Yes Narcissa Malfoy is an evil bitch who only did what she did because it served her family well and she got her son out of danger. I wouldn’t doubt for a second if things were a little different she would’ve told Voldemort that Harry was alive—yes she was tired of Voldemort, but could you imagine the power that the Malfoys would hold? I’d argue she was worse than Lucius actually, but people aren’t ready for that conversation.
Don’t even get me started on Bellatrix because that’s a whole other story.
i hate how narcissa is painted out as this innocent abused woman
NO.
she comes from like THE most powerful and rich family and married into one. she is EVIL. she is a girl boss. she gets what she wants when she wants it. and yes she IS an evil blood supremicist.
she did anything and everything that served her and her familys interests.
"— Don't frown so much, Maegor. I love you and I don't care about gossip. I know you won't hurt me.
After all, you are my dear...
—... Uncle"
Maegor loved Aenys as much as he hated him. He would not touch him, no matter how much he wanted to. Aenys did not fear his brother. But Viserys feared his uncle. Viserys was a piece of meat with Aenys's face. Maegor would touch him to death.
Hi, could you do a Fernando one where Reader is Carmen's younger sister by two years. She's a famous model, for example. Carmen invites her to accompany her to the Mercedes garage during Race Week. During one of the races, she catches Fernando's eye, who asks George who she is, and he becomes interested in meeting her. Later, during a break during media duty, Fernando invites them to the Aston Martin hospitality room and finally meets her and hits it off, to the point where George and Carmen realize it. Even though Carmen is apprehensive, knowing Alonso's reputation as a bachelor and afraid that her sister might be just another one on his list, they still come up with a plan to get them together. Soon after, during one of the breaks between races, George and Carmen each invite Reader and Fernando to play doubles padel in Monaco. They realize that the two have good chemistry together, to the point where Alonso realizes he has things in common with Reader. Soon after the match, he invites her to dinner at his house to get to know each other better. And after weeks of getting to know each other better and being seen together with and without Carmen and Russell, the two finally see that they both feel an attraction for each other, Alonso invites her to dinner and finally confesses that he wants something more serious with her and she accepts to be her girlfriend and later they discover that it was all a plan by her sister together with Russell and they thank them for it.
Match Point
featuring: Fernando Alonso x Carmen!Mundt!sister!reader
requested: yes!
author's note: Dear anon, I hope you’ll enjoy this story. I’m not really good at writing a love interest this young, so I’m not sure how it turned out.
I’m only a couple of years younger than Fernando, so I admit I tend to imagine him with women a bit older than the one you asked for—twenty years is quite a gap—but I tried!
I changed a few details from your request because they flowed better that way and because, while writing, I let imagination and inspiration take over.
I hope it still works for you! 💚
summary: She only wanted to watch George race and maybe have some fun after the Grand Prix.
She didn’t plan on meeting Fernando Alonso, much less cooking him dinner a week later, or realizing that “too old for you” can sound a lot like “just your type.”
genre: Romance, Fluff, Age Gap, Humor, Slice of life,
word count : 3586
You loved the paddock atmosphere, you did not often manage to carve out the time to go there with Carmen to watch George race, and whenever you did it was always exciting.
You walk through the paddock with your sister, laughing about some silly thing you said earlier, and you see everyone taking pictures of you, you are not a regular presence there and you always cause a little surprise.
“Hey,” George says as he comes toward you, “about time,” he laughs.
“We took our time,” Carmen smiles, hugging him.
“Come on, move it, I will buy you a coffee before the first round of interviews,” he says, starting to walk with you and talking about commitments, the car, qualifying, a bit of everything.
You stop at a stand and grab a couple of coffees until, all of a sudden, George greets someone behind you.
“Hey, Fernando,” he says, raising his hand, and a man in green walks over, greeting him first and then Carmen, in Spanish.
“This is my sister,” Carmen says as you extend your hand with a smile, you know very well who Fernando Alonso is and you have already seen him around the paddock, but you have never been introduced.
“Hi,” you both say, shaking hands briefly.
After a bit of small talk you and Carmen move away, the two drivers have their media day interviews, and you will surely find something to do.
-
“I did not know Carmen had a sister,” Fernando says as he walks next to his friend.
“No, she has come a couple of times, but she is always away, she is a model, so, you know, a thousand commitments, that kind of thing,” he answers, then looks at the Spaniard, “she is too young for you,” he blurts out.
“What the fuck, George,” the other exclaims, taken by surprise, “I only said I did not know she had a sister,” he laughs.
“Sure you did, and I repeat, she is too young for you,” he goes on, while Fernando rolls his eyes.
“What is she, eighteen,” the older one jokes.
“Twenty five,” George replies, and Fernando shakes his head, thoughtful.
“Actually, well, not that young then,” he jokes on purpose to annoy George, who opens his mouth and then starts laughing, “relax, jealous brother in law,” he teases him.
“With you there is not much to relax about,” the Englishman retorts as they both climb the stairs to the stage where they are expected.
-
Singapore had been a spectacle, George’s race had been incredible, literally incredible, and quite a few moments had made you laugh, especially a couple of radio broadcasts on TV from the Spanish driver you had met that morning.
“So now, a crazy party,” you ask as you head with Carmen toward the Mercedes garage.
She laughs and looks at you, “I think George is exhausted.”
“But he won, did you see that race, we have to celebrate,” you exclaim, amused, spreading your arms, while your sister lets the subject drop.
But no one can say you are someone who gives up easily.
They could call you stubborn, maybe exhausting.
After the celebrations on track you start pestering the two lovebirds about the need for a party, you tell George it is a moral obligation, and he keeps saying he is tired, until in the end, partly out of exhaustion and partly because he feels like it, he says yes, and from there you only need an hour to find a venue, book it, and organize the party of the century.
George takes care of inviting people, paddock, drivers, many people drawn by the idea of music and drinks.
You are moving through the place when you see Alonso and you go up to him, “so, did you end up punching your race engineer or not,” you ask, amused, and he bursts out laughing.
“In the end no, I spared him,” he replies, amused, “I was slightly nervous and hearing voices all the time,”
“…distracts you,” you cut in, and he nods.
“I do not understand anything about Formula One, I mean, I understand that George won and that he was good, but they tell me you had a good race too, although I think you got Driver of the Day more for what you said than for what you did,” you joke, making him laugh.
“I drove well too, come on,” he defends himself, handing you a beer.
“I trust you,” you say, taking a sip.
“George told me this whole thing is your doing,” he says, referring to the party.
“Yes, I think he kind of hates me, he wanted to go back to the room with Carmen, I insisted a little,” you answer with a smile.
“A little,” he laughs.
“A lot,” you finally admit, tilting your head, “Admit it, it is a good party,” you go on.
“Yes, yes, absolutely,” he laughs, and you cannot help noticing how his smile reaches his eyes.
-
Across the room Carmen is staring at you, “Should I be worried?” she asks her boyfriend, who turns his face in your direction.
“Maybe,” George says, amused.
“Hey, you were supposed to say no,” she exclaims, swatting his arm, “He is too old for her,” she comments.
“I do not think they are talking about getting married, I think it is more,” the Englishman begins to say.
“Stop saying Fernando wants to sleep with my sister,” she cuts him off, annoyed, “that man has had a billion women in his past.”
“Two as well,” George mutters under his breath, “Come on, love, your sister can handle herself and she can handle him, she has much worse people around,” he reassures her, “I know him well, you know that, he is a good guy.”
“He is not a guy, he is twenty years older than she is,” Carmen objects with a sigh, “but even if I talk to her she will do what she wants anyway, so,” the girl laughs, shaking her head, turning back toward the people she was talking to before.
-
Three days later, the Monte Carlo sun warms your skin as you walk into the sports center with your sister, where you are meeting George for a padel match.
Alongside him, on the court, a man you recognize immediately, Fernando.
And without even realizing it, a smile slips out.
“I found the fourth player,” George says, satisfied, pointing to the Spaniard next to him.
“Hi, girls,” he greets you, and you both greet him back.
“I am on your team,” you say, pointing at him, “these two always swear at me when I play with one of them,” you add, placing yourself next to him.
“Be careful, I am pretty competitive too,” Fernando laughs, looking at you.
“Really?" you ask, ironic, “I would never have guessed,” you laugh, “but maybe you are not confident enough to insult me,” you laugh, turning and moving into position on the court.
The match goes better than expected, Fernando is an incredible player, capable of putting even the very established George and Carmen team in difficulty, and you manage to keep up with him fairly well.
Aside from a few mistakes that earn you an indefinite series of dirty looks from Fernando, you do quite well, and the match is much more fun than you thought.
“Stoooop, you are clingy,” you say, throwing a ball at the two lovebirds on the other side of the net, “they are unbearable,” you exclaim, opening your arms toward Fernando.
“You are a pain, Y/N,” George tells you, returning the gesture and throwing a ball back that hits you square on.
“Ouch,” you say, throwing a couple back at him.
“Kids, enough,” Carmen says, laughing and shaking her head, “George and I are leaving, we have a lunch, do you want a ride home?” she asks, and you shake your head.
“No, I will shower here and then get an Uber,” you reply, and in a few moments the couple walks away and you are left alone with Fernando by the bench where you have set your things.
“Do you feel like having lunch here?” he asks, wiping his face with the towel, “the club restaurant is not bad,” he smiles.
You find yourself looking at him and, in fact, refusing such an invitation from someone who looks at you that way seems like a mistake not to make, he is muscular, sexy, sweaty, and, sexy, you already said that?
“Gladly,” you answer without thinking twice, and he smiles, walking beside you toward the locker rooms.
You did not bring anything that really works for lunch with someone like him, jeans and a white shirt will have to do. You undo one extra button at the neckline, you roll up your sleeves, and you finish your makeup, “go and get him, girl,” you tell your reflection in the mirror with a smile.
The table is outside, under a large umbrella that keeps off the sun, Fernando is already seated and he stands when he sees you arrive, and you find yourself wondering when was the last time one of the men you went out with did that.
You order something, and then a relaxed silence settles for a few moments.
“George told me you are a model,” he begins, taking a sip of water.
“Yes,” you answer, “it is not exactly my main occupation, but I do that too, I have just finished fashion school and I would like to be a designer rather than a model,” you admit, gesturing, “but in the meantime what I do is quite fun, I travel a lot, maybe too much,” you laugh, and he laughs too.
“I know something about that,” he says, shaking his head.
“Sometimes I think I spend more time in the air than with my feet on the ground,” you say, rolling your eyes, “it is boring.”
“Yes, I know, and me, I have been doing it for too many years,” he admits, amused, “sooner or later I will really get tired,” he goes on.
“You do not seem like someone who gets tired easily,” you comment.
“I am someone who does not give up, for sure, but,” he shrugs, “I will stop when I no longer have fun, or when no one gives me a car anymore,” he laughs.
“Please, you look like the type who would buy a team just to keep racing,” you tease him, and you both laugh.
“Never say never,” he admits, looking at you, and for a moment you feel uncomfortable, not because he is looking at you, but because there is an intensity in his eyes that gives you goosebumps even though it is hot and you are in the sun.
Lunch passes quietly, you talk more than you ever imagined, you discover his passion for theater and you tell him about all the shows you have seen on Broadway, you both discover that you have more tattoos than you should, and you tell him that every time you get one your family gets mad, especially your sister.
The roots are the same, love for Spain, the sun, the gray and the rain that get inside you until they ruin your mood, and everything seems so natural that you do not even realize it is four in the afternoon and you are the only table left in the restaurant.
“You are famous and so they put up with you, but I think they are about to kick us out,” you say in a low voice, and Fernando also turns his head and sees that you are the only ones left.
“Let us go,” he laughs, “I will take you home, I am by car,” he says, standing up to go and pay.
You get into something that you have trouble calling just a car, a vintage Ferrari that would make anyone pale.
There is no traffic and the sea runs bright beyond the guardrail.
When he parks in front of your building he turns to look at you.
“Thank you,” you say with a smile.
“Do you want to see each other again?” he asks after a moment, and you look at him, smiling.
“Padel again?” you ask, tilting your head.
“I was thinking dinner, but if you prefer padel…” he jokes, amused.
“Gladly,” you answer, “I have plans tonight, come to mine tomorrow, you will not believe it, but I am an excellent cook,” you say.
“Okay,” he laughs, “tomorrow then,” he says, handing you his phone so you can save your number.
“I will be waiting for you, Alonso, thank you for today,” you smile as you get out of the car and enter the building without being able to hide a huge smile.
Once in the elevator you look at your reflection in the mirror, “if Carmen finds out she will kill me,” you tell yourself, and you shrug, “not my problem,” you add, interrupted by the elevator chime that tells you that you have arrived.
-
You have prepared everything and you have done your best, a seafood dinner with your mother’s best recipes, who is the best cook in the world according to the whole family, or maybe the whole town where you grew up.
You go to your room to change and you put on a simple white dress, no heels, you do not need them at home, flat sandals with rhinestones that go up to your knee.
You are nervous.
Why are you nervous?
You are never nervous for dates.
But is this a date?
No.
Yes.
You really hope it is, Fernando is, a knockout.
No point denying it.
You would be a hypocrite.
You have an insane desire to have him.
No, you did not say that, did you?
No, in fact you did not say it, you only thought it.
Do not think such things, do not think them.
But did you see how the shirt fits him? Think about what is underneath.
Enough.
Okay, enough.
The doorbell rings and you suddenly stop arguing with yourself about abs, shirts, and desire, and you head to the door.
Fernando is there, a bottle of wine, a white rose, a smile.
Do not jump on him right away, do not do it.
“Hi,” you say, letting him in.
The house is bright and clean, you had it tidied up on purpose for the occasion, before it was a total mess.
He greets you with two kisses on the cheeks and gives you the rose first and then the bottle.
“Thank you, come,” you say, and he follows you onto the terrace.
“What a view,” he says, looking at the sea.
“Right, I bought this house for the view, you can hardly see the city, but you see the whole sea and that is something I love,” you say, handing him a glass of wine.
“I have also recently seen an apartment with more or less a view like this,” he admits, “sitting on the terrace and looking at the sea relaxes me,” he says, turning to look at you.
“Yes, also because we always live in the middle of the chaos, when I am here I want silence,” you smile, “my favorite place in the world to switch off is a little house in Italy, near Positano, far from everything, it is incredible, I would like to buy it, but the owners will not sell,” you begin to say.
“I love that area, it is beautiful, I have spent many vacations there,” he replies, joining you in front of the railing, and he looks at you.
“What does your sister think about this dinner?” he asks then, with a smile.
“My sister does not know everything about me,” you admit, amused.
“I do not know if she would be thrilled,” he comments, laughing.
“About what, the age?” you ask, “but have you seen how you wear it or not?” you say, amused, making him laugh even more, “I do not care what she would think, I care that I wanted to see you, and that is it,” you continue, resolute, “Carmen is a prude,” you add, amused.
“Come on, sit down, I will go get the food,” you add, and as you walk into the kitchen you can clearly feel his gaze fixed on your back.
Twenty years of difference are a lot.
But the truth is that you are having one of the most enjoyable evenings you have had in I do not know how long.
He is ironic, quick, full of stories to tell and of experience that both intrigues and amazes you at the same time.
You tell him about your trips, safaris, the trip to Alaska with your cousin, he tells you about the Dakar in the middle of the desert and what it was like to race the twenty four hours of Le Mans.
You are not a silly, inexperienced girl, you have lived alone since you were seventeen, you know how to take care of yourself, you know how to think for yourself, and you believe he is noticing.
It is almost midnight when you find yourself with your chair that has gradually moved closer to his, him leaning toward you over the table, you with your hair down and a smile that has not left you all evening.
“You are a little too interesting,” he says at one point.
“Says the one who has traveled half the world at least ten times,” you smile, resting your elbow on the table.
“Are you coming to any of the next races?” he asks then.
“If someone invites me, maybe yes,” you reply, and he starts laughing, shaking his head.
“Are you coming to Austin?” he asks without much beating around the bush, looking at you, and for a few moments you try to remember how to talk.
“Yes, I am coming to Austin,” you answer in a low voice, intimidated by the way he is looking at you.
“Good,” he replies, leaning in, and a moment later, with a disarming naturalness, he kisses you, and you do not even take a second to respond.
“I will get you the passes, will you fly with me?” he asks, pulling back just a little, and you nod, still dazed by having him so close, and without thinking you brush his lips again with yours.
“Private flight, are you trying to win me over?” you ask, amused.
“I think so,” he replies with a smile, “do I have a chance?”
You stay silent and you nod, “I am afraid so,” you admit without moving.
-
And you really do go to Austin, with your sister grilling you about why you are not flying with her and George, and you make up a nearby shooting, saying you are already there.
Leaving out a private flight with a Spanish driver who is too sexy to be real.
Then, as if by magic, when you also show up on the Mexico weekend, Carmen corners you and wants an explanation that is simple enough, “Fernando asked me.”
And your sister rolls her eyes, knowing you have gotten yourself tangled in one of your usual impossible stories.
Before the next Grand Prix, Interlagos, he invites you to dinner at his place.
To cut it short, there was never any dinner, or almost.
There was him pushing you against the door the moment he saw you, him pushing you onto the couch, you on top of him on that same couch, clothes on the floor, Fernando’s name shouted a little too loudly for the neighbors, and a hickey he left above your breast that your makeup artist would struggle to cover with makeup.
Then there was the bed and the next day, if you remember correctly, the kitchen counter.
Only after all that and after a couple more dinners that were not really dinners came Interlagos.
Neither of you wants to put on a show, neither of you wants gossip.
You arrive in the paddock separately, he with his entourage, you with your sister, who, while you were at the pool, had seen the hickey and pretended to be shocked.
The race has been over for a while when you get into the same car as Fernando, finally allowing yourself to kiss him even before saying hello, “hi,” you say with a smile, still attached to him.
“Hi, guapa,” he smiles, “ready for the flight?” he asks, and you nod, leaning against him and resting your head on his shoulder.
“I am terribly sleepy,” you laugh, and he kisses the top of your head.
“You know,” he begins, “I talked to George earlier,” and you look up at him, curious, “he says he and Carmen were kind of hoping this would happen, that the padel match was not entirely random,” he laughs.
“You are kidding,” you say, “that bitch, my sister,” you exclaim, starting to laugh.
“I thanked him,” Fernando admits, looking at you.
“I think I will do the same,” you reply, leaning back against him and taking out your phone.
Y/N: So now you play cupid too
Carmen: Apparently I am good at it
Y/N: Do you say so yourself
Carmen: That hickey is pretty clear
Y/N: You are terrible
Carmen: I am good
Y/N: Are you going to brag about this for the next twenty years?
Summary: You were always his. From the moment you were born. And it's going to stay that way, whatever you like it or not.
Warning: Targcest, Graphic depictions of violence, Non con, Maegor himself is a warning.
Notes: English is not my first language. Art belong to dalberadiata. Hope you enjoy!
Maegor kicked a rock with all the strength his young body could muster, the jagged stone skittering across the ground and disappearing into the brush. His chest heaved with frustration, his fists clenched at his sides, and his face contorted in a mask of anger.
But no matter how much he trained, no matter how hard he fought, his father’s gaze always passed over him. Like he wasn’t even there.
His foot slammed into another rock, as he ground his teeth in fury. He wanted to be king. He would be king. One day, they would all see—his father, his brother—all of them would see.
“Boo!”
A voice, sweet and sudden, pulled him from his thoughts. His body stiffened as he turned, already prepared to strike, but it was only her. His sister, always sneaking up on him, always playing her games. She popped out from behind a tree, her eyes sparkling with mischief, a playful grin on her lips.
“Did I scare you, Maegor?” she teased, laughing softly as she plopped herself down beside him on the grass without waiting for a response.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t smile. Of course, he wasn’t scared. His hands flexed at his sides, still shaking with the remnants of his anger. He wasn’t in the mood for her games. Not today.
But she didn’t seem to notice. She never did. Instead, she sat beside him, her fingers absentmindedly plucking at the flowers that dotted the ground. She hummed softly, her hands busy weaving stems together as if there wasn’t a care in the world.
“I’ll be king one day,” he muttered, his voice low, angry. His fists tightened as he stared ahead, his vision still blurry with unshed tears. “You’ll see. I’ll be a great king. Someone important. Stronger than father. Stronger than anyone.”
She nodded, but he could tell she wasn’t listening. She never really listened when he talked about his plans. She was too busy with her flowers, too lost in her own world of pretty things and laughter. He frowned, watching as she twisted the stems in her delicate hands, her smile never faltering.
“What are you doing?” he snapped, his frustration bubbling up again.
She looked up at him then, her eyes wide, as if his anger didn’t bother her at all. Her smile only grew, and she held up the thing she had been working on. “Done!” she announced, her voice soft and sweet, like the sound of a gentle breeze. She leaned over and placed it on his head—a crown of flowers, woven with care, resting lopsided on his dark hair.
Maegor blinked, confused, his anger momentarily forgotten. He reached up to touch the crown, his brows furrowing as he tried to understand what she had done.
“What is this?”
She smiled at him, that same sweet, soft smile that always made something in his chest ache. “Even if you don’t become king, you’re still my king, Maegor.” Her voice was full of warmth, full of love. “Always.”
He stared at her, the confusion in his eyes deepening. She was always like this—so full of life, so bright. Too bright for someone like him. Too soft for a world as harsh as theirs. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond.
But now, when he looked at her, the only thing that remained was death.
Her body was cold in his arms, a shell of the girl she used to be. Her eyes, once full of light, now stared blankly ahead, her mouth silent as always. But that was alright. She didn’t need to speak. She didn’t need to smile.
He still loved her.
Even like this.
She was dressed in beautiful silk, her hair brushed and perfect, her lips still stained with the remnants of the last kiss he’d given her earlier. She looked like a doll. Fragile. Beautiful. Untouched. He dragged his hand down her neck, savoring the coldness of her skin, feeling the shiver of pleasure that ran through him.
But the silk? That was a pity. He was going to rip that apart anyway.
He pulled her into his lap, her body limp and pliant, her head lolling to the side as he pressed his lips to her neck. He bit down, hard, savoring the taste of her skin, his teeth sinking in deep enough to draw blood. His hand slid between her legs, fingers pushing against her cunt, trying to get her wet. She didn’t move, didn’t react, but he didn’t care. She would be ready for him. She had to be.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered into her skin, his voice dark and rough as he kissed along her neck, his bites growing harder, more savage. “You’ll give me a son. A true son. Something none of those useless cunts could do.” His fingers moved faster, harder, forcing her body to respond. “We’ll name him Aegon. After father. What do you think?”
He pulled back, his eyes gleaming as he looked at her face. Her tears were falling now, silent as always, sliding down her cheeks like the rain.
Oh, right. He had cut her tongue out.
He laughed then, a deep, guttural sound that echoed in the room. How could he have forgotten? She had screamed, hadn’t she? Begged him to stop, to leave her alone. She didn’t want to be his wife. She didn’t want him. But that hadn’t mattered. Not to him. He had made sure she couldn’t refuse him ever again.
He wiped her tears with his thumb, pushing it into her mouth as he did. “It’s alright,” he whispered, his voice soft, mocking. “I love you still. I like you more like this.”
Then he kissed her, hard and rough, his mouth devouring hers as his hand gripped her neck, holding her in place. She didn’t kiss back, didn’t move, but he didn’t care. He didn’t need her to.
He shoved himself inside her, his thrusts brutal, each one harder than the last. Her body didn’t fight him, didn’t resist. She took him in silence, her tears falling faster now, her eyes empty as they stared at the ceiling. But Maegor didn’t stop. He pounded into her, growling with each thrust, determined to make her his in every possible way.
“You're mine,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous as he fucked her harder. “Always have been and always will be.”
She didn’t respond. She never did. But that was fine.
When he was done, when her body was limp and unconscious beneath him, he pulled out, only to push his seed back inside her, forcing it deeper, making sure she would carry it.
“You’ll be a mother,” he whispered, his hand pressing against her stomach, possessive. “The mother of my child.”
sure honey! which tag list would you liked to be added to? there's for the stories like the dad!daemon au or ticket to winterfell, and there’s the tag list for daemon’s and aemond’s stories overall 🫶🏽
summary: daemon, concerned about the potential dangers, argues with both you and daenys, fearing for her safety and the implications of the alliance with the north.
warnings: slow burn (i don't even think that is a warning.
reblogs, feedbacks and likes are appreciated. support your content creators 💓 please leave a comment if you like my work, and enjoy your reading.
read the first chapter here: family ties and northern skies
· ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ༓ ༓ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·
The next morning, the tension in Winterfell was palpable. You rose early, determined to have a private conversation with Daenys before the day’s official events began. Winterfell’s ancient stones seemed to hold the cold, even as the first rays of the sun filtered through the narrow windows, casting long shadows in the corridors.
You found Daenys in her chambers, already awake and pacing, her brow furrowed in deep thought. The room was modest but warm, a small fire crackling in the hearth. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the lingering chill of the North.
“Mother,” she greeted, her voice a mix of relief and apprehension. Her silver hair cascaded down her back, a stark contrast to the dark, heavy furs she wore to ward off the Northern cold. “I didn’t expect you to arrive so quickly.”
“I couldn’t stay away,” you replied, closing the door behind you to ensure privacy. You walked towards her, taking in the sight of your daughter, who seemed so much older than the last time you saw her. “We need to talk, Daenys. This marriage—are you sure it’s what you want?”
Daenys sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly as she sank into a chair by the hearth. “I understand your concerns, but I genuinely believe in this union. Cregan and I... we’ve found common ground. He respects me, and I see potential in this alliance.”
You sat beside her, taking her hands in yours, feeling the warmth of her skin against your cold fingers. “Respect is important, but so is understanding the political implications. Marrying a Stark ties you to the North in ways you may not fully grasp.”
“I know,” she said softly, her eyes searching yours for understanding. “But I’m not a child anymore. I’ve weighed the consequences. Cregan is different from what we expected. He’s not just looking for power.”
Before you could respond, a firm knock interrupted your conversation. The door opened, revealing Daemon, his expression serious and his presence commanding as always. “It’s time for the morning meal. Cregan is expecting us.”
Daenys straightened, a flicker of defiance crossing her face. “Father, we need to discuss this. I’ve made my decision, and I need you both to understand and support it.”
Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly, the familiar tension between father and daughter surfacing. “Daenys, this isn’t just about your decision. It’s about the future of our house. Do you truly believe you can handle the weight of the North and its politics?”
“I do,” she replied firmly, rising to her feet. “I’ve learned much during my time here. Cregan and I have plans to unite our houses in a way that benefits both the North and the Targaryens. This isn’t just a marriage of convenience.”
Daemon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And what if you’re wrong? What if this alliance turns into a trap? The Starks are known for their honor, but they are also fiercely protective of their own. They might not see you as one of them.”
Daenys took a step towards him, her chin held high. “I’ve earned their respect. Cregan respects me. This marriage is not a trap, and I am not a pawn. I am a Targaryen, and–”
"You’re still young,” Daemon cuts her, growling as he starts to raise his voice “There are dangers you can’t even begin to understand. You think respect is enough? It’s not."
Daenys shot back, her eyes blazing with determination. “I’ve built relationships here. I’ve learned their ways, their customs. I’m not some naive girl who can be easily manipulated.”
“Do those relationships include the beast you brought with you?” Daemon said, his tone suddenly shifting. “Winterfell is no place for dragons, and yet Silverwing is perched outside these walls, a constant reminder of the Targaryen power. How do you think the Northerners feel about that?”
Daenys stiffened. “Silverwing is a symbol of my heritage, my strength. The Northerners may be wary, but they also understand the value of power. Silverwing is a part of who I am, and they will come to respect that.”
You stepped between them, placing a hand on Daenys’s arm. “Daemon, she’s made her choice. We need to trust her judgment. Daenys, your father and I are here to support you, but you must understand our concerns. This isn’t just about you or Cregan. It’s about the stability of both our houses.”
Daemon sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Fine. But know this, Daenys: if anything goes wrong, I will not hesitate to act. I will protect you, no matter the cost.”
Daenys nodded, her expression softening. “I know, Father. And I appreciate it. But trust me when I say I know what I’m doing.”
With a final glance between the two of them, you took Daenys’s hand and led her towards the door. “Let’s not keep Cregan waiting.”
As you made your way to the great hall, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. The meal was a tense affair, filled with polite conversation and veiled barbs. Cregan sat at the head of the table, his eyes often drifting to Daenys with a mixture of pride and something deeper.
After breakfast, Cregan invited you and Daemon for a private discussion in his study. The room was adorned with Stark banners and ancient tomes, a testament to the family's long history. Cregan poured three goblets of Northern ale, handing one to each of you.
“I’m aware of your concerns,” Cregan began, his voice steady. “And I want to assure you both that this marriage is not just a political maneuver. I care deeply for Daenys, and I intend to honor and protect her.”
Daemon sipped his ale, his gaze unwavering. “Words are easy, Lord Stark. Actions speak louder.”
Cregan nodded, unperturbed. “I understand. That’s why I propose a formal agreement. A pledge of mutual support between our houses. Not just in words, but in deeds.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly would this agreement entail?”
“A formal declaration of alliance,” Cregan explained. “Our houses will stand together against any threats. Daenys will be treated with the respect and honor she deserves, and her influence in the North will be significant.”
Daemon exchanged a glance with you, his expression unreadable. “We’ll need to review the terms carefully.”
Cregan nodded. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”
Later that evening, as the last remnants of daylight faded into the cold, inky darkness of the Northern night, you found Daemon standing alone by the hearth in one of the quieter rooms of the castle. The fire cast a warm, amber glow, illuminating the rough stone walls and sending shadows dancing across the floor. The flames crackled and hissed, the sound filling the silence that had settled thickly in the air, broken only by the occasional gust of wind howling outside.
Daemon stood with one hand braced against the mantle, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, as if the weight of the world rested on them. His other hand held a goblet, the dark liquid within swirling gently as he absentmindedly turned it in his grasp. His face was partially hidden in shadow, but the light from the fire caught the sharp angles of his features—the strong jawline, the high cheekbones, and the furrowed brow that spoke of deep contemplation.
You paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment, the flickering firelight playing tricks with your mind, making him seem both larger than life and somehow vulnerable at the same time. The tension in the room was almost tangible, a palpable reminder of the history you shared, a history that was as complicated as the man before you.
He glanced up as you approached, the movement subtle but revealing. His eyes, violet and intense, reflected the flickering flames, making them seem alive with an inner fire of their own. There was something in his gaze that gave you pause—an unspoken turmoil, a struggle that you could sense even if you couldn’t fully understand it.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was thick with unsaid words, with all the things that had been buried over the years. You could see the tension in the lines of his body, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly as he looked at you. It was clear that he was brooding, caught in a web of thoughts that kept him tethered to the hearth like a ship anchored in a storm.
As you drew closer, the heat from the fire washed over you, a stark contrast to the cold that seeped through the air of Winterfell. You could feel the roughness of the stone floor beneath your boots, the texture grounding you in the moment, reminding you of the reality you now faced. When you finally stopped beside him, the warmth from the fire mingled with the warmth of his presence, and you could feel the charged energy in the air between you.
Daemon’s eyes tracked your movements, his gaze unreadable but intense, as though he were searching for something in your expression. He didn’t speak, but the way he looked at you said enough—there was a weariness there, a guardedness that you recognized all too well. It was the same look he had worn in the aftermath of battles, when the weight of decisions made and lives lost bore down on him with an unforgiving hand.
“What do you think of Cregan’s proposal?” you asked in a quiet voice, settling into a chair beside him.
Daemon sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a bold move. He’s putting his intentions in writing, which means he’s serious. But there’s always a risk.”
“There’s always a risk,” you agreed. “But maybe this is what Daenys needs. A chance to carve out her own destiny.”
Daemon’s gaze softened. “She’s strong, like her mother. If anyone can handle the challenges of the North, it’s her.”
You smiled faintly, a sense of shared understanding passing between you. “Then we’ll support her. Together.”
For a moment, it seemed like the conversation would end there, with a rare moment of concord between you. But then Daemon leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, and the atmosphere shifted.
“You know, you always think you know best,” he said, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. “But this is the North we’re talking about. It’s not just about political alliances. It’s about survival, about knowing when to fight and when to yield.”
“And you think I don’t understand that?” you retorted, sitting up straighter. “I’ve seen more of the world than you give me credit for, Daemon. I know what’s at stake here. But Daenys needs our support, not our doubts.”
Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “Support, yes. Blind faith, no. You’re too eager to see the good in people, to believe that love and respect can conquer all. This isn’t some fairy tale. It’s a game of power, and we need to be sure Cregan Stark isn’t playing her.”
You felt a flash of anger. “And you’re too quick to see the worst in everyone! Not everything is a power struggle, Daemon. Sometimes, people are exactly who they say they are.”
“Like Viserys?” Daemon shot back, his tone bitter. “Like Rhaenyra? You’ve always been naive about the world, trusting when you should be wary.”
“That’s not fair,” you said, your voice rising. “I’ve made my share of mistakes, but so have you. Maybe if you spent more time listening and less time trying to control everything, you’d see that Daenys is capable of making her own decisions.”
Daemon stood up, pacing the room. “She’s our daughter. It’s our job to protect her, even if that means making decisions she doesn’t like.”
“It’s our job to guide her,” you corrected, standing as well. “Not to control her life. She chose to stay at Winterfell, and she chose Cregan. We have to respect that.”
He stopped pacing, turning to face you. The firelight flickered between you, casting shadows that seemed to deepen the divide. “And what if she’s wrong? What if this marriage puts her in danger?”
“Then we’ll deal with it,” you said firmly. “Together. But for now, we need to trust her. She’s not a child anymore, Daemon. She’s a woman, and she’s made her choice.”
The tension between you was thick, almost palpable. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, each lost in your own thoughts. Finally, Daemon let out a long breath, the fire in his eyes dimming slightly.
“I just don’t want to lose her,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
You stepped closer, reaching out to take his hand. “Neither do I. But we won’t. She’s strong, and she has both of us to back her up. We just have to find a way to work together, for her sake.”
He squeezed your hand, a rare gesture of affection. “Alright. We’ll do this together. But I’m not taking my eyes off Stark. If he steps out of line, he’ll know the full wrath of dragonfire”
You felt the warmth of Daemon’s hand linger longer than you expected, his grip firm yet gentle, as though he were holding onto something fragile. It was a rare moment of closeness, one that felt both foreign and familiar. For a heartbeat, the old walls you had both built up over the years seemed to crack, letting a sliver of something else—something unspoken—shine through.
He didn’t pull away, and neither did you. Instead, you found yourself meeting his gaze, the intensity in his eyes softened by a vulnerability you hadn’t seen in years. It was strange, unsettling even, how the man you’d once loved so fiercely, and later fought so bitterly, could still stir something deep within you.
“I’ll admit,” he began, his voice quieter now, almost as if he were hesitant to break the moment, “it’s been a long time since we’ve stood together like this. I almost forgot what it feels like to be on the same side.”
You felt a pang in your chest, an echo of the bond you once shared. “So much has happened,” you murmured, your voice catching slightly. “But for Daenys… for her, we can find a way back to that. Even if it’s just for a little while.”
His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, a subtle movement that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. “You were always the stronger one,” he said, his tone almost admiring. “Even when we were at odds, you never wavered. I don’t think I ever told you that.”
Your breath caught in your throat. “Daemon…” you started, unsure of what to say. This was uncharted territory—where the past and present collided in a way you hadn’t anticipated. The bitterness, the anger, it had always been easier to hold onto, easier to understand. But this? This was different.
He tilted his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that made you feel exposed, as though he were seeing through every defense you’d ever put up. “Maybe we’ve both been too proud to admit that we need each other, even now.”
You felt your heart skip a beat, your mind racing to make sense of the emotions swirling inside you. How long had it been since you’d allowed yourself to feel anything for him other than resentment? And yet, here he was, standing before you, not as the man who had hurt you, but as someone who understood you in a way few others ever could.
“It doesn’t change what’s happened between us,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction. “But maybe… maybe it doesn’t have to define us, either.”
His lips curled into a small, almost sad smile. “No, it doesn’t. But I won’t lie, it’s hard to forget. Even harder to forgive.” There was no accusation in his tone, just a weary acknowledgment of the truth.
You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. “I know. But maybe we can start with understanding, if nothing else. For Daenys’s sake, and maybe even for our own.”
Daemon took a step closer, his free hand moving to rest lightly on your shoulder, the heat of his touch seeping through the layers of fabric and armor—the one you made to protect yourself from men like him. The years had changed both of you, but in that moment, you were reminded of the passion that had once burned so brightly between you, now buried under layers of history.
“For our own,” he echoed, his voice a low rumble that sent a thrill through you. The space between you felt charged, heavy with the weight of all that had been left unsaid over the years.
You found yourself leaning into him, just slightly, your breath mingling with his in the cold, firelit air. “Daemon, I —” you began, but the words faltered on your lips as a torrent of conflicting emotions surged within you.
He was close enough now that you could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his expression had softened in a way that made him almost seem younger, more like the man you had first fallen in love with.
But before either of you could say anything more, the moment was broken by the distant sound of a horn, echoing through the stone walls. It was a reminder of where you were, of the duties and expectations that awaited you both outside the privacy of this room.
Daemon’s hand lingered on your shoulder for a moment longer before he finally let go, the connection severed but not forgotten. He cleared his throat, the mask of stoic resolve slipping back into place as he stepped back. “We should join the others,” he said, his voice returning to its usual gruffness, though it lacked its usual edge.
You nodded, the brief glimpse of what might have been already fading as reality set back in. “Yes, we should.”
As you made your way towards the door, you couldn’t help but glance back at him, catching his eye once more. There was something there, a glimmer of something unspoken but understood. You weren’t sure what it meant, or where it would lead, but for now, it was enough to know that you weren’t alone in this.
Whatever lay ahead, you would face it together. Not as husband and wife, not as enemies, but as something in between—two people bound by history, by their daughter, and perhaps, just a little, by the lingering embers of a love that had never fully burned out.
summary: after an unexpected invitation to a wedding at the north, y/n royce teams up with her unbearable ex-husband, prince daemon targaryen, on a journey that leads us to Winterfell, where they plan to stop their daughter from marrying cregan stark.
author's note: this short series (it will probably be a trilogy) is based off the movie "ticket to paradise" (yes the one with george clooney and julia roberts)
warnings: enemies to lovers, short haired daemon, y/n and daemon hate each other and will probably remind you of your divorced parents. daenys is 18 and i don't remember how old is cregan sorry :)
reblogs, feedbacks and likes are appreciated. support your content creators 💓 please leave a comment if you like my work, and enjoy your reading.
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You thought that years after your daughter became a woman, parenting wouldn't be a problem in your life anymore. You were wrong. As your eyes read the letter in your hand, over and over again, your mind screamed: This is all his fault!!! And of course you knew it wasn't directly his fault, after all, your ex-husband resided at King's Landing, and probably by now he'd be reading the letter, same as you, after receiving this dreadful news. Your sweet young daughter has just got engaged to Cregan Stark.
Daemon's nostrils dilated in anger. Two weeks ago, Viserys had asked him to visit Winterfell and make presence at Cregan's takeover ceremony, as he just became the new Lord of Winterfell. The Prince was ready to do so, but his precious Daenys asked him to go on her father and uncle's behalf. Now, Daemon would take the blame as he knew it was, in fact, his fault.
As the The Rogue Prince went over the words written on the paper, he could already feel your future judgmental gaze burning him alive. He had thrown his daughter to the wolves, and she thought she was prepared to lead the pack. She asked to go and he let her. Now, he was invited to a wedding at The North.
This wouldn't be happening if she lived in The Vale with you. But no, she had to choose daddy. She would always choose daddy. The Vale didn't had a dragonpit, The Vale didn't had her silver-haired family, The Vale didn't had anything but cows and sheeps and grass. But The Vale had you, and sometimes Daenys would stay for a few weeks with you, even if that meant that her dragon would be flying around Runestone and scaring the villagers.
You had received a raven from Daemon, inviting you to King's Landing so he could escort you to Winterfell on dragonback. Though you preferred the more traditional method of traveling on horseback, you accepted.
The capitol greeted you with its usual oppressive heat and unpleasant smells. It was as you remembered it: hot, congested, and overwhelmingly unpleasant. The last time you had been here was for Rhaenyra's engagement, which had turned into a wedding—and a funeral. The bitterness of that memory lingered.
The court's reception of you was as cold as the city was warm. You were an outsider—no Targaryen lineage, no purple eyes, and no place in the intricate web of court politics. Queen Alicent, though not a Targaryen herself, had embraced the court's customs, which had twisted her children into incestuous little monsters. And as for the heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra's disdain for you was palpable, perhaps fueled by her own obsession with Daemon. The rest of the court's members paid little heed to your presence.
Your carriage delivered you to the Dragonpit, where Daemon was preoccupied with Caraxes, his dragon. The beast’s excitement was evident in its whistling and the way it eagerly twisted its neck to catch sight of you.
Daemon's scowl was familiar as he wrestled with Caraxes. “I wondered if you’d actually come,” he grumbled, his voice a mix of irritation and begrudging relief.
“You knew I had no choice, someone had to come fix up your mess." You shrugged, getting closer to pet the animal.
"My mess!? I don't remember telling Daenys to marry Cregan fucking Stark!" The Rogue Prince scoffed, his voice sounding a little high pitched, "I gave her a task, It's not my fault she has done something completely different."
You hissed at his audacious condescension, "You gave her your task, your responsibility. It's your fault Daemon, as everything is always your fault."
The Rogue Prince frowned as he hopped on his dragon's back, "What's that supposed to mean?"
You chose to ignore him, but accepted his help to get on top of Caraxes' back.
It took eight agonizing hours upon the skies on way to Winterfell, and you could only imagine how many Stark babies your daughter had made by now. It was quite silent upon the clouds, and you could feel the cold air of The North starting to freeze your bones. You wondered if Daenys had adapted herself to the cold already. As always, all your thoughts were on your daughter.
A soft, almost comical tune drifted over as Daemon hummed in High Valyrian while steering the dragon. You rolled your eyes and snorted.
"What’s so amusing now?" Daemon asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Just thinking about how we're going to stop her from marrying the North’s icy prince," you replied with a sigh.
Daemon’s eyes sparkled with mischief. "We should act like we're totally onboard with this. I'll get Cregan to admit he's marrying her just to get his hands on political power, and you, with your talent for manipulation, can work your magic on her."
You shot him a sharp look. "Oh, right. Because your idea of ‘support’ is turning into a two-faced schemer, and my ‘magic’ is just being a professional puppet master. Perfect."
Daemon chuckled at your response, his gaze fixed on the icy expanse below. "It’s not a matter of ‘manipulating’ her, it’s about protecting her. If this marriage goes south, it’s not just her future at risk—it’s the stability of my entire line."
“Stability? You’ve always cared more about your pride and dragons than anything else,” you retorted, shivering slightly as the cold air intensified.
“Pride and dragons have their place, but you underestimate my concern for Daenys,” Daemon said, his voice softening. “She’s my daughter too. If this marriage is a political maneuver or a trap, I need to know. And unfortunately I need your help to do that.”
The snow-covered landscape of Winterfell was becoming clearer as Caraxes descended. You glanced at Daemon, seeing a flicker of genuine worry in his eyes. For a moment, the old animosity between you seemed to melt away, replaced by a shared concern for your daughter.
As Caraxes touched down in the snow-covered grounds of Winterfell, the stark chill of the North bit through your layers. Daemon’s expression was a mix of determination and frustration, and you couldn’t help but notice how the grandeur of Winterfell seemed to dwarf the fiery presence of his dragon.
You and Daemon dismounted swiftly, the crunch of snow beneath your boots echoing in the silent, frigid air. The imposing structure of Winterfell loomed ahead, a stark contrast to the warmth and opulence of King's Landing.
“The Starks will be expecting us,” Daemon said tersely, his gaze scanning the frosty landscape. “We need to play our parts carefully.”
You nodded, still bristling from the cold and the tension between you two. “I’ll do my best. But if this whole affair is some kind of power grab or an elaborate ploy against us, I want to make sure Daenys is safe.”
Daemon’s expression softened again, a rare glimpse of vulnerability crossing his features. “We’ll find out soon enough. For now, let’s just hope this is a union built on more than just politics.”
As you approached the gates of Winterfell, the grandeur of the ancient castle was both intimidating and awe-inspiring. The guards let you pass with minimal fuss, their cold eyes assessing you and Daemon with practiced neutrality. The hallways of Winterfell were lined with Stark banners, and the warmth from the hearths provided a small relief from the biting cold outside.
You were soon ushered into a grand hall where Cregan Stark awaited. His presence was as formidable as his reputation, with an aura of quiet strength that seemed to fill the room. Beside him was Daenys, looking regal but noticeably tense, her eyes meeting yours with a mix of relief and apprehension.
“Mother, Father,” Daenys greeted, her voice steady despite the situation. “I’m glad you’ve arrived safely.”
You offered her a warm but concerned smile, taking in her attire and the unmistakable signs of stress on her face. "Daenys, dear. You look… well. But we need to talk."
Cregan stepped forward, his expression courteous but his eyes sharp. "Welcome to Winterfell. I trust the journey was not too arduous?"
Daemon gave a curt nod, his eyes fixed on Cregan. “It was long, but we’ve managed. I hope the arrangements for the wedding are proceeding as planned?”
Cregan’s expression remained neutral. “Indeed. We’ve made all necessary preparations. I’m eager to discuss the future and the alliance this marriage represents.”
As the conversation continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of a complex and possibly perilous chapter. You knew you’d have to navigate not only the intricacies of court politics but also the fraught emotions of a father who was clearly worried about his daughter’s well-being.
The banquet that followed was a display of Northern hospitality, but your mind was elsewhere, focusing on how to ensure Daenys’s future was secure. As the evening wore on, you planned your next steps carefully, knowing that every word and action would impact the delicate balance of relationships that had already been strained.
As you finally retired to your quarters for the night, you and Daemon shared a moment of silence. The weight of the situation was palpable, and while the old arguments and grievances were still there, a shared purpose had emerged. Protecting Daenys was now the priority, and perhaps, in this endeavor, you and Daemon could find some common ground, if only for a little while.
In the stillness of the night, you lay in the unfamiliar bed of Winterfell, the grandeur of the castle doing little to soothe your growing unease. The banquet had been a parade of forced smiles and veiled threats, and the cold seemed to seep through your bones with each passing moment.
A knock at your door broke the silence, and you opened it to find Daemon, his face lit by the flickering torchlight. His usually stern demeanor was tinged with a rare hint of vulnerability.
"Thought I'd find you awake," Daemon said, stepping inside, uninvited "We need to be extra cautious. Cregan Stark is shrewd, and there’s more to this marriage than meets the eye."
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "Is that so? Because it sounds like you’re just now realizing what kind of game the Starks are playing. Should I prepare myself for a lecture on how wolves hunt in packs?"
Daemon scowled, clearly irritated. "I don't need you to remind me. What I need is to figure out if this alliance is a genuine union or a clever trap."
You snorted, leaning against the wall. "And you think I’m here for the fun of it? We need to be careful, Daemon. You can’t just stomp around like a bull in a wolf’s den and expect to come out unscathed."
Daemon’s eyes flashed with irritation. "I’m not planning on stomping around. I’m suggesting we handle this with some subtlety. Unlike some people who seem to think they can charm their way through every situation."
You gave him a sharp look. "Oh, don’t start with the high-handed approach. We both know you’re just as likely to spark a conflict as you are to prevent one. If you want to be useful, maybe try blending in with the Northerners instead of prancing around like a dragon amongst wolves."
He narrowed his eyes. "And maybe you could stop pretending you have all the answers and start cooperating for once. We’re in this together, whether you like it or not."
With a huff, you pushed away from the wall. "Fine. Let’s agree to not kill each other while we’re here. But remember, Daemon, while you’re plotting your next move, I’ll be the one trying to keep the peace and avoid any unnecessary skirmishes."
Daemon’s expression softened just a fraction. "Agreed. I’ll focus on not antagonizing everyone, if you focus on not making me look like a fool."
As he turned to leave, you caught his arm, a smile playing on your lips. "If this goes south, I expect a full report on how you are to blame."
He shot you a sardonic smile. "I’ll make sure to include a chapter on your unmatched ability to defuse a crisis."
With that, he left, and you returned to the window, staring out at the snow-covered grounds. The chill of Winterfell seemed to amplify the tensions between you, but perhaps, with a bit of wit and a lot of careful maneuvering, you could unravel the true nature of this alliance and ensure Daenys's future wasn't just a pawn in a Stark game.
acabei de ler "heritage from the sand" e eu sou o anon que mandou a pergunta e caramba, maravilhoso! Mas essa parte “Perhaps,” Aemond suggested thoughtfully, “we should learn more about the Martell history together. There’s much we can draw from it. Maybe one day we could visit the place so you could meet your grandsire.” me pegou. Eu estava pensando, se talvez isso pudesse acontecer? Não sei porq, mas lendo isso me veio que talvez s/n e Qoren tentam brigado, talvez pelo fato dela querer e de fato de casar com Dae? Talvez por isso ela "renegou" o título de princesa? (Msm estando casada com um príncipe, talvez a briga tenha sido tão feia que ela pegou um "trauma" do título?) Talvez pudesse ter uma reconciliação e de quebra avô e netos se conhecendo(e ele finalmente aceitando Daemon ao ver como sua filha está feliz com a família que ela construiu?) São só ideias e pensamentos, não se sinta pressionada
oii nonnie!! que bom te ver aqui e saber q vc ainda me acompanha 😭❤️
gostei muito que você conseguiu pegar as pequenas indicações de que algo havia acontecido entre a y/n e o qoren.
a gente esta em no período de tempo de 135 D.C e dorne so foi conquistada em 158 D.C, o que significa que ainda há muito caminho andado entre a "paz" dos targaryen com dorne. na minha história, os martell tentam manter aparências amistosas fazendo essa presença em eventos, mas eles não querem se "submeter" a dinastia targaryen, o que significa que o qoren jamais iria ficar feliz com a união entre a y/n e o daemon, visto que isso a deixaria abaixo do rei.
a y/n poderia continuar sendo chamada de princesa pq ela nasceu com o título em dorne, mas abdicou sua posição para se casar. o casamento com o daemon não a torna princesa, e sim uma lady (como a laena mesmo não recebeu título de princesa, ou sequer as filhas dela)
não acho que o qoren veria com bons olhos uma reconciliação com a filha (estando casada com quem esta) e nem os dorneses estariam felizes com a visita da vhagar que praticou um gigante genocídio no passado kkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
mas eu quero sim escrever mais sobre a y/n em dorne e como foi o daemon rodeando ela no dia da coroação do viserys. acho que vai ser mais uma oneshot prequel, mesmo eu tendo me divertido bastante contando uma história pelo ponto de vista do viserys
de qualquer forma, sou muito grata pela sua atenção 🫶🏽 obrigada por ainda estar aqui.
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