2. maybe with valarr being pressed by his father to hurry and get married while his dealing with his desire for his cousin, and reader whos also being close to be betrothed to some lord (against her will) and has her jealousy for valarr only increasing because of him not taking her as a wife option despite their love for each other. you made valarr very mr.right and reader very jealous so would be nice to take some agnst out of it!! (or not idk if you write agnst sorry if you dont) but in the end they get married anyways and have a very loving birds sexy delicious freaky oh la la mamacita night of consummation. ANYWAYS, sorry if it sounds confunsing and silly, english’s not my first language and thats the first time i make a request. all okay if you dont feel like it though! kisses kisses 🦭🦭
Sure but since this is kinda long it'll take a long time...
A/N: It's been a LONGGG time since I last wrote smut so... 🤪✌️
You, eldest daughter of Prince Maekar, had been taught composure before you were taught letters.
A princess does not frown in public.
A princess does not betray temper.
A princess does not begrudge a harmless ceremony.
So when your cousin, Valarr, rode beneath the banners and halted before the stands, you kept your chin high.
The tourney field shimmered in the afternoon light — steel flashing, silk snapping in the wind, the roar of the crowd rising and falling like a tide. Knights had bled for that moment. Horses had thundered. Lances had shattered.
And then he dismounted.
He did not look at you at first.
He took the laurel crown — pale blossoms woven with careful hands — and crossed the grass toward Lady Gwin Ashford. The court leaned forward as one body. The gesture was expected. Political, even. The Ashfords were well-placed. Well-funded. And it was her birthday.
Well-suited.
You told yourself it meant nothing.
Yet something sharp and unseemly tightened low in your chest as he lifted the crown and set it gently upon the lady’s dark hair. His fingers lingered — not long enough to be scandalous, but long enough to be noticed.
You watched the way he bowed to her. The way he smiled — courteous, distant. A prince every inch. A future king in the making.
And still, beneath the silk of your sleeves, your nails pressed crescents into your palms.
You and Valarr had both come of age this year. The court buzzed with speculation. Alliances. Betrothals. Lineages to be strengthened. Lords brought daughters in brighter gowns; mothers assessed you with calculating eyes.
He declined them all with quiet firmness.
“I would sharpen my sword before I take a wife,” he would say. “There is enough time for marriage.”
They praised his discipline. His focus. His restraint. They did not know that his discipline faltered only behind locked doors.
They did not know that his hands, steady on a lance, were far less restrained when they found your waist in the dark. That the prince who refused every maiden at court knew the path to your bedchamber without a torch, without hesitation. They did not know how his voice changed when he spoke your name alone.
And as the tourney ended and the crowd began to thin, he finally looked toward the stands — toward you.
Lady Gwin Ashford wore the crown of beauty and love.
But you wore something far more dangerous.
Later that night, when the noise of the feast had dulled into distant laughter and clinking cups, Valarr walked the quiet corridor toward his chambers.
He should have kept walking.
Your door stood slightly ajar. No guards. No attendants. A sliver of candlelight spilling across the stone floor like an invitation.
He hesitated only a breath before stepping inside.
The room was warm, heavy with the scent of roses and melted wax. Your outer gowns had been discarded with careless elegance — silk draped over a chair, laces undone and trailing. You stood near the edge of your bed, hair loose, jewels gone, clad only in a thin white underdress that caught the candlelight and softened every line of you.
It was not the first time he had seen you thus.
It did nothing to steady him.
Color rose immediately to his cheeks, spreading down his throat. His gaze dropped to the floor as though the stones were suddenly fascinating.
“Cousin,” you greeted, voice smooth — not surprised in the least.
His pulse stumbled.
“I— forgive me,” he murmured quickly, already turning toward the door. “I did not mean to intrude.”
You crossed the distance before he could take a full step.
Your arms slid around his waist from behind, your body pressing lightly — deliberately — to his back. He stiffened, breath catching, hands hovering uselessly at his sides.
“Do not leave,” you said softly. “I have not dismissed you yet.”
Not a plea.
A command.
He exhaled slowly, surrendering already settling into his shoulders.
“You crowned her,” you continued, lips close to his ear. “Lady Gwin Ashford. The Queen of Beauty and Love. So you want to leave me to join her, then?”
“It was expected of me,” he answered, almost too quickly. “It meant nothing.”
You tightened your hold, fingers spreading over his stomach. Through layers of fabric you could feel the tension coiled there, the way he leaned back into you despite himself.
“Nothing?” you echoed.
He shook his head.
You moved around him then. His eyes lifted, hesitant, searching, and then dropped again to your throat, the delicate line of your collarbone visible beneath the thin fabric.
He looked like a prince before the court all day.
Here, he looked like a boy awaiting judgment.
“You do not look at anyone else the way you look at me,” you said quietly.
He swallowed.
“No,” he admitted.
There was no defiance in him. No attempt to wrest control. Only that steady, almost reverent devotion that made your possessiveness coil warmer instead of sharper.
You reached for his chin, tilting his face up until he had no choice but to meet your gaze.
“And whose chamber do you return to,” you asked, voice low, “after you place crowns upon other women?”
His breath trembled slightly.
“Yours.”
The answer was immediate. Certain.
Your thumb brushed along his jaw, feeling the heat there. He leaned into the touch without thinking, submissive in the smallest, most telling ways.
He had refused every maiden presented to him. He had bowed to expectations, to politics, to appearances. But here, in the privacy of your candlelit chamber, he waited for your approval like a knight kneeling before his sovereign.
And you smiled, slow and dangerous, knowing full well that whatever crown he offered the realm—
“Such an obedient boy, are you not?” You chuckled quietly.
He did not answer at once.
His eyes were unfocused — not from wine, but from you. Heavy-lidded, darkened, fixed on the slow rise and fall of your chest as though it were the only thing tethering him to the present.
You tilted your head.
Silence did not suit him.
Your fingers caught his chin, but instead of lifting it gently, you gave his cheek a light, sharp slap.
Not enough to harm.
Enough to command.
“Answer me, Valarr.”
The sound seemed to jolt through him. A flush bloomed where your palm had touched, heat spreading beneath his skin. His lips parted; his breath came uneven.
“Yes,” he managed, voice smaller than it had ever been on the tourney field.
That obedience — immediate, instinctive — sent something molten through you.
You stepped into him and pushed.
He fell back onto the bed without resistance, boots barely clearing the carved frame before he landed against the sheets. His hands instinctively reached for your waist, but they did not grip — they hovered, uncertain, waiting for permission.
You did not give it.
You climbed onto his lap, straddling him with deliberate slowness, your underdress riding higher as you settled. The thin fabric did little to hide the warmth of your body pressing against him. You could feel the sharp inhale he tried — and failed — to swallow.
“I warned you,” you murmured.
Your hands slid into his hair, and you kissed him — not sweetly, not cautiously, but with possession. Your mouth claimed his, demanding, teeth grazing just enough to make him gasp into you.
He made a soft sound in the back of his throat — a broken, helpless whimper he could never have imagined uttering before anyone else.
You rolled your hips slowly against him.
The friction drew another tremor from him. His fingers finally dared to touch you, clutching at your hips as though anchoring himself, but even then there was restraint in it — a silent question.
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
“Did you enjoy crowning her?” you asked softly.
His head shook at once. “No.”
You pressed down more firmly, grinding in a way that made his breath stutter again.
“Who do you kneel for, future prince of Dragonstone?” you asked.
His eyes fluttered shut. “You.”
There it was. Devotion.
Your lips curved.
You leaned down once more, kissing him slower now — deeper — letting him melt beneath you as you set the rhythm. Each movement drew another quiet sound from him, his composure unraveling thread by thread under your touch. Beneath you, he wore nothing but want.
You did not give him time to think.
Your hands worked quickly at his breeches, pushing fabric aside until the last barrier between you was gone. The sight of him— flushed, breath unsteady, entirely at your mercy — made something dark and pleased curl inside you.
When your thigh brushed against his cock, he gasped sharply, hips twitching at even that small contact.
“Please…” he breathed, fingers tightening against your leg as though afraid you might pull away.
You laughed softly — not cruel, but indulgent.
“So undone already, my prince?”
You guided yourself over him slowly, deliberately, watching every flicker of his expression as you lowered your body. The moment you took him fully, a broken sound escaped both of you — his head falling back against the pillows, your nails pressing into his chest for balance.
“So tight…” he muttered, voice shaking. “Please…”
“You feel so good, so big,” you whispered, leaning forward until your foreheads nearly touched.
He tried to move, instinct taking over, but you pressed a hand firmly to his shoulder and kept him there.
“Stay,” you ordered quietly. “Be good.”
He swallowed hard, nodding.
“I’m good,” he said at once, breath catching as you began to move. “I’m good for you.”
The praise in his tone — the need for approval — made you roll your hips slower at first, savoring the way his composure unraveled. Each motion drew another soft, helpless sound from him. His hands gripped the sheets instead of you, as though even touching without permission felt too bold.
You increased the rhythm, steady and controlled, keeping him exactly where you wanted him. His restraint trembled under your pace; every time he started to lift his hips, he stopped himself.
“Look at you,” you murmured, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “So obedient. You like this don’t you? Love being so submissive…”
His eyes were glassy now, lips parted, completely surrendered, head nodding frantically.
“Please,” he begged again, softer this time, desperation creeping in. “I— I want—”
You slowed suddenly, making him gasp in frustration.
“What do you want?” you asked, voice low and deliberate.
His fingers twitched against the sheets.
“I want to finish,” he admitted, flushed deeper than before. “Please. I want to cum.”
You studied him for a long moment — the prince who had stood so composed before the realm, now undone beneath you.
“Yeah? You want to fill my womb?” You bit a sensitive spot on his neck. He nodded frantically, still in a haze of pleasure.
“A good boy waits,” you said quietly. “And good boys ask properly.”
His throat worked as he tried to steady himself under your slow, teasing movements.
“Please,” he whispered again, eyes fixed on yours this time.
And the power of his surrender made your smile soften just slightly before you leaned down to kiss him again, deciding how long you intended to make your prince beg.
You chased your own pleasure, “So good…”
He moaned at the feeling of your insides pumping his cock. He could not control himself but fuck his hips up into you to chase his own. In a short period of time, you both arrive at your peaks.
He moaned your name loudly as he filled you up with his thick seed.
“Fuck you came so hard,” you chuckled, breathing heavily.
Both of you laid down, mind hazed.
Afterward, the storm passed as suddenly as it had risen.
The candles had burned lower. Wax pooled along their bases, shadows stretching long and unsteady across the chamber walls.
You lay beside him, both of you breathing slowly now, the earlier tension melted into something heavier, quieter. The air felt thick — warm with the aftermath, scented faintly of sweat and crushed roses.
Valarr stared up at the canopy for a moment, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven pulls. His hand found yours almost absentmindedly, fingers lacing through as though he needed the reassurance of contact.
His mind felt distant. Hazy. Not from wine — but from the way you had taken control of him so completely.
You shifted closer, resting your head against his shoulder. The earlier sharpness in you had softened; your thumb traced slow, idle patterns along his skin.
He turned his face slightly toward you.
“Are you well?” you asked quietly, voice no longer teasing.
Summary: the continuing part of this part, with Baelor comforting his little sister.
Warnings: I miss Baelor, no use of name but pronouns are she/her, kinda emotional ngl just because I miss Baelor sm, cursing, implied Valarr x reader.
A/N: I guess this will be my last section posted on Tumblr, or I'll sometimes post small sections of the fic also!
When they returned to Ashford Castle, the torches along the walls burned low and tired, much like everyone within them.
Baelor did not need to raise his voice. He grabbed her chin and inspected her hair and face.
“You’re trouble,” he mumbled. “Go wash the coal from your hair,” he told her evenly. He had always been that person who took care of his siblings as if they were his children. He treated her with respect, still; hell, he treated everyone right despite their age or their social status.
She inclined her head and obeyed without protest. Aerion stalked ahead of them, jaw tight, one hand pressed to his bruised mouth. Aegon trailed behind, sulking and stubborn in equal measure.
It did not take long before a summons came.
The meeting chamber was already lit when she entered. A long oak table dominated the room, candles guttering down its center. Nearly every seat was filled.
Baelor sat at the head, a book open before him though he was no longer reading. At his right was Maekar, who looked as though patience had abandoned him hours ago and was personally offended by that day’s events. Lord Ashford sat stiff-backed beside them, deeply uncomfortable to be hosting such domestic chaos.
On Maekar’s other side was an empty chair.
Hers, she supposed.
She noted, too, the arrangement of her nephews: Daeron across the table, still faintly smelling of wine despite whatever efforts had been made to sober him; Aerion glowering; Aegon with arms crossed and scalp freshly exposed; and Valarr seated straight-backed, composed like his father, though irritation flickered faintly in his eyes at being dragged into this disaster.
She curtsied lightly. “Good evening.”
No one returned the pleasantry.
She slid into her seat beside Maekar.
“Wish you well, brother,” she murmured. “I see you have gathered all your sons.”
Maekar snorted. “Found Daeron fucking stinking of ale in some southern inn, and the other one with no hair left on his head and wore like a dirty stableboy.” His glare swept across the offending boys.
Baelor closed his book and folded his hands atop it.
“Shall we begin with Daeron?” he asked calmly.
Daeron shrugged, still hazy though less so than before, after his father splashed barrels of ice water on his face. “I did not wish to join the tourney. So I left.”
“With your fucking brother?” Maekar demanded.
“He was meant to squire for me!” Daeron shot back.
“Squire my arse,” Maekar snapped.
Baelor exhaled slowly. “Enough. Let him finish, brother. Daeron—what occurred? And why is Aegon attached to a hedge knight?”
“Hedge knight?” Daeron scoffed lazily. “I know nothing of that, uncle. When I woke, my brother had been taken by some giant.”
“You are lying!” Aegon burst out. “He lies, uncle Baelor! I came here by my own will. I left the inn myself.”
She leaned forward slightly. “I believe Aegon. That hedge knight aided me in a rather unpleasant crowd. He struck me as an honorable man.”
Aerion rolled his eyes. “Honorable my arse.”
Baelor’s gaze shifted to Aegon. “You cut your hair. Why? And why leave alone?”
“I wanted to see the tourney,” the boy answered, chin lifted. “I met Ser Duncan and chose to accompany him. And it was Daeron who cut my hair.”
Maekar’s glare swung back to his eldest, then to Aerion. “And what did you fucking do today?”
Aerion straightened, defiant. “That woman committed treason. She mocked the dragons. I acted as a prince should.”
She scoffed. “We wandered into a puppet show. They used a dragon puppet for the coin. The actress slew it as part of the performance.”
“Exactly treason!” Aerion snapped. “Utter treason. They deserve death.”
“You are just fucking sensitive, Aerion,” she fired back.
“Fuck you.” Aerion spat.
Maekar pointed a finger at Aerion, “Don’t you dare curse my little sister! I’ve had enough of your crap today!”
Baelor’s palm struck the table with a sharp crack.
“Enough.” His voice was not loud, but it cut cleanly through them all. “No more swearing. All of you are dismissed for today. Aegon remains.”
Chairs scraped back.
Maekar rose and, as he passed Aerion, smacked the back of his head. The boy snarled but followed.
On the way out, Maekar pointed at Aegon. “Put a damn hat on. No one wants to see their damn reflection on your fucking head.”
She punched Maekar’s arm. “Stop being a mean ass father.”
He rounded on her. “You try raising a drunk, a lunatic, and now a bald-headed squire to some hedge knight.”
She turned her face aside, shoulders trembling.
“You dare laugh?” he demanded.
She shook her head, though a smile betrayed her. “Of course not, brother. I am merely… emotionally empathetic.”
She did not quite make it through the sentence before she fled down the corridor.
“Come here, you young lady!” Maekar barked after her.
She ducked behind Valarr at once, gripping his arm and pulling him between herself and their approaching doom.
“Valarr, my knight in shining armour, protect me!”
Valarr blinked once before allowing himself to be dragged along as she hurried away, Maekar’s yelling echoing behind them.
They did not slow until they reached the quieter hallway leading to their tower chambers.
After a moment, Valarr lowered his head a little and spoke softly, although no one else was there.
“I did not see you in the royal pavilion this morning, Aunt, during the joust.”
She glanced at him. “I was… walking in the gardens. I did not quite have the mood for the lists.”
“You did not have the mood to watch me, aunt?” he asked carefully.
She studied him, head tilting. “Why do you look and sound like a disheveled puppy?”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I shall assume that was meant kindly, Aunt.”
“Stop calling me aunt,” she groaned, swatting his bicep. “You are older than I am, and it makes me feel forty years older than I ought to.”
Valarr chuckled, the sound low and warm despite the tiredness shadowing his face. Torches along the corridor cast gold across his features, softening the sternness he wore so easily in the lists.
“But in earnest,” he said after a moment, “I waited for you before my tilt. I kept looking at your seat.” His smile thinned slightly. “You never came. I did not get to show you my victory.”
Guilt pricked at her more sharply than she expected.
He continued, quieter now, “Was my performance yesterday so poor that you chose not to watch? Did I disappoint you?”
She stopped walking and stared at him.
He held her gaze, still managing to look absurdly like a chastened hound.
“You rode excellently,” she said firmly. “You nearly unhorsed him on the second pass. It was impressive.”
His shoulders eased slightly.
“I only needed air to freshen up,” she added. “I had trouble sleeping at a new place like this”
“And yet,” he muttered, faintly sulking again, “when I went to find you after, you returned with Aerion, out of all people.”
She huffed a soft laugh and reached up, deliberately ruffling his carefully kept hair. “Circumstance, not preference.”
He tolerated the assault on his dignity with long-suffering patience.
“I am sorry,” she said more gently. “Truly. Tomorrow, if you wish, we shall spend the day together?”
His smile returned in full, easy and boyish despite everything. “Yeah, I would like that.”
Later that evening, she had withdrawn to one of the smaller libraries tucked within the Ashford towers. The chamber was narrow and high-arched, its windows thrown open to the night. A single candelabrum burned beside her, casting wavering gold across shelves of leather-bound volumes.
She had a book of poetry open in her lap, though she had read the same stanza three times without understanding a word.
The door creaked softly.
Her eldest brother entered without escort.
“Baelor,” she greeted quietly.
He inclined his head in return and crossed the room, drawing out the chair beside her with unhurried ease. His presence alone steadied the air.
“What occupies you so late?” he asked, lifting a history volume from the table—an account of Ashford Meadow’s past tourneys and bloodshed.
He had always taken a liking to reading history, which would serve him well If he were to sit the throne one day, she hoped.
“It’s only poetry. I’ve been having trouble sleeping here in Ashford Meadow,” she replied with a sigh, closing the book over her finger.
Her brother raised his brow, “Shall I summon a maester?”
“No it’s just…” She hesitated, “I miss home.”
The confession lingered between them.
“I know it is not my first journey from King’s Landing,” she went on, voice softer now. “Yet these past days feel heavier. I find myself wanting to go home, brother.”
Baelor did not answer at once.
“A few nights ago,” she continued, gaze fixed on the candle flame, “I encountered a fortune-teller near the outer camps. She told me to remain cautious. Since then, I dream of our family—of Father and Mother, of you, of all of us together. She claimed such dreams are bad omens.”
Baelor reached out and gently smoothed a strand of her silver hair between his fingers. Though she bore the eye and hair coloring of their house, her features favored their late mother far more than his own did.
He said calmly, “It is natural for a young girl to miss her home, sister. Do not worry much, we shall come back to King’s Landing soon enough.”
“And you will depart for Dragonstone immediately after?” she asked.
Baelor shook his head. “Court matters await me first. And Maekar will not rush back to Summerhall either.”
She hummed, leaning back in her chair. “It grows lonely when you are all gone. I have my lady companions, my sworn shield… but it is not the same. I much prefer the company of my nephews, even if they are insufferable creatures.”
“As though you are not a menace yourself,” he replied, a faint smile breaking through.
She laughed softly.
“I remember,” he continued, “when you were scarcely taller than this table. You flung every curse word you learned from Maekar at anyone within earshot. And we also were afraid that you would not get along with your nephews, but you turned out to be the authority among them in no time. The court thought you would become unladylike.”
His smile deepened. “But you have proved the court wrong. You have grown into a fine princess, dearest sister, I am very proud. And in time, you will become a formidable woman.”
She tilted her head. “Formidable?”
“Oh yes,” he said lightly. “By then, my hair may well be the same as yours in color, and I shall become weaker, hopefully still strong enough to walk you down the aisle.”
“Hey! Are you implying that I won’t get married until decades later?!” She smiled and laughed, warmed by memories she could not quite recall herself.
“And you?” she asked after a moment.
“Mm?”
“Why are you awake at this hour?”
He leaned back, gaze lowering to the closed book in his hands. “I have been thinking.”
“Of what?”
A pause. Then, measured and grave:
“Aerion has requested a trial of seven. For Ser Duncan.”
“Trial of seven?” she asked. After all, she was still a young girl, too far away in line to the throne to put effort in studying ancient history.
“Seven men versus seven, and the gods will judge the righteous,” he explained.
She only frowned, “What? How will Ser Duncan, a hedge knight, gather six other men? I mean, I guess I could ask Ser Luke, my sworn shield, to stand beside him, but still…”
Baelor closed his book. The candle flame flickered. And for the first time that evening, sleep was the last thing on her mind.
Summary: she met her nephew and a hedge knight at the tourney, but then things escalated due to her other nephew's fragile ego. Targaryen!reader.
Warnings: no use of names, no love interest decided (still), fighting, violence, stupid Aerion. Spoiler (the full chap)
A/N: Hey yall I'm finishing up the full story, so here's another section of it, most of the details are in the show, and ones that aren't shall be posted later. I'm posting today to mourn the death of my husband 😭.
“Aunt… Aunt…!”
She stirred in her bed at the hushed urgency of the voice. Aegon stood beside her, half-shadowed by the dim glow of the embers.
“Hm…Aegon?” she murmured sleepily, pushing herself upright. “Are you well, Egg?”
“I am well,” he replied in a low voice. “But Daeron and I will be leaving. Only for a short while, I guess. If my father should grow anxious, pray tell him we are safe. We shall return for the tourney.”
“What…?” She frowned, still caught between waking and dreams. Before she could question him further, he slipped from the chamber, the door closing softly behind him.
She stared after him.
“What the fuck in the seven hells was that?” she muttered.
After a moment, she lay back against her pillows with a weary sigh. “A dream, no doubt. I have been sorely pressed of late.” She drifted once more into sleep.
Not long after, at sunrise, her chamber doors burst open.
“My princess,” her maid exclaimed, breathless and pale. “Prince Daeron and Prince Aegon are nowhere to be found!”
She groaned, rubbing her face. “What?”
“They are gone, your grace-””
She shot upright. “Gone”
“Their chambers are empty. No guard claims to have seen them leave.”
The haze of sleep vanished at once.
And then she remembered: the whispered words in the dark.
She cursed softly. “Fucking me”
“Have they taken leave of their senses?” she muttered. “The whole royal household prepares for the tourney today…”
Her expression shifted as the truth settled upon her.
“Seven save me,” she sighed. “Daeron is a man grown, older than I, acting like a stableboy with wine involved by taking his brother to gods know where.”
She rose from her bed, exasperation plain upon her face.
“Fools, utter fools” she said under her breath.
The royal procession reached Ashford Meadow beneath a sky bleached pale by summer heat, banners snapping in the wind like restless birds. The fields beyond the castle walls had already been claimed by pavilions and tilting lists; silk and steel glittered side by side.
She endured the formal welcomes with patient grace, then slipped away whenever courtesy allowed. In the solar, she entertained Lady Gwin Ashford with idle speculation about which lords were handsome beneath their helms and which knights looked finer from horseback than at table.
By afternoon she had traded silk for wool, jewels for a plain cloak. Disguised as any other girl of the town, she wandered the bustling lanes where bakers shouted, children darted between carts, and minstrels scraped bright notes from battered fiddles.
A roar drew her toward the commons.
Two teams strained against a thick rope, boots grinding into the dust. The crowd bellowed encouragement, coins exchanged hands, and wagers were shouted over the din. She slipped into the press of bodies, laughter rising in her throat-
Then she saw him.
A smooth, unmistakable bald head gleamed in the sun.
Aegon.
He was planted at the end of the rope, jaw set, thin arms trembling with effort. Dust streaked his tunic. He looked more stableboy than prince.
“This boy…” she muttered, brows knitting.
The rope lurched; the opposing side stumbled. Aegon’s team toppled backward in a triumphant heap. Cheers exploded around them. Before she could even sigh properly, an enormous man—broad as a gatehouse—swept Aegon off his feet and spun him in a dizzy circle of victory.
She exhaled sharply through her nose.
“Idiot.”
She returned to her chambers without further spectacle. The Ashfords had given her a guest suite dressed in tapestries and fresh rushes, modest but comfortable enough for royalty. She removed her borrowed cloak and stared at her reflection a moment longer than usual.
“Sofie,” she said at last, voice cool and measured, “bring me some coal.”
When the day of the tourney dawned, the stands brimmed with color. Trumpets sang. Knights rode past in bright surcoats, lances upright like a forest of spears.
She was meant to sit beside her brothers in the royal pavilion—silk canopy overhead, guards at either side, all eyes turned dutifully toward her.
Instead, she moved through the lower stands, blending among farmers and tradesmen until she found what she sought: a gleaming bald head and the same towering man seated beside it.
She situated herself next to them.
The giant man was mid-sentence, speaking low to Aegon, who listened with an attentiveness rarely shown to maesters.
“Are you a knight as well, ser?” she asked lightly.
The man startled, nearly rising from his seat. “Y—yes. I am.”
His voice was deep, hesitant. Up close he seemed even larger—hands rough, shoulders immense.
She tilted her head. “And that is your squire?” She indicated the boy beside him with deliberate innocence.
“You could say so…” he answered, glancing down uncertainly.
She allowed herself a soft laugh.
Aegon froze.
He turned slowly, dread dawning in his eyes.
“Aunt!?!”
The knight blinked between them. “Aunt…?”
She reached up and pushed back her hood. Raven-dark hair spilled free, catching the sunlight. “Yes,” she said pleasantly. “I am. What happened to your hair, boy?”
“I cut it off”
“And you must be…?” She sighed before turning to the man.
“Dunk,” he said quickly, then corrected himself. “Ser Duncan the Tall.”
There was nothing false in him. His embarrassment was almost painful to witness.
“Good morrow, Ser Duncan the Tall,” she replied, offering him a smile warm enough to steady him, though mischief lingered at its edges.
Then she turned her gaze to her nephew.
“And you,” she said, voice sharpening just a touch, “clever stableboy—vanishing without a word?”
Aegon scratched at his smooth scalp, suddenly fascinated by the dirt beneath his boots. “I did leave a message,” he mumbled. “Sort of. While you were asleep. Your room was easiest to sneak into.”
She stared at him.
“Dumbass,” she said softly, though the relief in her eyes betrayed her. “I was worried sick!”
He winced.
Her attention shifted back to Duncan. “And you,” she added more gently, “have been saddled with him, I fear. I hope he has not proven too much trouble.”
Ser Duncan straightened at once. “No—” He caught himself, unsure whether to speak her title among commoners. “He’s no trouble.”
His eyes caught hers—clear blue against uncertain brown. Color climbed slowly into his ears.
“Well,” she said lightly, as though unaware of the effect she had, “I trust you will take proper care of him. At least for the present.”
She reached for his hands without hesitation, lifting them between her gloved fingers in a gesture that was half gratitude, half inspection.
Duncan stiffened at the contact. His hands were enormous around hers, roughened by reins and steel. “O-of course,” he managed. “It’s no trouble at all.”
Her lips curved. A soft, knowing sound escaped her before she released him and turned her attention back to the tilting field.
Duncan stared at the lists with heroic determination, though he could feel the heat still burning in his face.
Egg leaned toward him sharply. “No,” he hissed under his breath. “You cannot develop a crush on my aunt. You are entirely outmatched. Apologies in advance. Sorry not sorry!”
He punctuated the warning with a slap to Duncan’s bicep.
Duncan grunted. “Mind your own business.”
“I am minding it. That is precisely the problem.”
Duncan muttered something indistinct and fixed his eyes on the joust as though it had personally offended him.
After prince Aerion stabbed his opponent’s horse’s neck, the crowds went wild, pushing through the barrier.
“Stupid arsehole” she mumbled as the three of them left the field.
By dusk, they found themselves within the sprawling pavilion of Lord Baratheon, where torches guttered against the gathering dark and ale sloshed freely across trestle tables.
At the center of the tent, Lord Lyonel Baratheon—massive and red-faced—was stomping in rhythm to a bawdy tune, his booming voice leading the chorus in verses far too crude for noble company.
The three of them claimed a quieter corner, content with cups of watered wine and pressed fruit juice.
She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “Ser Duncan,” she began with polite interest, “to which house do you owe your service?”
He hesitated only a fraction too long. “I… once squired for Ser Arlan of Pennytree. But I'm a hedge knight now.”
There was pride there, and loss.
She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Then you ride in the lists?”
“Yes.” His voice steadied. “I mean to.”
She glanced toward Egg. “And this is the mighty squire you have chosen? A bold and fearsome stableboy?”
Egg folded his arms with exaggerated offense.
Duncan chuckled. “He’s sturdy enough. Eats like three boys and runs like five.”
Egg scowled but did not deny it.
The warmth of the moment fractured suddenly.
A crash split the air. Shouting erupted near the center of the tent—harsh, drunken voices colliding. A bench overturned. Someone cursed loudly as fists began to fly.
She turned her head just as the press of bodies shifted violently toward their corner.
Before she could rise, a firm hand closed around her arm.
“Hey—!” she snapped instinctively, wrenching against the grip. “Unhand me, you fuckin’ cunt!”
Duncan had already moved.
He stepped between her and the chaos in a single stride, pulling her sharply behind the shield of his body. His other hand caught Egg by the collar and dragged him back as well.
They did not stop running until the noise of the feast had dulled to a distant roar behind canvas and torchlight.
Only then did she withdraw her arm from Duncan’s grasp.
“My thanks, ser,” she said, smoothing the crease in her sleeve as though nothing at all had occurred.
Duncan inclined his head, still slightly breathless. Egg looked between them, suspicious and knowing all at once.
She offered them both a brief nod and then turned away, vanishing back toward the Ashfords’ towers where torchlight burned steady against the stone.
Within her chamber, the disguise was shed. She dressed again in Targaryen red and black, the fabric falling in sharp, deliberate lines. The coal had done its work well—her hair now dark as a raven’s wing, the pale silver hidden entirely.
By the time she stepped into the corridor, she was once more every inch a princess. And promptly wished she were not.
At the far end of the hallway stood Aerion, leaning with theatrical leisure against a carved pillar. His smile was sharp enough to cut.
She lowered her gaze at once and exhaled quietly, praying to every merciful god that he might, for once in his life, fail to notice her.
“Ah!” His voice rang down the corridor. “Is that not my favourite aunt?”
“As if I am not your only aunt, stupid.” She silently cursed.
She turned with a radiant, entirely fabricated smile.
“Why, nephew,” she exclaimed brightly, “you look fantastic!” She took two steps closer, examining him with exaggerated admiration.
“With a stupid brain after doing such a dishonorable act in front of the biggest crowds you can find!”
His smirk did not falter. “’Tis merely an accident.”
“Accident my arse,” she snapped, already turning on her heel and striding in the opposite direction.
He fell into step beside her easily, longer legs erasing the distance in seconds.
“What the fuck happened to your hair?” he demanded, eyes narrowing.
She shrugged, not breaking stride. “A magical witch poisoned me with a hair colour-changing potion.”
“Well did she or did she put a fucking dreaming potion in your food because you are blabbering fucking nonsense,” he sneered.
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Whatever.”
There was a beat of silence before he spoke again.
“You want to go out for some fresh air, favourite aunt?”
She shot him a look sharp enough to flay skin. “If you won’t fucking embarrass me or the royal family by killing off someone just because your teenage hormone levels skyrocketed for some reason, sure.”
Aerion threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing against the stone.
“Perhaps I will, perhaps I will not, and that’s a deal.”
Before she could sidestep him, he slung an arm around her shoulders and dragged her forward down the corridor with infuriating ease.
“Let go of me, you stink of shit,” she groaned, shoving uselessly at his side.
He only laughed harder, hauling her along as though she weighed nothing at all, their bickering voices trailing through the torchlit halls like sparks waiting for dry tinder.
Night had settled fully by the time they stepped beyond the castle walls. The tourney grounds glowed beneath scattered torches, canvas tents rising like pale ghosts against the dark. Laughter drifted between them, mingled with the scent of roasted meat and spilled ale.
As they passed, smallfolk noticed Aerion at once—his bright silver hair unmistakable even in low light. Some bowed hastily, heads nearly touching the dirt. Others lowered their eyes and turned away altogether.
She noticed that.
They approached a particularly large tent, its entrance flung open to reveal a roaring crowd within. Cheers thundered from inside.
Aerion slowed, peering through the parted canvas.
“What now,” she muttered under her breath.
Inside stood a massive manmade dragon—painted scales, jointed wings, a grotesque wooden head snapping on hidden hinges. Flames burst from its mouth in a controlled plume, the audience gasping in delight.
Aerion’s lips curled.
He stepped inside.
“A fucking puppet show?” she groaned silently before following him. “You know you can just order actors to the castle and avoid the burden of walking right?” she whispered.
He sneered but said nothing.
They pressed toward the center of the audience. The dragon roared again, fire licking toward the rafters. The main actress—a woman clad in mock armor—drew a gleaming stage sword and charged. With dramatic flair, she plunged it into the dragon’s painted neck.
The beast shrieked theatrically and collapsed in a grand tangle of canvas and wood.
The crowd erupted in applause.
Beside her, Aerion went rigid.
She could feel the tension radiating from him. His jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. He had always fancied himself dragon-born in more than name—had worshipped the lost creatures as though their extinction were a personal slight against him.
His ego is shattered, she realized.
The actress turned and met his stare.
He was already breathing hard.
“You dare to disrespect the sigil of royalty?!” he roared.
Steel flashed. He drew his dagger and lunged for the stage.
The tent dissolved into chaos. Screams split the air. Benches overturned as people shoved toward the exits. The Kingsguard forced their way in almost immediately, white cloaks cutting through the confusion, seizing performers at random.
She grabbed Aerion’s arm. “Stop—”
He tore free effortlessly.
He vaulted onto the stage and seized the actress by the wrist.
A guard, failing to recognize her beneath her cloak and raven-dark hair, grabbed her from behind.
“Let me go now!” she snarled.
Without hesitation, she swung the heavy candelabrum in her hand and struck him across the head. He staggered, cursing, and released her.
A scream rang out from the stage.
Aerion had twisted the actress’ hand violently.
There was a sickening crack.
He fucking broke her finger.
Before she could reach him, a massive figure burst through the tent entrance.
Duncan.
He moved like a storm. One powerful fist connected with Aerion’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the wooden boards.
Damn that’s gallant, she thought despite herself.
Guards rushed in at once, grappling Duncan from behind. He kicked out once more—his boot catching Aerion square in the mouth—before he was dragged down and pinned.
Aerion rose slowly, wiping blood from his lip. He spat red onto the stage. He started his mighty speech.
“You loosened one of my teeth,” he said coldly, advancing. “So we’ll start by breaking out all of yours.”
The guards forced Duncan flat against the boards, hands gripping his arms, another pressing his head down. Aerion calmly sat down.
She felt something hot snap inside her.
“Don’t you dare fucking touch him!” she shouted, charging forward with the candelabrum still raised.
Then another voice rang out.
“Hey! Don’t hurt him!”
Egg.
He burst through the crowd, breathless, eyes wide.
Aerion turned sharply. She lowered the candelabrum instinctively.
“You stupid boy, shut up or they’ll hurt you! And you, milady, please leave me be!” Duncan shouted, struggling beneath the guards.
“No they won’t dare to! Wake, Yorkel, let go of him!” Aegon commanded, voice suddenly carrying far more authority than his size suggested.
The guards hesitated.
Aerion scoffed, glaring at Egg. “You impudent little rat, what happened to your hair.”
But the tension had shifted. Recognition dawned in the guards’ faces. Hands slowly released Duncan.
The knight pushed himself up, breathing hard, bruised but upright.
She did not wait another moment.
She marched straight to Aerion, seized his ear between her fingers, and twisted sharply.
He yelped.
“You will come with me,” she hissed, dragging him off the stage like a misbehaving child.
As they passed the guard who had grabbed her earlier, she jabbed a finger into his face.
“I will deal with you later, shitty face!”
She did not slow.
Backstage at last, out of immediate view, she released Aerion only to smack the back of his head.
“You stupid cunt!” she snapped. “What in the seven damn gods were you thinking in your brainless mind!”
Aerion huffed, touching his loosened tooth with a wince. “They disrespected the dragons, fucking treason! They fucking deserve to be dead by now! And that fucking rat—”
“Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?” she shot back. “You are a prince yet you act like a hormonal lad! I just want to scratch your damn face off!"
Before Aerion could retaliate, another presence entered the tent.
Baelor.
Calm. Composed. Radiating quiet authority.
He surveyed the wreckage, the frightened performers, the restrained knight.
His voice was even when he spoke. Duncan was to be taken to the dungeon.
She stood rigid as Duncan was led away, jaw tight, the scent of smoke and blood still clinging to the air.
Summary: The life journey of another dragonless dragon.
Warnings: crazy behaviours, english is not my first language.
A/N: As I have mentioned I will only be posting slices of life on tumblr and finish the full version on ao3/wattpad if i have the time! Also lmk if you want to join the taglist, do mention that if you want to join this series only or other ones too. And no love interest yet, so you guys can recommend me? 😛
When she reached her third nameday, she became a small, silver-haired catastrophe.
With the King, Queen, and Baelor consumed by court matters, the duty of minding her fell, most regrettably, upon Maekar. Aerys refused outright after she once threatened to spit upon his precious books, and Rhaegal, too easily unsettled, could scarcely endure her boundless energy. And so she spent most of her days trailing after Maekar and his sons.
It was, in hindsight, a disastrous arrangement.
“MAEKAR!” her sharp little voice rang down the corridor. “AERION SPAT ON YOUR CARPET!”
From the solar came an indignant shout. “You liar! You threw my dragon into the fire!”
Indeed, the most relentless of rivals were the two of them, Aerion and her, forever circling, forever clashing. No one quite remembered who had first thought it wise to let them share a nursery.
Maekar shut his eyes briefly and pressed a hand to his brow. “Gods preserve me,” he muttered.
He strode into the room and seized order the only way he knew how, grasping Aerion firmly by the collar and scooping her up beneath his other arm. Both squirmed in protest.
“Maekar,” she declared with perfect seriousness, “I want to play with your blade.”
He gave her a long, disbelieving look. “No. You most certainly fucking do not.”
She crossed her arms, affronted even while dangling in his hold. “I shall tell Father and Mother that you use dreadful words before your darling baby sister.”
Aerion snorted.
Maekar exhaled through his nose, patience thinning by the breath. “You are neither my judge nor my keeper, little dragon.”
“I will still tell,” she replied sweetly.
He carried them both from his office and down the corridor to an empty training chamber, bare stone, no furnishings, nothing to set alight.
Setting them down, he fixed them with a stern glare.
“You will remain in this room,” he said evenly, pointing a warning finger between them, “and you will not maim one another while I finish my work. Do you understand?”
She looked up at him with wide, luminous eyes that promised nothing but trouble.
Aerion folded his arms.
Maekar already knew peace would not last.
After several minutes of shoving, shrieking, and highly questionable swordplay with wooden blocks, the two of them discovered something far more dangerous than each other: the window latch.
It took cooperation, which made it worse.
“Stay here,” she whispered gravely to Aerion, though no one else was in the chamber. “I shall test it first. I will signal when it is safe.”
Aerion, only a few moons older and already far too loyal to her schemes, nodded with solemn conviction.
With his help, she dragged a stool toward the tall window and climbed. The latch gave way with a soft click.
The courtyard below was several storeys down.
Caelyra leaned forward.
Her eyes lit up.
“Oh!” she gasped. “MY BROTHERS!”
Below, Baelor and Maekar walked several paces behind the King and Queen, deep in discussion over some dreary matter of court levies. Her voice cut cleanly through the afternoon air.
Both men looked up.
There she was.
Balanced at the open window.
Queen Myriah’s breath left her in a sharp cry. “My daughter!”
From the ground, it looked far worse than it was: she was still firmly standing on the ledge, but three storeys of open air tend to erase all reason.
“Seven hells,” Maekar swore.
“My darling, step away from the window!” Myriah called, pale as milk.
She beamed, misunderstanding the signs to telling her to jump
“IMMA JUMP, OKAY?” she shouted helpfully.
“NO, YOU DAMN WELL WILL NOT!” Maekar roared back.
She blinked and turned to Aerion. “What is your father saying?”
Before she could lean any farther out, a steady arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back from the ledge in one smooth motion.
“Easy now, my princess,” came a calm voice near her ear. “Windows are not for leaping.”
It was Luke, her sworn shield.
“What is leaping?” Aerion demanded immediately.
“And why not?” She added, squirming in Luke’s hold.
Luke shut the window firmly and lifted her down from the stool. “Because I prefer my princess unbroken.”
“That is not an explanation,” Aerion protested, following close behind as Luke carried her away from danger.
“It will suffice,” Luke replied evenly.
He met the royal party in the corridor moments later, just as they arrived in varying states of alarm.
Baelor reached them first, taking her carefully from Luke’s arms as the knight bowed.
“Would you care to explain,” Baelor asked, voice tight despite his composure, “what possessed you, dear sister?”
She considered this with grave seriousness.
“I was greeting you,” she said at last.
Maekar stared at her.
And it became abundantly clear to them all that this would not be the last time the youngest dragon of their house threatened to end her reign at the window.
Another incident occurred during what the maesters delicately termed necessary parental bonding.
They had advised that the young princess ought to spend more structured time beside her parents, observing court so that she might grow accustomed to the rhythms of rule. And so, a small but exquisitely crafted throne had been commissioned, all polished dark wood and silver inlay, placed just to the right of the Iron Throne.
From there, she was meant to sit prettily while petitions were heard.
In practice, it became an opportunity for visiting lords to offer sugared almonds, candied fruits, and honeyed cakes in shameless attempts to win the favor of the realm’s youngest dragon.
On quieter days, she was given illustrated primers: knights in bright inks, dragons in impossible colors, and told to read while her father judged disputes.
She lasted perhaps a quarter of an hour.
“FUCK!” she declared suddenly.
The word cracked through the throne room with astonishing clarity.
Her father had been in the midst of deciding whether to strip a minor lord of his title. The entire court froze. Silks rustled. Someone dropped a ring of keys.
Every head turned.
"What is fuc-"
Baelor, stationed just behind her smaller throne, moved on instinct. His hand came down over her mouth, large enough to nearly cover her entire face, as he stepped forward with perfect composure.
“She is asking for more fudge, Your Grace,” he said smoothly to the court, bowing his head slightly toward the king. “It is near dessert hour. Pardon us.”
Without waiting for permission, he scooped her up under one arm and began striding toward the doors.
“Mmmph!” she protested against his palm.
The moment they crossed the threshold into the corridor, she twisted enough to shout, “THAT MAN FORKIN’ GLARED AT ME, DAMN!”
A passing lord nearly choked.
Baelor tightened his hold, offering strained nods of apology as he continued walking. “Pardon us. Pardon.”
When they were finally out of earshot, he lowered her to the floor but kept a firm hand on her shoulder.
“Where,” he asked evenly, though he already suspected the culprit, “did you learn such language, young lady?”
Summary: After the Blackfyre rebellion, the Targaryen brothers decided to marry and have their own children. However, they might not expect a surprise sibling.
Warnings: SFW, English is not my 1st language, one use of name
A/N: It's not quite long nor finished but I just wanted to see if my writing is all right. And also I might start stop using names to make it x reader, also that I wont be adding characters that arent in the shows into my fics. And no love interest decided. also might post on ao3 and wattpad too if this blows up haha.
“Today, I have gathered you all to share news of great importance,” King Daeron said, his voice measured.
Before him sat his children, their spouses, and several of their young offspring. Silver goblets gleamed beneath the candlelight; quiet expectation settled over the hall like a drawn curtain.
Queen Myriah remained at his side, her fingers entwined with his, a contained but unmistakable smile gracing her features.
Across the table, Maekar shifted in his seat, jaw tightening. “It better not be another damn succession mess,” he muttered under his breath.
Daeron rose slowly from his seat, lifting his cup of ale. Candlelight caught in the silver of his hair as his smile widened.
“I have gathered you here to share joyous news,” he declared. “In seven moons’ time, we shall welcome another child into this house.”
A stunned silence fell across the table.
Maekar leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face.
“Well fuck me,” he muttered darkly, “that is worse than a succession mess.”
Baelor exhaled through his nose, ever the measured one.
“Father… Mother,” he began carefully, “forgive me, but are you certain this is… wise? You are both well past the years most would deem....” He paused, choosing diplomacy over bluntness. “Ideal.”
Maekar scoffed. “Our new sibling will be younger than our own sons.”
Queen Myriah only smiled, unbothered.
“Oh, hush, Maekar. You once begged for another brother or sister.”
“That was two decades ago,” he snapped, "when I was one year old!"
Seven moons later, Queen Myriah was brought to her chambers as the first pains of labor took hold.
Beyond the carved oaken doors, in the adjoining solar reserved for the royal family, Baelor and Maekar waited. A fire crackled low in the hearth; untouched fruit and bread lay forgotten on a silver platter between them. Each held a cup of ale, though neither seemed particularly intent on drinking it.
Maekar leaned back in his chair, staring into the flames.
“Do you think it will be another son?”
Baelor exhaled slowly, rolling the stem of his goblet between his fingers.
“Most likely,” he said at last. “Father does have a talent for them.”
Maekar gave a faint, humorless huff.
Baelor took a measured sip before continuing, more dryly than before, “And they will no doubt expect us to dote upon the babe.” His gaze flicked toward the corridor that led to the birthing chamber. “Thank the gods our sons have finally left the cradle. I have no desire to look after two babes at once,” Maekar groaned.
A maid at last slipped into the chamber, cheeks flushed from haste. She dropped into a deep curtsy.
“Your Graces,” she said breathlessly, “the Queen has delivered. A princess.”
For a heartbeat, neither brother spoke.
Maekar blinked first. “A sister?” He let out a short, incredulous huff. “Well. That is a novelty in this family.”
Baelor rose at once, setting his cup aside. Whatever private calculations had occupied him moments before were carefully folded away. “Is Her Grace well?”
“She is resting, my prince.”
The brothers exchanged a look, brief, unreadable, before moving toward the inner chambers.
The nursery was warm with firelight and the faint scent of lavender. Silk hangings softened the stone walls; a single cradle stood near the hearth, carved with the three-headed dragon of their house.
King Daeron stood before it, utterly still.
He did not turn as they entered.
Within the cradle, wrapped in pale cloth embroidered with silver thread, lay a small bundle of dark hair and flushed skin. Tiny fingers curled against the fabric, as though already gripping something unseen.
At last, Daeron spoke.
“Her name is Caelyra,” he said, “Caelyra Myriah Targaryen.”
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