someone @hoeforsirius - Tumblr Blog

Oct 4, 2025

The Price of Desire - Reader!Targtower

Summary : The weight of duty, of expectations, of being torn between love and obligation—had slowly crushed you beneath it. Your brothers had fought over you, your fate decided not by your own heart but by the desires of men who would never understand you. And when their words turned cruel, when the halls of your home became a battlefield of whispers and accusations, you had done the only thing you could.

Warning : Angst, Self-Neglect and Starvation, Emotional and Psychological Distress, Family Conflict and Betrayal, Forced Expectations and Loss of Autonomy, Death and Loss, Verbal and Emotional Abuse.

a/n: Dividers is from @zaldritzosrose , check her blog to see more.

The gardens of the Red Keep were bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun, the scent of blooming roses and fresh-cut grass weaving through the warm air. You walked along the stone path, the skirts of your gown trailing behind you as your ladies-in-waiting flanked you on either side. Their laughter mingled with yours, the high, melodic sound echoing against the castle walls as one of them whispered something scandalous about a lord’s wandering hands at last night’s feast. You clutched your chest in feigned shock, eyes sparkling with mischief, before giggling behind your hand.

But then, like a gust of cold wind cutting through the summer warmth, the laughter died. The shift in the atmosphere was palpable. You felt it before you saw them.

Your brothers.

Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron moved toward you, each with a different intensity in their gaze. The three of them, varying in temperament yet bound by blood, were like shadows cast upon the garden’s beauty—too alluring, too dangerous.

Aegon was at the forefront, his golden hair catching the sunlight, a lazy smirk curling his lips. His violet eyes, often clouded with indulgence, now held a sharper edge, a possessive gleam that made your stomach tighten. Behind him, Aemond walked with measured grace, his sapphire eye gleaming as his remaining violet one locked onto you. There was always something unreadable in Aemond’s gaze, something both terrifying and intoxicating. And then there was Daeron—your sweet, charming younger brother, his boyish handsomeness a deceptive mask for the sharp cunning that lurked beneath.

“My sweet sister,” Aegon purred, reaching for your hand. His fingers, warm and calloused, enclosed around yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles. “You look radiant today. Doesn’t she, brothers?”

Aemond hummed, his eye raking over you in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. “She does. Though I imagine Father would prefer her dressed in something less… distracting.”

You scoffed, playfully pulling your hand from Aegon’s grasp. “Must you always tease me, Aemond?”

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk. “Must you always give me reason to?”

Daeron chuckled, stepping closer. “Ignore them, sweet sister. You are a vision, as always.” His fingers brushed against your wrist—so light, so fleeting, yet enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Aegon’s smirk deepened as he leaned in, his breath fanning over your ear. “Tell me, little sister… who are you trying to tempt with that dress?”

Heat bloomed across your cheeks, though you refused to let them see your flustered state. “It is merely a dress, Aegon.”

“A dress meant to lure men into madness,” Aemond muttered, his voice edged with something dangerous.

You rolled your eyes but grinned nonetheless. “If you three are done tormenting me, I am going to our father’s chambers to read to him. You may join me if you wish.”

Aegon tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. “Shall we, brothers?”

Aemond and Daeron exchanged glances before nodding.

And so, the four of you walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, each step heavy with something unspoken, something electric. The air was thick with tension—an intoxicating, forbidden tension that neither of them dared voice but all of them felt.

The heavy wooden doors of your father’s chambers creaked as they swung open, the familiar scent of burning incense and old parchment wafting toward you. The room was dimly lit, the golden glow of candlelight flickering against the stone walls, casting elongated shadows across the space. You stepped forward with a soft smile, the warmth of anticipation bubbling in your chest—only for your breath to catch at the sight before you.

Rhaenyra and her husband, Daemon, stood near your father’s bedside.

The air in the chamber shifted, the once welcoming warmth turning thick and charged, almost suffocating. Behind you, your brothers stilled, their presence shifting into something tense—something dangerous. You could feel it in the way Aemond’s body went rigid beside you, the way Aegon’s usually easy smirk tightened into something unreadable, and the way Daeron hesitated just slightly, his hand hovering near the hilt of his belt as if uncertain whether he would need to defend you.

Rhaenyra was as radiant as ever, her silver-blonde hair cascading down her back in intricate braids, her violet eyes sharp and calculating as they flickered toward you. She smiled—soft, practiced, but not without caution. Beside her, Daemon stood like a shadow, dark and unreadable, his sharp lilac gaze dragging over you with something more intense, something far more dangerous than what lay beneath your half-sister’s careful demeanor.

“Sweet sister,” Rhaenyra greeted, her voice warm, though there was something else laced within it—curiosity, perhaps? Or suspicion? “It has been far too long.”

You returned her smile, stepping forward with grace, the fabric of your gown clinging to your form in all the right places, accentuating the curves that had long since drawn the attention of men throughout court. You knew you were a temptation—an irresistible, forbidden fruit. And you knew the way the men in this room fought to resist you, to mask the hunger in their eyes.

“Rhaenyra,” you said sweetly, reaching out to clasp her hands. “I am glad you are here. I had not expected you so soon.”

Daemon chuckled, low and smooth, and you did not miss the way his gaze dragged over the delicate curve of your throat, the exposed skin of your collarbone. “Your nameday is a special occasion,” he drawled, stepping forward, his voice like silk and steel entwined. “And we would not dare miss the opportunity to celebrate you.”

Behind you, Aegon scoffed, the sound filled with a mix of amusement and irritation. “Celebrate?” he echoed, voice dripping with mockery. “That is rich, coming from you, uncle.”

Daemon only smirked, unfazed by the tension crackling in the air. He turned his gaze to you again, slow and deliberate. “I must say, little niece,” he murmured, “you have grown into quite the vision.”

The compliment was bold—too bold. Aemond tensed beside you, and you could feel the restrained fury rolling off him in waves. His fingers twitched, curling into fists at his sides. Daeron, ever the golden boy, kept his expression schooled, but you did not miss the way his jaw clenched. And Aegon… Aegon laughed, a sound devoid of humor.

“She has always been a vision,” Aegon said, stepping forward, positioning himself closer to you, as if laying claim. “But you would know that, wouldn’t you, uncle?”

Daemon’s smirk never wavered, his violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable—something dangerous. “Indeed,” he mused, tilting his head as if contemplating a move on a cyvasse board. “Though I wonder… does she know just how tempting she is?”

You felt your pulse quicken, heat creeping up your spine. The weight of their gazes—Daemon’s, your brothers’—burned against your skin, sending shivers dancing across your arms. There was something intoxicating about it, something wickedly thrilling.

Rhaenyra, sensing the unspoken tension, cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “Enough, Daemon,” she warned, though there was a knowing amusement in her gaze as she looked between you and your brothers. “We are here for my sister’s nameday, not to provoke a fight.”

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, stepping beside you, his presence grounding yet possessive. “Then perhaps our uncle should remember his place,” he muttered, his voice edged with venom.

Daemon only laughed—low, dark, and knowing. He turned back to you, offering his hand. “Come, niece. Will you not sit with me? Indulge an old man with your company before you begin your readings?”

You hesitated, your heart pounding against your ribs. You could feel the weight of your brothers’ stares, the silent warning in their stiffened postures.

You smiled, soft and demure, though the weight of Daemon’s lingering gaze sent a shiver rolling down your spine. He was temptation itself, a man born of fire and chaos, but you were no fool. To accept his invitation would be to step too close to the flame—and you knew, without a doubt, that the men behind you would not allow it.

So, with all the grace and poise of a daughter of kings, you tilted your head, auburn curls cascading over your shoulder as you replied sweetly, “Perhaps another time, uncle. My father awaits me.”

Daemon’s smirk did not falter, but there was something dark in his eyes—something intrigued, something almost amused—as he inclined his head in mock acceptance. “Of course, little niece. Another time.”

With that, you turned away from him, your silk skirts whispering against the stone floor as you walked toward your father’s bedside. The flickering candlelight cast warm shadows across Viserys’ frail form, his skin pallid, the weight of his years pressing upon him like an unbearable burden. And yet, when he looked at you, his expression softened, his tired eyes crinkling at the corners as you leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his sunken cheek.

“Father,” you murmured, your voice as tender as the touch of your lips. “I found a new book in the library today. I think you will like it.”

Viserys let out a slow, rattling breath, his smile faint but genuine as he nodded. “You always… find the best stories, sweet girl.”

Your heart ached at the sound of his voice—so weak, so fragile. Once, your father had been strong, a king whose presence filled a room. Now, he was but a shadow of himself, and it pained you more than you dared admit.

Behind you, your brothers hovered like sentinels, their looming presence a silent promise of protection. Aegon leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed, but his usually lazy demeanor was absent; his sharp violet gaze was locked onto Daemon, watching, waiting. Aemond stood just behind you, close enough that you could feel his heat, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as if resisting the urge to reach for you. And Daeron, ever the quiet observer, remained near the doorway, his expression unreadable.

It was a silent warning.

Daemon would not come near you again. Not tonight.

And yet, the gods were not done testing your resolve.

Before you could even open the book in your hands, the chamber doors swung open once more, the sound of hurried footsteps filling the room. You turned in surprise, only for your breath to hitch at the sight before you.

Jacaerys and Lucerys.

Your half-sister’s sons.

They strode into the room with the easy confidence of princes, though their eyes immediately sought out their mother. Rhaenyra smiled at them warmly, but the tension in the room had already shifted, thickened, crackling like embers waiting to ignite.

Because as soon as Jacaerys’ gaze landed on you, his steps faltered.

For the briefest moment, he hesitated, his dark eyes widening ever so slightly as they raked over you—not in the way one looks upon a sibling, but in the way a man looks upon something he desires.

And Lucerys, younger though he was, was no better. His gaze flickered downward, tracing the delicate curve of your figure beneath the fine silk of your gown, before he quickly averted his eyes, his jaw tightening.

Your brothers noticed.

Aegon scoffed, a knowing smirk curling his lips. “Oh, this is rich.”

Aemond’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, his sapphire eye gleaming dangerously. “It seems our dear nephews have forgotten themselves.”

Daeron said nothing, but the shift in his posture was unmistakable—a silent readiness, a quiet threat.

Rhaenyra, ever the queen in waiting, arched a brow at the sudden tension. “Surely you all can behave for one evening?” she chided, her tone light but firm.

But Daemon? Daemon only smirked.

He had noticed it too.

And he was enjoying every moment of it.

Jacaerys cleared his throat, tearing his gaze away from you as he turned back to his mother. “We came to see you before the feast,” he said, though his voice was tighter than before. “We only just arrived.”

Lucerys, ever the quieter of the two, simply nodded, though his hands were clenched at his sides.

You tilted your head, amusement dancing in your eyes. “You must be tired from your journey.”

Jacaerys met your gaze then, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes. “Not at all,” he said smoothly. “In truth, I rather enjoy being here.”

Aegon laughed, low and knowing. “Do you, now?”

The room was a battlefield without swords.

Your brothers. Your half-sister’s sons.

Daemon watching from the sidelines, amusement gleaming in his eyes like a man who enjoyed watching the world burn.

The chamber had grown quieter as the evening stretched on, the only sounds filling the space being your own voice, soft and steady, weaving tales from the book in your lap. Viserys had drifted into slumber somewhere in the midst of your reading, his breath slow and shallow, the weight of his age pressing heavy upon him. You watched him for a moment, your heart aching at the sight of how fragile he had become.

Carefully, you leaned down and pressed a delicate kiss to his sunken cheek, your lips brushing over his skin like the whisper of a promise. “Rest well, Father,” you murmured.

With gentle hands, you closed the book in your lap, its worn leather cover cool beneath your fingertips. But just as you prepared to rise, the chamber doors groaned open once more, breaking the quiet.

You turned your head just in time to see your mother step inside.

Alicent Hightower carried herself with the poise of a queen, her deep green gown clinging to her form with all the elegance of a woman who knew the power she wielded. Her auburn hair, the very same shade as your own, cascaded over her shoulders in thick waves, her eyes sharp as they swept over the room—taking in the presence of your brothers, your nephews, Rhaenyra, and Daemon all lingering within the king’s chambers.

For a brief moment, her gaze softened when it landed upon you.

“You should begin preparing for the feast,” she said, her voice calm but firm.

You nodded, knowing better than to protest. “Of course, Mother.”

Slowly, you rose from your seat, smoothing out the delicate fabric of your gown as you turned toward the rest of the room. Your brothers remained where they were, watching you with unreadable expressions. Aegon, still leaning lazily against the pillar, smirked as if he knew something you didn’t. Aemond stood tall and rigid, his sharp gaze never straying from you, while Daeron remained quiet, observing, always waiting.

And your nephews

Jacaerys’ jaw had tensed when he heard your mother’s words, as if the thought of you leaving unsettled him. His dark eyes followed your every movement, something flickering behind them—something intense. Lucerys, younger though he was, shifted his weight as if debating whether to say something, but ultimately kept his silence.

You turned to Rhaenyra last, offering a polite nod. “It was good to see you again, sister.”

She smiled, though there was a knowing look in her gaze. “And you, sweet sister.”

But it was Daemon who spoke next.

“Leaving so soon?” he mused, his voice slow, deliberate. “Such a shame. I was quite enjoying your company.”

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter at the low timbre of his voice, at the way his violet gaze dragged over you with a heat that should not have been there—not from your uncle. Not from a man who had already claimed a wife. And yet, there it was, burning between you like the fire that coursed through your family’s veins.

Aemond stiffened at your side. “She has preparations to make,” he said coolly, his voice edged with something dangerous. “You will have to find entertainment elsewhere, uncle.”

Daemon only smirked, as if he relished the way your brothers bristled at his presence, as if he enjoyed pushing them to their limits just to see how far they would go.

Aegon, never one to miss a chance to stir chaos, let out a low chuckle. “Gods, it’s almost amusing how you all circle her like wolves.” He tilted his head, his violet eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Tell me, little sister, does it not exhaust you—being the object of so many affections?”

His words were playful, teasing. But there was something else beneath them—something possessive, something dark.

You met his gaze, unflinching. “Affection is not a burden, dear brother,” you mused, tilting your head ever so slightly. “But I suppose you would not know much of it.”

Laughter rippled through the room, but Aegon only smirked, as if your sharp tongue amused him rather than wounded him.

Jacaerys stepped forward then, his expression unreadable. “May I escort you?”

The question was innocent enough, but the way he said it—the way his eyes locked onto yours with something that felt like longing—was anything but.

Before you could even part your lips to answer, Aemond stepped closer, his presence a silent threat. “That will not be necessary.”

Jacaerys’ gaze snapped to his, the tension between them palpable.

For a moment, the chamber was silent.

And then Rhaenyra sighed, shaking her head. “Come, Jace, Luke. We will see her at the feast.”

Jacaerys hesitated, his jaw tight, but eventually, he relented. With a final glance in your direction, he turned on his heel and followed his mother and brother out of the room.

That left you with your brothers. And Daemon.

You let out a soft breath before nodding once. “I shall take my leave.”

Daemon was still watching you, still smirking, as if he knew something the others did not. But he said nothing.

Instead, it was Aegon who moved first, pushing off the pillar as he reached out and traced a single finger along your wrist before murmuring, “Don’t keep us waiting too long, little sister.”

Aemond said nothing, but when you turned to leave, you could feel the heat of his gaze burning into your back and Daeron, Daeron simply watched. Silent. Calculating. As if he, too, was waiting for his turn.

Your chambers were alight with the glow of countless candles, their soft flames flickering against the polished mirrors as the maids worked around you with quiet efficiency. The scent of roses and myrrh clung to the air, a delicate perfume that only added to the anticipation humming in your veins. Tonight, the Red Keep would be alive with music, laughter, and the undeniable tension that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

You sat poised before the vanity, your auburn hair being woven into intricate braids, cascading down your back like strands of molten copper. The maids worked carefully, twisting and pinning each lock into place, adorning your hair with pearls and golden pins shaped like the seven-pointed star—a silent homage to your mother’s faith.

And then there was the dress.

Deep emerald, rich as the forests beyond the Reach, clinging to every sinful curve of your body. The corset cinched your waist to perfection, accentuating the swell of your hips, the fullness of your chest. The neckline plunged low, revealing the soft, tempting swell of your breasts, a display meant to command attention—to tempt, to ensnare. The fabric shimmered in the candlelight, each movement sending ripples through the delicate embroidery, as if the very dress was alive with seduction.

From the reflection in the mirror, you caught sight of your mother standing behind you.

Alicent Hightower’s expression was unreadable at first, her sharp green eyes sweeping over you with careful calculation. Then, slowly, a smile curled her lips, and she reached forward, her touch surprisingly gentle as she brushed her fingers over your cheek.

“You are my daughter,” she murmured, the warmth in her voice sending a shiver down your spine. “More Hightower than Targaryen.”

The words settled deep within you, filling you with something heady, something powerful. You had always known your blood was a battle of two legacies—one of fire, one of faith. But tonight, clad in emerald, you were no dragon’s daughter. You were a queen in the making.

Your lips curved into a smile, tilting your head into her touch. “That pleases you, doesn’t it, Mother?”

Alicent hummed softly, tilting her chin as she studied you, her fingers tracing a slow path down your arm. “It does,” she admitted, voice as smooth as silk. “The court will see you tonight and know that you are not like her.”

Her.

Rhaenyra.

The unspoken name hung heavy in the air, a shadow neither of you acknowledged.

A knowing look passed between you, the understanding silent but absolute. You were not like your half-sister—the wild heir who ruled over Dragonstone, the reckless Targaryen who let fire consume all in her path. No, you were something else entirely.

You were fire carefully contained within glass, dangerous in its restraint.

You reached for your mother’s hand then, pressing it gently between your own. “I will not disappoint you.”

Alicent’s lips curled ever so slightly. “You never have.”

The moment stretched between you before she finally stepped back, casting one last approving glance over you. “Come,” she said. “The feast awaits.”

And as you rose to your feet, the emerald silk flowing around you like liquid temptation, you knew that tonight—tonight, the Red Keep would burn, not with dragonfire, but with the fire of desire.

The grand doors of the throne room swung open, the polished gold and iron catching the glow of the torches. Your mother walked beside you, her posture as regal as the crown that adorned her auburn hair, guiding you forward with a hand light on your wrist. But it was you the court watched.

The moment you stepped inside, the room fell into silence.

Noble lords and ladies, knights and bannermen, even servants lingering at the edges of the hall—all had turned to look at you. It was not mere curiosity that held them breathless, nor was it simple admiration. No, what filled the air was something heavier, something darker. A hunger unspoken yet understood.

You could feel their eyes—tracing the shape of you, the curves the emerald silk accentuated, the delicate rise and fall of your chest beneath the low neckline. The corset cinched your waist to perfection, making you look like something carved by the gods themselves. Your auburn hair shimmered in the candlelight, twisted into elegant braids that revealed the graceful column of your neck, a sight meant to be admired, perhaps even worshipped.

Your mother kept walking, unbothered, her grip on you steady as she led you toward the high table where your family awaited.

Your brothers were the first you noticed.

Aegon lounged back in his seat, a goblet of wine in hand, but his violet eyes had darkened with something unreadable as he watched you approach. Aemond sat straighter, his sharp, calculating gaze never once wavering from you, his lips parted ever so slightly as if you had stolen his very breath. And Daeron, usually quiet, stared as if he was seeing something forbidden, something untouchable.

Your nephews were no better.

Jacaerys tensed when he saw you, his grip tightening on the armrest of his chair, his chest rising and falling just a little too quickly. Lucerys, younger but no less captivated, had his brows slightly furrowed, as if he could not decide whether he wanted to look or look away.

And then there was Daemon.

Your uncle. Your father’s brother. A rogue prince who should not have looked at you the way he did.

His lips curled into something amused, but his eyes… his eyes were devouring. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his goblet to his lips and took a sip, his smirk deepening as if he had all the patience in the world to play whatever wicked game he was entertaining in his mind.

You inhaled softly and took your seat, your mother standing beside you as she turned to address the court.

“As Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, it is my honor to welcome you all on this joyous occasion,” Alicent’s voice rang through the hall, smooth and powerful. “Tonight, we celebrate my daughter, a beacon of grace and virtue.” Her gaze flickered down to you then, pride gleaming in her green eyes. “May this night mark the beginning of a prosperous future for her.”

She raised her goblet, and the court echoed her gesture, lifting their cups in unison.

“To the princess,” she toasted.

“To the princess,” the hall repeated.

You lifted your own goblet, your lips curving as you took a sip. But even as the feast began, even as the music filled the air and laughter broke the tension, you could still feel them watching you. Your brothers. Your nephews. Your uncle.

A shiver danced down your spine when you laughed at something Helaena murmured beside you, a soft, genuine sound that made her smile in return.

And then the mood shifted.

A shadow fell over your table as a tall figure stepped forward, his presence commanding, his movements purposeful.

Lord Cregan Stark.

He was unlike the men of court, unlike the lords who whispered behind their goblets and played games with empty words. He was a wolf, broad-shouldered and solid, his dark hair falling past his shoulders, his storm-gray eyes piercing as they locked onto yours.

“My lady,” Cregan said, his voice deep, steady. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Aegon shifted in his seat, fingers drumming against the table. Aemond’s jaw clenched ever so slightly, while Daeron, though polite, was watching intently. Jacaerys’ lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers tightening against his goblet, and Lucerys shifted uncomfortably.

Daemon merely smirked, waiting.

You tilted your head, meeting Cregan’s gaze with a slow, knowing smile. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

You placed your hand in his, his warmth enveloping you as he guided you away from the table, away from the stifling heat of the gazes that followed your every step. And as he led you to the dance floor, as his hands settled on your waist, firm yet respectful.

The hall was alive with music, the soft melody of strings and flutes weaving through the air like a spell. The flickering glow of a thousand candles cast golden light across the polished marble floors, where lords and ladies twirled in elegant unison. Yet, for all the splendor of the feast, the attention of the court was not on the revelry.

It was on you.

Cregan Stark’s hand rested at your waist, steady and firm, his grip possessive yet respectful. His other hand held yours, his calloused fingers brushing over your knuckles with each step. He led the dance effortlessly, his strength guiding you through the turns, the folds of your emerald gown swirling around you like a whisper of temptation.

“You look breathtaking tonight,” he murmured, his deep Northern accent laced with something softer, something only for you.

The warmth of his breath against your ear sent a delicious shiver down your spine, your cheeks flushing despite yourself. You let out a light giggle, tilting your chin up to meet his storm-gray eyes, finding them filled with a quiet intensity.

“You flatter me, my lord,” you teased, your voice honeyed, the smile on your lips both coy and knowing.

Cregan chuckled, his thumb brushing idly against the back of your hand. “I only speak the truth.”

You felt their eyes on you.

The weight of their stares burned into your back—your brothers, your nephews, your uncle. They watched, silent, their expressions unreadable, but you could feel the tension thrumming beneath the surface like a beast ready to bare its fangs.

Yet, for this moment, you let them simmer in their jealousy.

As the dance slowed, Cregan’s hand at your waist lingered, his touch warm even through the layers of fabric. He studied you, his expression unreadable, but there was something contemplative in the way his eyes roamed your face, something deeper than mere attraction.

“Tell me, princess,” he began, his voice lower now, meant only for you. “What future do you see for yourself?”

The question was innocent on the surface, yet there was weight behind it, a meaning that stretched beyond mere pleasantries. He was not just asking about idle dreams—he was asking about your fate, your marriage.

You smiled, tilting your head, your fingers curling ever so slightly against his shoulder as you looked up at him through your lashes. “Why, my lord? Are you asking for yourself?”

The tease was meant to fluster him, to make him chuckle and shake his head.

But instead, he smiled. Slow. Certain.

“Yes,” Cregan said, his voice unwavering.

Your breath hitched. The answer was unexpected, yet the certainty in his tone sent something thrilling through you, something unfamiliar and dangerous.

He did not laugh it off, did not turn it into jest. He meant it.

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could respond, the music ended. The spell broke, and applause filled the hall.

Cregan stepped back, still holding your hand, his fingers brushing against yours before he finally released you. His gaze lingered, as if he was memorizing every inch of you, as if he was already claiming you in his mind.

And when he turned to leave the floor, you stood there, breathless, as the weight of his words settled over you. Behind you, at the high table, the men who had watched you so closely all night were seething.

As you made your way back to the high table, you could feel the weight of their stares pressing into your back. Your brothers, your nephews, your uncle—each one had watched your dance with Cregan Stark with something unreadable in their eyes. Aegon swirled the wine in his goblet with slow, lazy movements, though the grip he held on it was far from relaxed. Aemond sat rigid in his chair, his jaw tight, while Daeron kept a carefully neutral expression, though his fingers tapped restlessly against the table. Jacaerys and Lucerys were no better, the tension rolling off them in waves.

And then there was Daemon.

The Rogue Prince leaned back in his chair, his smirk faint but ever-present, watching you with an amusement that did not quite reach his eyes. There was something else there—something more dangerous, more possessive.

You ignored the storm brewing behind you and settled back into your seat beside your mother, who turned to you with a small, knowing smile.

“You danced beautifully, my love,” Alicent murmured, her voice warm yet sharp enough to cut through the tension at the table.

“Thank you, mother,” you replied sweetly, though you could still feel the ghost of Cregan’s hand on your waist, his words lingering in your mind.

Alicent exhaled softly, setting her goblet down with a quiet clink before turning to face you fully. “I received no less than ten marriage proposals for you this evening,” she remarked, her voice laced with amusement.

You blinked before laughter bubbled up from your lips, light and airy. “ten? My, I must be quite the temptation.”

The table was silent.

Aegon let out a short scoff, but he said nothing, merely tipping his goblet back as he took a long drink. Aemond’s fingers curled into a fist against his lap, while Jacaerys glanced away, his jaw tightening. Daemon smirked, swirling his wine, but his eyes never left you.

Alicent, ever the picture of grace, simply smiled at your reaction. “You are, my love. The most sought-after bride in the realm.”

You hummed in response, tilting your head in mock contemplation. “And yet, I have no intention of marrying so soon after my nameday,” you mused, your lips curving into something teasing. “Surely, I deserve more time to enjoy my youth before I am given to a lord?”

Your mother nodded in agreement, reaching to brush her fingers over your cheek in a rare display of affection. “I believe that is wise. There is no need to rush such decisions.”

A sigh of relief rippled through the table.

Aegon visibly relaxed, though his expression was unreadable. Aemond exhaled slowly, his tense shoulders loosening ever so slightly. Daeron nodded in silent approval, while Jacaerys and Lucerys both seemed to ease, though they still looked wary.

Daemon simply chuckled under his breath.

You took a sip of your wine, allowing the tension to settle. You had no doubt that they would fight for you, that this battle for your hand was only just beginning.

And as the feast continued, you smiled to yourself, knowing that tonight, you had won.

Laughter and music still filled the hall, the rich scent of spiced wine and roasted meats lingering in the air, but you barely noticed any of it when you heard your name being called.

“Sweet niece,” came the familiar voice, deep and warm, laced with affection and something else—something darker, something possessive.

Your head snapped up, and your eyes widened before a delighted giggle escaped your lips. “Uncle Gwayne!”

Without thinking, you rose from your seat, your emerald skirts swishing around you as you rushed toward him. Gwayne Hightower stood tall and proud, his fine tunic of deep green embroidered with golden thread, his auburn hair combed neatly, his sharp features softened only by the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He opened his arms just as you threw yourself into them, wrapping you in a strong embrace. The scent of leather and polished steel clung to him, mingling with the faint hint of the oils he used in his hair.

“I have missed you,” you murmured against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands.

“And I, you,” he said, his voice a low rumble as he tightened his hold on you just a fraction longer than necessary.

From the high table, your mother’s body went rigid, her goblet still in her grasp, though she did not drink. Alicent’s sharp eyes watched the way her brother held you, the way his large hand rested on the small of your back, the way his thumb brushed—so subtly it could have been imagined—against the fabric of your gown.

She was not the only one who noticed.

Your brothers had gone completely still. Aegon’s once-lazy posture stiffened, his fingers tightening around his goblet until his knuckles turned white. Aemond, who had been methodically cutting into his food, now simply held the dagger, his single eye locked onto you with an unreadable expression. Daeron’s polite demeanor had slipped, his lips pressed into a thin line.

And Daemon—Daemon was smirking. Amused. But not pleased.

Your nephews were no better. Jacaerys and Lucerys exchanged glances, their hands curled into fists against their laps, the easygoing air they carried all but gone.

Oblivious to the tension your embrace had sparked, you pulled back just enough to look up at Gwayne.

“I have something for you,” he said, reaching into the pouch at his belt.

Curious, you watched as he pulled out a velvet box, flipping it open to reveal an exquisite necklace. A delicate golden chain with a striking emerald pendant—a stone so deep in color it seemed to burn with an inner fire. The craftsmanship was impeccable, the edges of the gem catching the candlelight in a dazzling display.

A soft gasp escaped your lips. “It’s beautiful, uncle.”

“Not as beautiful as the one who wears it.” His voice was quiet, meant only for you, but the words sent a shiver down your spine.

Slowly, he reached up, his fingers brushing against your collarbone as he clasped the necklace around your throat. The touch was fleeting, yet deliberate, his fingertips lingering just a second too long against your bare skin.

You smiled, completely unaware of how your mother’s grip on her goblet had turned to iron.

“You spoil me,” you teased, touching the pendant with a soft laugh.

Gwayne merely smirked, his gaze flickering down to the way the emerald nestled perfectly above the swell of your displayed cleavage.

“I only give what is deserved.”

The silence behind you was deafening.

Aegon set his goblet down with a loud clink, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the necklace now resting against your chest. Aemond’s jaw ticked, his fingers curling into his palm. Daeron’s eyes darkened, though he said nothing.

Jacaerys let out a slow breath, as if steadying himself, while Lucerys glanced at his brother, sharing an unspoken thought.

Daemon, watching it all unfold, merely swirled the wine in his goblet, smirking to himself.

Alicent, however, had had enough.

“My love,” she said, her voice cool, yet sharp enough to cut through the thick tension, “it is time to return to the table.”

You turned to her, tilting your head slightly, but nodded. “Of course, mother.”

With one last glance at Gwayne, you offered him a smile before returning to your seat.

And as you settled back beside your mother, completely unaware of the storm brewing around you, you could not help but touch the emerald at your throat—completely oblivious to the way every man at the table watched, their gazes dark with something far more dangerous than mere admiration.

The warmth of the wine lingered on your tongue as you watched your mother rise from her seat. There was something in the way she moved, something deliberate and sharp. You tilted your head slightly, curiosity sparking in your chest as she turned away from the table, her emerald skirts swaying as she stepped down from the dais.

You followed her with your gaze, brows furrowing when you saw where she was heading.

Straight toward her brother.

Gwayne barely had a moment to react before Alicent reached him, her slender fingers curling around his wrist in a grip that was deceptively strong. Without a word, she pulled him away from the crowd, leading him toward the farthest, quietest corner of the throne room.

The torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows over their tense figures.

Alicent did not release him, even when she finally came to a stop. Instead, she tightened her grip. “What do you think you are doing?”

Gwayne merely raised a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You’ll have to be more specific, dear sister.”

Alicent’s nostrils flared, her auburn brows knitting together. “Don’t play coy with me,” she hissed, voice low, sharp. “The way you looked at her, the way you touched her—”

Gwayne chuckled, a sound so rich and unbothered it only made Alicent’s anger burn brighter.

“She is a beautiful young woman, Alicent,” he said simply, tilting his head. “Surely you cannot blame me for noticing.”

Alicent let go of his wrist as if burned, stepping back, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “She is my daughter, your niece.”

“She is not a child,” Gwayne countered, his voice smoother than silk. “She has come of age. And not just I have noticed.”

Alicent froze.

Gwayne took a slow step forward, watching as his sister’s body stiffened. His voice dropped lower, dangerously knowing. “Have you not seen the way they look at her?”

Alicent’s throat bobbed.

“She is… exquisite,” Gwayne murmured, and his eyes flickered over to where you sat at the high table, laughing softly at something Helaena had whispered to you. The emerald at your throat gleamed in the candlelight. “They are all drawn to her. Aegon. Aemond. Daeron.” His lips curled slightly. “Even Daemon.”

Alicent’s fingers dug into the fabric of her skirts.

Gwayne smirked. “And let us not forget Rhaenyra’s sons.”

Alicent’s breath caught. She had noticed it, of course she had. The way Aegon’s usual nonchalance melted into something far darker when his eyes lingered on you. The way Aemond watched you with quiet, possessive intent. Daeron, once easygoing and playful, had begun to stiffen when other men approached you.

And Daemon—Daemon had always been a tempestuous storm, but when it came to you, his interest was undeniable.

Even Jacaerys and Lucerys, who had once looked at you with the affection of kin, now watched you differently.

Alicent inhaled sharply.

“You know it to be true.” Gwayne’s voice was quiet now, almost teasing.

Alicent forced herself to regain composure. “She is my daughter,” she repeated, steel laced in her tone. “She is of Hightower blood.”

Gwayne’s smirk deepened. “Then you should know better than anyone, dear sister—fires are not so easily tamed.”

Alicent did not reply, her jaw tight as she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Gwayne standing there, chuckling softly to himself.

And across the room, unaware of the storm you had ignited, you smiled as you toyed with the emerald at your throat, feeling the weight of more than just jewels resting against your skin.

The moment your mother returned to her seat beside you, you noticed the slight tension in her frame. Her expression was schooled into one of quiet composure, but the way her fingers curled slightly against her lap told you something had unsettled her.

Before you could ask, a servant stepped forward, bowing deeply before presenting a small, intricately carved wooden box. “A gift from His Grace,” the servant announced, his voice respectful.

You blinked in surprise, curiosity sparking in your chest as you reached for the box. Your fingers traced over the delicate carvings of dragons entwined with flames before you carefully lifted the lid.

The candlelight caught on the glint of metal, and your breath hitched.

Nestled inside was a necklace of the deepest, richest gold, the links delicate yet strong, polished to a gleaming perfection. At the center, a striking pendant—a dragon wrought in rubies and black diamonds, its wings fanned out as if mid-flight. It was regal, ancient, breathtaking.

A soft gasp escaped your lips as you lifted the necklace, letting it dangle from your fingers. The gemstones caught the light, casting small reflections across your skin like scattered embers.

“It is stunning,” you murmured, completely enthralled.

Beside you, Rhaenyra leaned in, her gaze sharp yet amused. Then, recognition flickered in her eyes, and her lips parted slightly before curving into a knowing smile.

“That,” she said, voice laced with intrigue, “is Queen Rhaenys the Conqueror’s necklace.”

Your head snapped toward her, eyes wide. “Truly?”

She nodded. “It was gifted to her by Aegon himself, a token of his devotion.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “For years, it has been kept among the royal treasures, untouched… until now.”

A squeal of delight bubbled up from your throat before you could stop it. “Father gave this to me?” you breathed, tracing a reverent finger over the rubies.

“You should be honored,” Rhaenyra said, though there was something unreadable in her gaze as she studied you. “It is a symbol of both power… and temptation.”

A rich chuckle came from across the table.

Daemon.

You looked up to find his violet eyes watching you with something darkly amused, his lips curved in that ever-present smirk. He swirled the wine in his cup lazily before tilting his head.

“I daresay it suits you,” he drawled.

Something in his tone sent a shiver down your spine. “Does it?”

Daemon’s smirk deepened. “Rhaenys herself was the very image of beauty and temptation,” he mused, gaze sweeping over you in a way that made your skin prickle with heat. “A woman whose presence could turn the heads of lords and warriors alike. She was both admired… and feared.” He lifted his cup to his lips, taking a slow sip before adding, “Just like you.”

The words wrapped around you like a velvet caress, thick with meaning. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you kept your composure, offering Daemon a coy smile.

“Then I shall wear it proudly,” you murmured, tilting your chin slightly, “as a true daughter of House Targaryen.”

Daemon’s smirk didn’t falter, but something flickered in his gaze, something unreadable.

A servant stepped forward to help fasten the necklace around your throat, and as the cool metal met your skin, a hushed silence fell over the table.

You could feel the weight of their stares.

Aegon’s gaze was unreadable, but his fingers clenched around his goblet. Aemond’s single eye gleamed with something dark, dangerous. Daeron, normally composed, had an edge of tension in his shoulders. Even Jacaerys and Lucerys, who had once looked at you as kin, now studied you with something else entirely.

The weight of the necklace was nothing compared to the weight of their eyes.

And in that moment, you realized—Rhaenys the Conqueror had been a legend, a queen whose beauty and power ensnared the most formidable men of her time.

And now, you bore her gift.

A gift… and a warning.

The necklace rested against your skin, a stark contrast to the deep emerald of your gown. The gold gleamed under the candlelight, the rubies catching every flicker of fire, glowing like embers against the lush green fabric. Your mother had planned tonight meticulously—your coming of age would be marked by the embrace of your Hightower roots. The rich green, the corset that accentuated your curves, the low neckline designed to tempt and yet uphold your grace—all of it was meant to solidify your place as a daughter of Oldtown, a woman of noble refinement.

But Viserys had other plans.

By bestowing upon you the necklace of Queen Rhaenys, he had made his declaration. You were not merely the daughter of Alicent Hightower. You were the blood of the dragon, the daughter of a Targaryen king. The weight of the gift settled upon you, not just in metal but in meaning. You belonged to the fire, not to the tower.

A delicate whisper from beside you caught your attention. Helaena, lost in her own world as always, murmured something beneath her breath, her pale eyes unfocused as she stared at the flickering flames of the chandeliers.

“The dragon wears the crown of another… flames dance, waiting to consume… the pillars crumble, but the serpent coils tighter…”

You frowned, tilting your head toward her. “What did you say, dear sister?”

Helaena blinked, her trance breaking as she turned toward you with a dreamy smile. “Nothing,” she murmured, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your shoulder. “You look beautiful tonight, sister.”

Before you could press her further, movement in front of you pulled your attention away.

Your brothers.

All three of them—Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron—stood before you, their towering figures casting shadows against the table. Each wore a different expression, yet their intentions were the same.

“Dance with me,” Aegon grinned, offering his hand first. His violet eyes held a glint of mischief, his smirk lazy yet expectant.

“Dance with me,” Aemond echoed, his tone softer yet no less firm, his single eye burning with an intensity that sent a shiver through you.

Daeron, the youngest yet no less commanding, simply tilted his head with a small smirk. “You cannot deny your favorite brother, can you?”

Three brothers

Three sets of expectant gazes.

You laughed, the sound light, teasing. “Must I choose?”

Aegon’s grin widened. “Would you prefer all of us at once, sweet sister?” His voice was low, suggestive, meant to elicit a reaction.

Aemond scoffed, shooting him a sharp glare before turning his focus back to you. “A proper dance, not one of your drunken antics,” he murmured, as if he were the only one capable of offering you something respectable.

Daeron simply chuckled, shaking his head. “Perhaps we should let her choose instead of fighting like fools.”

You tapped your chin playfully, your gaze flickering between them. The attention was intoxicating, the possessiveness in their stares making your skin prickle.

“You are all so eager,” you mused, tilting your head. “It’s quite endearing.”

Aegon arched a brow. “Endearing?”

Aemond’s lips twitched slightly, a ghost of amusement hidden beneath his usually stoic expression.

Daeron merely extended his hand further, his blue eyes gleaming. “Come now, sister. The night is young, and you deserve to be celebrated.”

Smiling, you placed your hand in his, allowing him to guide you toward the dance floor. The moment your fingers touched, you heard a low exhale from one of your other brothers—Aemond, perhaps. Or Aegon.

Possessiveness was a trait none of them lacked.

As Daeron led you into the first steps of the dance, you could feel their eyes lingering, burning into your back. The weight of their gazes was heavy, intense. You had been theirs before—beloved sister, treasured princess. But tonight, something had shifted.

Tonight, they did not just see their sister.

Tonight, they saw something more.

Something untouchable.

Something they all wished to claim.

The music swelled around you as Daeron twirled you effortlessly across the dance floor. Laughter bubbled past your lips, his touch light yet firm against your waist as he led you through the steps with ease. Unlike Aegon’s wild revelry or Aemond’s measured control, Daeron danced with a natural charm, playful yet undeniably graceful. His eyes sparkled as he leaned in, murmuring, “You truly are the most beautiful creature in the room tonight.”

Your cheeks warmed, though whether from the dance or his words, you weren’t sure. “Flatterer,” you teased, your fingers tightening briefly in his grasp.

But the moment of lightness was met with a heavy contrast.

At the edge of the dance floor, Aegon and Aemond stood, watching.

Their gazes were unwavering, dark and unreadable, their postures stiff with barely concealed tension. Aegon had a goblet in hand, swirling the wine absentmindedly, though he had not taken a sip in some time. Aemond, meanwhile, stood still as stone, his eye trained on the way Daeron’s hand rested against your waist, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

And then came the voice that cut through the tension like a blade.

“Enough.”

Alicent’s tone was sharp, quiet yet firm, meant only for her sons to hear. She did not move toward them, but her presence was enough to demand their attention.

Aegon chuckled first, his lips twisting into a knowing smirk. “Something wrong, Mother?”

Alicent’s eyes were unreadable, flickering between her eldest and second-born before settling on Aemond, whose expression remained carefully blank. She took a slow breath, steadying herself before speaking again.

“She is your sister.”

Aemond turned his head then, his eye glinting in the low candlelight. “Yes,” he murmured, tilting his goblet slightly, letting the wine coat the edges, “she is.”

Alicent’s frown deepened. “You will not entertain thoughts beyond what is proper.”

Aegon let out a low, amused hum. “Proper? Mother, you forget—our blood is not solely Hightower.” He took a slow sip of his wine, pausing for effect before adding, “We are Targaryens, too.”

Alicent stiffened. “That does not mean—”

Aemond interrupted her, his voice softer but no less pointed. “And Targaryens,” he mused, swirling his goblet lazily, “have peculiar customs when it comes to marriage, do they not?”

Alicent’s breath hitched.

It was a subtle reaction, but one her sons did not miss.

Aegon’s smirk widened. “Oh, Mother,” he crooned, feigning innocence, “you knew this day would come, didn’t you?”

Alicent said nothing, her fingers tightening into her palms.

Aemond set his goblet down, straightening. “Viserys has already claimed her as his daughter before the court,” he stated, his tone carrying the weight of undeniable truth. “She is as much a Targaryen as we are. And our ancestors—” He stepped closer, his voice lowering just enough to make his mother hold her breath. “—would not find such things unnatural.”

Alicent turned sharply to Aegon then, as if expecting him to dismiss his brother’s words, to make light of the situation as he always did. But for once, Aegon’s smirk did not reach his eyes.

“She’s no little girl anymore, Mother,” Aegon said, his voice devoid of its usual playfulness. “Everyone in this hall sees it.” His gaze flickered back to the dance floor, where you were still lost in laughter with Daeron, oblivious to the quiet war waging behind you.

Alicent followed his gaze, and for the first time that night, true fear laced her expression.

Because Aegon was right.

Everyone had seen it.

The way lords whispered about your beauty, the way men looked at you with admiration too impure for a princess. Even Gwayne, her own brother, had held you in a way that had sent unease twisting through her chest.

But worse than that—her own sons saw it, too and they did not just see their sister. They saw something much, much more dangerous.

Alicent let out a slow, measured sigh, pressing her fingers to her temple as if warding off an oncoming headache. The candlelight flickered against her features, the strain in her eyes unmistakable as she regarded her eldest sons.

Aegon smirked, tipping his goblet back before speaking. “It’s not just us, Mother.”

Alicent’s fingers curled against her palm. She did not want to hear this. She did not want to acknowledge it.

Aemond tilted his head, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “You’ve seen the way they look at her.”

Alicent exhaled sharply, but Aegon continued, undeterred.

“Our uncles,” he mused, swirling his wine lazily. “Our nephews. It seems,” he cast a glance across the room, his gaze dark with knowing, “our dear sister has bewitched them all.”

Alicent’s lips parted as if to argue, but no words came.

Because she knew.

She had seen Daemon’s watchful eyes when you had entered the hall, the way his lips had curved ever so slightly when Rhaenyra had remarked on your beauty. She had seen Jacaerys tense when you had smiled at Cregan Stark, his jaw clenching with something too close to envy. Even Lucerys, sweet and young as he was, had looked at you with a boyish admiration that was almost painful to witness.

And Gwayne.

Her own brother.

Alicent closed her eyes for a brief moment, composing herself before she spoke. “You will not speak of this again.”

Aegon chuckled, amused by her feigned authority. “Oh, Mother,” he sighed, “denial does not suit you.”

Aemond leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down his mother’s spine. “She is no longer a child, Mother. And the men in this room?” His eye flickered to the high table where you had just finished your dance. “They all know it.”

Alicent wanted to argue. To scold them. To command them to stop.

But before she could speak, the sound of your laughter rang through the hall once more.

She turned in time to see you stepping away from Daeron, your cheeks flushed from the dance, your gown clinging to your curves in a way that left nothing to the imagination. The candlelight caught on the necklace around your throat—the necklace gifted by Viserys, by Rhaenys before him. A claim in its own right.

And then, before you could retreat back to the high table, Aegon was there.

He caught your wrist, his fingers curling around your delicate skin, and with an effortless tug, he pulled you back toward him.

A surprised laugh escaped your lips. “Aegon!”

His smirk was wicked as he spun you effortlessly into another dance. “What?” he teased, his voice warm against your ear. “You’ll dance with our little brother but not me?”

You let out a breathless giggle, letting him lead you into the next steps. “You didn’t ask.”

Aegon hummed, his grip tightening slightly at your waist as he twirled you in time with the music. “Must I ask, little sister?” His voice dipped lower, almost lazy in its amusement. “When you belong to us already?”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, though you weren’t sure if it was the way he had said it or the way his touch lingered just a little too long.

At the edge of the hall, Aemond watched.

His hands curled into fists at his side, his expression unreadable, though something dark lurked beneath the surface.

And beside him, Alicent turned away.

Because for all her warnings, for all her prayers, she knew one undeniable truth. No matter how much she fought against it, you were a temptation none of them could resist.

Alicent’s fingers tightened around Daeron’s wrist, her grip firm yet desperate, nails pressing into his skin as if she could anchor him back to reason. Her voice was hushed but sharp, laced with a mother’s warning.

“This is wrong, Daeron,” she whispered, her words edged with quiet fury. “You have lived in Oldtown long enough to understand that.”

She searched his face, expecting guilt, shame—anything that might reassure her that one of her sons had not fallen victim to the same temptation that plagued his brothers.

But Daeron only chuckled.

His violet eyes, gleamed with something unreadable as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so that only she could hear.

“I am a Targaryen, Mother,” he murmured.

A shiver ran down Alicent’s spine.

Aemond’s laughter cut through the moment, low and knowing. He stepped closer, resting a firm hand on Daeron’s shoulder, squeezing it with something between amusement and approval.

“Well said, little brother,” Aemond murmured, his lips curving into a smirk.

Alicent’s breath hitched.

Her grip loosened on Daeron’s wrist as realization struck her like a cruel tide, pulling her under without mercy.

Daeron had been raised in Oldtown, surrounded by piety, by the faith, by the teachings of decency and morality. And yet, here he stood before her, unrepentant, unashamed, speaking with the same ease as Aegon, as Aemond.

The corruption had spread further than she had feared.

She turned her gaze toward you, standing in the center of the great hall, still dancing with Aegon, your laughter like a melody sweeter than the music itself.

You were a vision of temptation, the candlelight kissing the emerald silk of your gown, the bodice sculpted to perfection, your beauty effortless, intoxicating. The necklace from Viserys—the symbol of his claim, of your Targaryen blood—rested against your skin, stark against the deep green of your dress.

She had raised you to be a Hightower.

She had dressed you in the colors of her house, had spoken of duty and virtue, had ensured you were set apart from the fire that ran rampant through the veins of the Targaryens.

And yet—

She saw it now.

In the way Aegon’s hand lingered at your waist, fingers flexing ever so slightly as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

In the way Aemond’s eye never left you, dark and calculating, as if he were already plotting his next move.

In the way Daeron stood beside her, unconcerned, unbothered, as if he had already accepted what she could not.

And worst of all, in the way the rest of the hall had taken notice, silent witnesses to the unspoken battle unfolding before them.

Daemon watched from the high table, sipping his wine lazily, amusement flickering in his eyes. Jacaerys and Lucerys sat stiffly beside their mother, jaws tight, eyes dark with something unspoken. Even Cregan Stark, noble and honorable as he was, had not torn his gaze away from you all evening.

Alicent’s lips parted slightly, but no words came.

Because for all her prayers, for all her efforts to shield you, she knew— You were not merely a Hightower. You were a Targaryen. And the men in this room would burn the world for you.

As the music swelled to its final notes, Aegon dipped you low, his grip firm yet effortless, his golden hair falling forward slightly as he held you there for a breath too long. Your heart pounded against your ribs as his face hovered close to yours, the scent of wine and something distinctly Aegon filling your senses. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned in—not to claim your lips, but to press a lingering kiss against your cheek, just at the corner of your mouth.

Your breath hitched.

Aegon chuckled, the sound deep and sinful, before pulling you upright once more, his hands lingering at your waist. He steadied you as if you had truly lost your balance, though you knew it was merely his way of keeping you close for a few moments longer.

“You should enjoy your feast, little sister,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, a promise wrapped in a command.

Before you could respond—before you could even fully register the heat simmering beneath his words—another figure stepped into your path.

Aemond.

His presence was like ice after fire, a stark contrast to Aegon’s reckless heat. Where Aegon was playful indulgence, Aemond was sharp control, deliberate, focused. His single violet eye burned into yours, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he extended his hand.

“May I have this dance?” His voice was smooth, laced with something unreadable, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

You giggled softly, the sound breaking the tension, though your stomach fluttered at the intensity of his gaze. “Of course, brother.”

Aemond’s fingers curled around yours, his grip cool yet firm as he guided you back to the floor. The moment Aegon released you, you felt the shift—where Aegon had been lighthearted and teasing, Aemond was something else entirely.

Possessive. Calculated.

The music resumed, slower this time, the kind of melody meant for whispered secrets and stolen glances. Aemond’s hand found the small of your back, guiding you effortlessly, his touch a stark contrast to Aegon’s playful teasing.

“Was his dance satisfactory?” Aemond murmured, his tone neutral, yet the way his fingers pressed against your waist told another story.

You tilted your head at him, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Aegon is always entertaining.”

“Hmm.” Aemond’s eye darkened slightly, his jaw tightening for the briefest of moments. “And yet, he lacks restraint.”

You giggled again, twirling as he led you into a graceful spin before pulling you back against him, closer than before. “And you, dear brother? Do you have restraint?”

Aemond’s lips curved into something that was not quite a smile but rather a promise—dark, unreadable, tempting.

“For you?” he murmured, voice dipping lower as his thumb traced the line of your spine through the silk of your gown. “I would find it… difficult.”

Your breath caught, your fingers tightening slightly against his shoulder as his words settled between you, heavy with meaning. You could feel eyes on you—your mother’s sharp gaze, Daeron’s silent amusement, Aegon’s knowing smirk. And further still, others watched too—Daemon, Jacaerys, even Cregan, each man attuned to the unspoken war brewing over you.

And yet, in this moment, none of them existed.

There was only Aemond, the slow, deliberate movement of your bodies, the heat simmering beneath the surface, waiting—aching—to ignite and the knowledge that this dance was only the beginning.

Aemond spun you in his arms, his grip firm yet fluid, guiding you with the kind of precision that came so naturally to him. You giggled, breathless, your laughter ringing through the hall like a melody of its own. For once, something shifted in Aemond. His usual stoicism cracked, and to your delight, a rare, genuine laugh escaped his lips.

The sound was deep, unfamiliar yet mesmerizing, a contrast to the sharp edges that usually defined him. Your eyes widened, and you couldn’t resist teasing him, your fingers grazing his shoulder as he pulled you back into his embrace.

“You laugh?” you gasped, feigning shock. “Seven hells must have frozen over.”

Aemond smirked, his grip tightening at your waist for the briefest of moments, his eye burning into yours with something unreadable. “It seems you’re a rare cause for such things, sweet sister,” he murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear.

Your stomach fluttered at the weight of his words, but before the moment could linger, the music swelled to a close. Aemond reluctantly released you, his fingers trailing down your arm as you stepped away. You turned to see Aegon watching you both with a knowing smirk, Daeron shaking his head slightly, as if amused by the silent war between them.

With a playful grin, you turned to your brothers. “As much as I enjoy being fought over,” you teased, eyes twinkling, “I wish to dance with my dear sister now.”

Before anyone could protest, you stepped away from Aemond’s hold, your hands reaching for Helaena at the high table. She blinked up at you in surprise, but when you tugged at her wrist, she giggled, allowing you to pull her onto the dance floor.

The moment you twirled her into your arms, she let out a soft, delighted laugh, her usual quiet demeanor momentarily forgotten. You beamed at her, holding her hands as you both swayed to the rhythm of the music.

“You look beautiful tonight, sweet sister,” Helaena murmured, her lilac eyes soft as they took you in.

“As do you,” you whispered back, twirling her once more, watching as the candlelight caught the silken embroidery of her gown.

For a brief moment, there were no heavy gazes watching your every move, no silent battles waged between men staking their unspoken claim. It was just you and Helaena, two sisters lost in laughter and movement, the weight of the world lifting—if only for a dance.

But even then, in the periphery, you could feel them.

Aemond’s eye never left you. Aegon’s smirk never wavered. Daeron watched with a contemplative expression. And beyond them, your uncle, your nephews, even Cregan Stark—each man drawn to you, their gazes hungry, possessive, waiting.

And somewhere, in the shadows of the grand hall, your mother watched too, her lips pressed together, her heart warring between pride and unease.

Because tonight, you were not just a daughter of House Hightower. You were a Targaryen. A dream in flesh. A dangerous temptation and every man in this room knew it.

Helaena twirled you with a delighted giggle, her soft hands slipping from yours as you spun. But the moment your feet found the ground again, you stumbled—straight into the warmth of a firm chest. Large hands caught you, steadying you with ease, fingers splaying against your waist like they had every right to be there.

Surprised, you blinked up, your breath hitching as you met the sharp, knowing gaze of your uncle.

Daemon Targaryen smirked down at you, his violet eyes glinting with something wicked, something amused. His grip did not falter, his hands firm on your waist, holding you close.

“Apologies, dear uncle,” you giggled, tilting your head up at him, your voice laced with playful innocence.

Daemon hummed, tilting his head as if considering your words. “If you truly wish for my forgiveness,” he drawled, his thumb grazing ever so slightly along the curve of your waist, “then you must grant me a dance.”

A laugh bubbled from your lips at his audacity, at the ease in which he spun his mischief. You knew what a dance with Daemon meant—it was not just steps upon the floor, not just a mere twirl in the candlelight. A dance with Daemon was a declaration, a game played in full view of those who would rather see you untouched, unclaimed and yet, the challenge in his gaze, the amusement that danced across his lips—it was irresistible.

“Then I suppose I have no choice,” you teased, placing your hand in his.

Daemon chuckled, his grip tightening around yours before he pulled you effortlessly into the dance. He led with confidence, his steps assured, his movements fluid. Unlike your brothers or Cregan, who danced with the stiffness of men too aware of the eyes upon them, Daemon moved like he had nothing to prove—only to enjoy.

His hold on your waist remained firm, guiding you through the dance as if you had always belonged there. His smirk never faded, his gaze never strayed from yours, and the longer you danced, the more you could feel the weight of the room shift.

You knew they were watching.

Rhaenyra’s lips had parted slightly, her brows furrowed as she observed you in the arms of her husband. There was something unreadable in her expression—curiosity? Worry? Perhaps even amusement.

Your brothers, however—Aegon, Aemond, Daeron—they looked ready to set the hall aflame.

Aegon swirled his wine in his cup, but his grip was too tight, his knuckles white. Aemond’s jaw was clenched, his eye burning into Daemon’s every move. Daeron, who had only just danced with you moments ago, looked less amused now, his lips pressing into a thin line.

And yet, you did not stop.

Daemon spun you effortlessly, his hand grazing the bare skin of your back as he pulled you close once more.

“You are quite the temptation, little niece,” he murmured, his lips barely a breath away from your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, though whether from his words or the heat of his touch, you could not say.

“Careful, uncle,” you teased, voice soft but laced with warning. “Some might think you wish to steal me away.”

Daemon only smirked. “Steal you? No, sweet girl.” His hand tightened on your waist, his fingers splaying possessively. “But if I did wish it, tell me—who would dare stop me?”

Your breath caught. The music swelled, the room held its breath, and as Daemon twirled you one final time, you wondered if perhaps he was right.

Just as Daemon’s final twirl sent you back into his arms, your mother’s voice cut through the haze of music and candlelight.

“Sweetling,” Alicent’s tone was firm, though not unkind, a command wrapped in maternal concern. “You should rest. You have danced more than four times tonight.”

For a brief moment, you hesitated, still feeling the lingering warmth of Daemon’s hands at your waist. But you were nothing if not your mother’s obedient daughter. So, with a graceful curtsy, you excused yourself from the dance floor, ignoring the smirk Daemon sent you as he let go of your hand.

Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron all watched you closely as you returned to the high table. Their gazes were unwavering, following your every step, but it was your grandfather’s eyes you met when you finally took your seat.

Otto Hightower sat with his usual composed expression, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you tonight. As you settled into your chair, he reached forward, presenting you with a small, ornate box.

“A gift,” he said simply, his voice steady yet carrying the weight of something deeper. “From our family, to you.”

Curiosity sparked in your chest as you carefully lifted the lid. Inside, nestled within a velvet lining, was a delicate hairpin—an intricate piece of gold filigree, adorned with tiny emeralds that caught the light like captured stars.

A soft gasp escaped your lips as you lifted it gently between your fingers, the weight of history pressing against your palm.

“It belonged to your grandmother,” your mother murmured beside you, her voice quieter now, reverent.

Your gaze snapped back to Otto, your fingers tightening around the pin. He was watching you closely, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a memory, perhaps, or something he could not quite say.

“My grandmother,” you repeated softly, running your thumb over the cool metal. You had never met her, only heard stories in hushed tones, only seen the way your grandfather’s face grew distant at the mention of her name.

Otto nodded. “She would have wanted you to have it.”

For a moment, there was silence. The hall still bustled with music and laughter, but here, in this space between you and your grandfather, time slowed. Your mother’s hand ghosted over your own, a rare, fleeting touch, before she withdrew.

“This is your heritage,” she said. “Not just Targaryen, not just fire and blood.” Her eyes softened. “But Hightower, through and through.” You swallowed, feeling the weight of the pin in your hands.

And then, as if compelled by some unseen force, you carefully lifted it to your hair, securing it into place.

A declaration. A choice.

When you looked up again, Otto was smiling. And, for the first time tonight, it was not a smile of politics or strategy. It was simply a grandfather’s pride.

For the rest of the evening, you found yourself seated beside your mother, occasionally leaning towards Helaena to whisper and giggle at her soft musings. The tension that had thickened the air earlier, laced with the weight of lingering stares and unsaid words, slowly faded into the background as you let yourself enjoy the warmth of your family’s presence.

Your mother, despite her earlier worries, seemed at ease now, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her goblet as she listened to you recount something amusing about the courtly ladies of Oldtown. Helaena, ever the dreamer, murmured something about spiders weaving threads of fate, her violet eyes unfocused as if she could see beyond the feasting hall itself.

And then—

“Princess.”

The voice was careful, almost hesitant, but it still carried across the table with the weight of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. You turned your head toward it, your expression lighting up when you saw who had spoken.

“Jace,” you greeted warmly, your smile coming easily, as it always did with him. He was standing near the table, his dark curls slightly tousled, his stance uncertain as if he had been debating whether or not to approach.

His shoulders squared under your gaze, and he cleared his throat. “I—uh, I wanted to tell you something. About Joffrey.”

Your brows lifted in curiosity, and you tilted your head, prompting him to continue.

Jacaerys hesitated for only a moment before exhaling sharply, as if bracing himself. “A few months ago, he snuck into the rookery at Dragonstone. Thought he could impress the maesters by learning to read Valyrian better than me.” A small, fond smirk tugged at his lips. “Instead, he ended up getting chased by an entire flock of ravens because he knocked over a tray of meat scraps.”

The image painted itself vividly in your mind—the young prince, all wide-eyed determination, only to be sent fleeing through the stone halls of Dragonstone with a mass of furious birds in pursuit. The thought was so absurd, so unexpectedly humorous, that you couldn’t help yourself.

You laughed.

A bright, genuine sound that bubbled past your lips before you could stop it, shaking your shoulders as you pictured Joffrey running for his life, the maesters shouting after him.

Jace relaxed at your reaction, a slow grin spreading across his face, but— The sound of sharp inhalations came from beside you.

You felt it before you saw it.

Your brothers’ gazes snapping towards you, their postures going rigid at the sound of your laughter—at the sight of you smiling so freely at Jacaerys Velaryon.

Aegon, who had been lazily swirling his goblet of wine, suddenly went still, his fingers tightening around the cup. Aemond’s jaw clenched, his single eye narrowing as he leaned back in his chair, observing the interaction with quiet intensity. Even Daeron, who had been placating your mother only moments ago, straightened, his previously easy demeanor shifting into something unreadable.

For a moment, the air grew thick again.

Jace must have noticed it, because his grin faltered slightly. His hand twitched at his side, as if he wanted to say more, but the weight of the stares around him made him pause.

You, however, ignored them.

Still smiling, you reached forward and lightly tapped his arm. “Jace, I would have given anything to see that.”

The warmth in your voice made him visibly relax, and he chuckled, shaking his head. “If I had known, I would have sent a raven. Maybe even let you see how the maesters struggled to catch him after.”

You laughed again, softer this time, but the damage was done.

Across from you, Aegon drained his goblet in one go, setting it down with an audible clink. Aemond’s fingers tapped once against the hilt of his dagger, slow and deliberate. Daeron simply exhaled through his nose, shaking his head in exasperation.

And from the corner of your eye, you caught your mother pressing her fingers to her temple, as if preparing herself for yet another night of managing the storm that was her sons.

As your laughter softened into a lingering smile, you turned your gaze back to Jacaerys, your eyes glimmering with a playful light. His expression was still caught between amusement and surprise when you extended a hand toward him, the invitation unspoken yet undeniable.

“Dance with me,” you said softly, the lilt of your voice teasing yet sincere.

For a moment, Jace hesitated, his dark brows lifting ever so slightly, as though he hadn’t expected such a request. But then, as if realizing how foolish it would be to deny you, his lips curled into a smirk, and he reached for your hand, clasping it gently before bowing his head in agreement.

“I would be honored,” he murmured.

As he led you onto the dance floor, you could feel the heat of countless eyes tracing your every step, the weight of silent stares pressing against your back. Your brothers. Your uncles. Even your mother, who, despite her earlier warning, watched with an expression that was unreadable.

But you ignored them all.

Because in that moment, as Jacaerys’ fingers settled against your waist, warmth seeping through the fabric of your gown, the world outside of your dance melted away.

The music swelled, a soft yet lively melody, and Jace guided you effortlessly into the rhythm. His grip was firm but not possessive, his movements confident yet careful, as if ensuring that you never once felt uneasy in his arms.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet, meant only for you. Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the directness of his words.

Then you giggled, tilting your head up at him with playful scrutiny. “Just tonight?”

Jace blinked before chuckling, shaking his head as though realizing he had walked straight into your trap. “You always look beautiful,” he amended, his thumb subtly tracing against the curve of your waist, sending a shiver up your spine. “But tonight… you are radiant.”

The compliment sent warmth blooming across your cheeks, and you lowered your gaze briefly, unable to stop the small, pleased smile from tugging at your lips.

“You flatter me, my prince,” you teased lightly, though the sincerity in his words made your heart quicken.

Jace merely smirked, dipping his head slightly so that his breath brushed against your ear. “Only because it is the truth.”

The way he said it, with such quiet conviction, made your stomach flutter.

He kept you engaged throughout the dance, his voice a steady, familiar comfort as he asked about your days, your interests, your thoughts. He laughed when you recounted a humorous tale of courtly gossip, and you blushed when he praised you for your wit, your kindness, your charm.

And then, as the music slowed into a more languid melody, Jace’s grip on you subtly shifted, his hand pressing just a fraction tighter against your waist as he leaned in slightly.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his voice gentle but laced with something deeper, something more curious. “Will you be wed soon?”

The question caught you off guard, though in truth, you should have expected it. You lifted your gaze to meet his, searching his expression. There was no jest in his tone, no teasing smirk on his lips—only a quiet, genuine interest.

For a moment, you considered your answer.

Then, with a slow, knowing smile, you tilted your head at him. “I intend to enjoy my youth a little longer before becoming some lord’s wife.”

Jace exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head as though unsurprised by your response. “That sounds like you,” he admitted, amusement flickering in his brown eyes. “You were always too free-spirited to be tied down so soon.”

Your smile widened. “Would you rather I be married?” you teased, arching a delicate brow at him.

Jacaerys hesitated only for a moment before his fingers curled slightly against your waist.

“No,” he admitted, his voice lower now, more intimate. “Not yet.”

The honesty in his tone sent a thrill through you, a warmth that settled in your chest and spread through your limbs.

But before you could respond, the music swelled into its final note, and Jace—perhaps sensing the moment was slipping away—grinned before spinning you one last time, drawing a surprised laugh from your lips.

When the dance ended, he bowed slightly, his fingers reluctantly slipping from your waist. “Thank you for the dance,” he said, his voice softer now.

You smiled, dipping into a playful curtsy. “Anytime, my prince.”

And as you turned back toward the high table, you could still feel the warmth of his hand lingering against your skin, even as the weight of a dozen burning gazes followed your every step.

The night had stretched long, filled with laughter, whispered confessions, and stolen glances that burned with unspoken meaning. You had danced until your feet ached, until the music blurred into a haze of notes and murmured voices, until exhaustion settled deep into your limbs like a slow, creeping tide.

Now, as the grand feast continued in the throne room, your mother’s hand lay firm yet gentle on your back, guiding you away from the lingering eyes that had followed you all evening. The corridor was quieter, the torchlight flickering against the cold stone walls, and for the first time since the celebration began, you could finally breathe.

Alicent remained silent as she led you to your chambers, though you could feel the weight of her thoughts pressing against the air between you. It was not until your maids opened the heavy wooden doors that she finally spoke.

“You did well tonight,” she murmured, her voice soft yet edged with something unreadable. “You carried yourself with grace.”

You turned to her, exhaustion pulling at your features, but you smiled nonetheless. “It was a celebration, Mother. I merely enjoyed myself.”

She hummed in response, but said nothing more as your maids moved to unfasten the intricate clasps and pins that held your gown together.

As the layers of heavy brocade and embroidered silks slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a whisper of fabric, you exhaled a long, relieved sigh. The weight of the dress had been suffocating, the jewels that adorned your neck and wrists had dug into your skin, leaving behind faint imprints of their presence.

Your mother stepped closer, her fingers carefully undoing the last of your necklaces before placing it atop the vanity. She lingered there for a moment, staring at the delicate strand of gold, her expression unreadable.

Then, she finally spoke. “You received many offers tonight.”

You blinked at her reflection in the mirror, tilting your head slightly. “Offers?”

Alicent met your gaze in the glass, her brow lifting ever so slightly. “Marriage proposals,” she clarified. “More than fifty.”

You laughed, the sound light, almost amused. “Fifty? That is… excessive.”

Your mother did not laugh with you. “You are of age now,” she reminded you, smoothing her hands over the thin fabric of your nightgown as one of your maids finished tying the ribbons at your back. “It is only natural.”

Your smile lingered, though it softened with something more thoughtful. You turned to face her fully, your bare feet cool against the stone floor. “I have no intention of marrying so soon after my nameday,” you admitted.

Alicent studied you, and for a moment, something in her eyes—something wary, something uncertain—flickered. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by quiet understanding.

“Good,” she murmured, though her voice held a touch of relief. “It is your choice.,”

Her approval settled warmly in your chest, and you reached for her hand, squeezing it gently.

“Rest now,” she said, brushing a loose curl away from your face. “I will have the maids bring you tea to help you sleep.”

You nodded, exhaustion finally pulling at your limbs as you settled onto the edge of your bed. Your mother watched you for a moment longer before turning to leave, her steps quiet against the stone.

As the door shut softly behind her, you exhaled, tilting your head back slightly. The room was quiet now, save for the soft rustle of your maid arranging your covers.

The weight of the evening still clung to your skin, the echoes of laughter and whispered words lingering like ghosts in the dark. And yet, despite the exhaustion, despite the heaviness in your limbs, you could not shake the way certain gazes had followed you tonight.

Lingering. Burning. Waiting.

With a final sigh, you slipped beneath the silken sheets, your fingers tracing absentmindedly over the faint imprints of jewelry that still marked your skin.

Tomorrow, the world would still be watching. But for now, in the quiet of your chambers, you allowed yourself a moment of peace.

The morning sun filtered through your chamber windows, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. You sat before the vanity, running a fine-toothed comb through the loose waves of your hair, still lost in the haze of the previous night’s events. Your mind replayed the music, the laughter, the whispers that had danced along your skin like a lingering touch.

But then, a firm knock at your door shattered the quiet.

“Enter,” you called, setting the comb down as the door swung open.

Ser Criston Cole stood there, clad in his dark armor, his expression unreadable yet laced with something guarded. He bowed his head slightly. “Princess, your presence has been requested in the throne room.”

You frowned slightly. “By whom?”

“Your mother and father,” he answered. “At once.”

A strange unease coiled in your chest, but you simply nodded, smoothing out the delicate fabric of your gown before rising to your feet. As you stepped toward him, he fell into step beside you, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword as he led you down the long corridors of the Red Keep.

The walk to the throne room felt longer than usual, your mind racing with possibilities. Was this about last night? Had something happened after you left?

The great doors to the throne room were already open when you arrived, and as you stepped inside, the first thing you saw made your breath hitch painfully in your throat.

Your father—King Viserys—sat upon the Iron Throne.

But it was not the image of strength and power that the seat of kings should hold. No, he looked… fragile. Weaker than you had ever seen him before. His form slumped slightly, his skin paler than it had been the previous evening. The weight of the crown seemed almost too much for him to bear.

Your heart shattered.

Still, he managed to lift his head, his weary gaze finding yours as a small, almost wistful smile touched his lips. “My daughter.”

You stepped forward, a lump forming in your throat. “Father.”

The air in the throne room was thick with tension, every noble, every member of court, standing still as though the very walls held their breath. You glanced to the side and saw your mother, her face carefully composed but her hands clasped tightly together—a sign of her unease.

Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron stood nearby, their expressions unreadable, though you could see the way their shoulders had gone rigid. Even Otto Hightower’s gaze was sharp, calculative, as if already measuring the weight of the conversation that was about to unfold.

And then, your father spoke.

“The Prince of Dorne spoke to me this morning.”

The words echoed in the vast chamber, bouncing off the stone walls, settling like a heavy weight upon your chest.

Your brows furrowed slightly. “The Prince of Dorne?”

Viserys inhaled slowly, as if gathering his strength. “He has come with a proposal,” he said, voice rasping with age and illness. “He seeks your hand in marriage.”

The throne room fell into utter silence.

Frozen. Unmoving.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Marriage.

The word rang in your mind like a tolling bell.

You felt the shift in the air immediately—your brothers standing even straighter, their gazes darkening, the tension rolling off them like an approaching storm. Your mother’s lips parted slightly, her grip on her own wrists tightening just the slightest bit. Even Otto, always composed, blinked in what might have been the faintest trace of surprise.

And yet, it was Daemon’s reaction that struck you the most.

The Rogue Prince sat upon the steps of the throne, one arm draped lazily over his knee, his expression unreadable. But there was something sharp in his violet gaze as he looked at you—something assessing, something dangerous.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to speak, though your voice was softer than you intended. “The Prince of Dorne…” You trailed off, tilting your head slightly. “Why me?”

Your father’s gaze softened. “Because you are the only daughter of House Targaryen and House Hightower,” he murmured. “You are a union of fire and faith, and Dorne seeks peace through marriage.”

You pressed your lips together, mind racing.

A political marriage.

A way to secure peace.

A cage wrapped in golden silk.

You glanced at your mother, searching her face for anything—approval, dismay, reluctance—but Alicent’s expression was unreadable, her brown eyes flickering with something only she understood.

And then, a new voice broke the silence.

“They would send their prince here for her?”

The voice was low, edged with something dangerous. You turned slightly and met Aemond’s gaze. He stood tall, arms crossed over his chest, his single eye burning with something close to fury.

“How interesting,” Aegon mused beside him, though his smirk did little to mask the tension radiating from him. “Dorne must be truly desperate.”

Your father’s gaze flickered toward your brothers, but it was Daeron who spoke next, voice calmer but no less sharp. “Has my sister given her thoughts on the matter?”

Silence.

And then, all eyes turned back to you.

You inhaled deeply, gathering your composure before meeting your father’s gaze once more. “I am honored by the proposal,” you said carefully, choosing your words like a blade poised at your throat. “But marriage is not something I have considered so soon after my nameday.”

Viserys let out a slow breath, exhaustion weighing him down. “I do not wish to force you into anything you do not want,” he murmured. “But this is an offer worth considering.”

You nodded, though your mind was still reeling.

Alicent finally stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “You do not need to decide today,” she reassured, though her voice was firmer than usual. “We will speak more of this later.”

You exhaled, allowing her touch to ground you. “Thank you, Mother.”

Still, as you turned to leave the throne room, you could feel the weight of their gazes upon your back—your brothers, your uncle, the entire court. And you knew, without a doubt, that this proposal had stirred something dangerous in them. Something possessive. Something that would not be easily tamed.

The gardens of the Red Keep were bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun, the scent of blooming jasmine and citrus trees heavy in the warm air. The whispers of rustling leaves and the gentle trickling of the fountains did little to ease the tension coiled in your chest.

Your mind was still reeling from this morning’s announcement. Marriage. To a Dornish prince. The words felt foreign on your tongue, the idea of it unsettling despite your carefully composed response in the throne room.

As you wandered the winding paths of the gardens, trailing your fingers along the soft petals of a blood-red rose, a strange sensation crept over you. The unmistakable feeling of being watched.

You halted mid-step, your gaze flickering to the side. And there, leaning against the stone archway that framed the garden, stood Prince Qyle of Dorne.

He was watching you.

A knowing smile played at his lips, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, something amused. The wind tugged at his sun-kissed curls, and his silk garments—deep shades of gold and burnt orange—clung to his form, a stark contrast to the blacks and reds of your own house.

The moment your eyes met his, he pushed off the wall, walking toward you with the easy grace of a man who knew his own charm.

“Princess,” he greeted smoothly, his voice carrying the distinct accent of Dorne, lilting and warm, like honey dripped over fire.

You inhaled deeply before offering a polite smile. “Prince Qyle.”

He extended a hand toward you, palm up, fingers long and elegant. “Might I have the honor of accompanying you through the gardens?”

You hesitated only a breath before slipping your hand into his, ever the proper princess. His fingers curled around yours, warm and firm, as he led you along the cobblestone path.

“You are even lovelier beneath the sun,” Qyle murmured after a moment, his gaze drifting from your face to the curve of your bare shoulders. “Though I imagine your beauty does not fade under moonlight either.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, tilting your head slightly. “You flatter me, my prince.”

“I only speak the truth,” he countered smoothly, glancing down at you with dark eyes that gleamed with mischief. “Is it wrong to admire the woman who might one day be my wife?”

Your steps faltered slightly, but Qyle’s grip on your hand remained steady.

“You assume much,” you mused, recovering quickly. “I have yet to accept any proposal.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Of course. But in Dorne, we are taught to go after what we want.” His thumb brushed lazily against the back of your hand, an innocent gesture yet intimate enough to stir something unfamiliar in your stomach. “And I find that I want you, Princess.”

Your breath hitched, and for the first time, you truly looked at him. Not as the political pawn your father wished to wed you to, but as a man. A man who was undeniably attractive, undeniably confident. His presence was unlike that of your brothers, your uncles. He did not look at you with possession, with a claim already placed upon you. No, he looked at you like a conquest he intended to win.

“You are bold,” you murmured, arching a delicate brow.

“And you are captivating,” he returned. “Tell me, do your Targaryen princes court you so openly? Or do they whisper their desires behind closed doors?”

You hesitated, unsure of what to say. Because the truth was, your brothers—Aegon, Aemond, Daeron—held their affections in a way that was more dangerous than mere words. They hovered, they watched, they claimed you in ways unspoken, ways that made your mother’s wary glances linger longer than they should.

Qyle studied your silence, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Ah,” he mused, “so they do not speak it aloud, but it is there.”

You gave him a pointed look. “Are all Dornishmen this presumptuous?”

“We prefer to think of it as honesty,” he replied easily, before tugging you to a halt beneath the shade of a towering orange tree. His free hand reached up, plucking a ripe fruit from the branch. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled a small dagger from the sheath at his waist, slicing the fruit open in one smooth motion.

The scent of citrus filled the air as he lifted one of the slices to your lips.

“Try it,” he murmured.

You hesitated, your lips parting slightly as he brushed the fruit against them. The juice dripped down your chin as you took a bite, the burst of sweet and tangy flavor flooding your senses. Before you could react, Qyle reached forward, his thumb sweeping over your chin to catch the stray droplet of juice. His eyes flickered to your lips. Your breath stilled.

And then—

“Step away from my sister.”

The voice was low, edged with warning, and it sent a shiver down your spine. Qyle did not move immediately. Instead, he smirked as he turned his head, meeting Aemond’s gaze with the air of a man who enjoyed pressing his luck.

Aemond stood at the edge of the garden path, his single eye gleaming with barely restrained fury. His hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, fingers tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

And behind him, Aegon was watching, arms crossed over his chest, his usual smirk absent from his face. Daeron lingered slightly behind them, his mouth set in a tight line, his violet eyes flickering between you and Qyle.

Qyle exhaled a quiet chuckle, releasing your hand with a deliberate slowness. “I see that your brothers do speak, after all.” He turned his gaze back to you, his smirk softening. “A pity. I was enjoying our time together.”

You swallowed hard, glancing toward your brothers, whose expressions burned with something dangerously close to possession.

“I should return,” you murmured, your voice softer now. Qyle gave you a slow, lingering look before stepping back. “Until we meet again, Princess.”

And with that, he turned and strolled away, leaving behind nothing but the scent of oranges and the smoldering gazes of your brothers.

The moment Qyle disappeared from sight, a firm hand clamped around your wrist.

“Aemond—” you gasped, your voice barely above a breath as you felt yourself being yanked forward, the warmth of the Dornish sun replaced by the cool shadows of the Red Keep’s stone corridors.

His grip was unrelenting, his pace unyielding. His fingers dug into your delicate skin, as if determined to brand himself upon you, to remind you that you were not meant to slip through his grasp.

“Aemond, stop!” you pleaded, your free hand grasping at his wrist, nails digging into his sleeve in desperation.

Behind you, the hurried steps of your other brothers echoed through the hallway, a silent pack following the scent of their own fury. Aegon and Daeron trailed close, their own breaths heavy with something dark, something possessive.

But Aemond did not stop.

His pace quickened, his long strides forcing you to stumble slightly, your slippers barely catching the stone beneath you. The sudden jolt of nearly losing your footing sent a sharp pang of fear through you.

“Aemond, please—!”

Your words were cut short as your foot slipped on the edge of the stairway leading to another corridor, the world tilting as your body lurched forward. A gasp tore from your lips. But before you could fall, strong arms encircled you, halting your descent.

“Enough!”

The voice rang through the hallway, sharp and commanding, cutting through the tension like a blade through flesh.

Aemond froze.

You barely had time to register the warmth surrounding you before you were enveloped in the soft, familiar scent of lavender and myrrh.

Your mother.

Alicent held you close, her grip tight as if she could shield you from the fury that lingered in the air. Her hands trembled slightly as she ran them over your arms, her eyes scanning you for any sign of harm.

“Have you lost your minds?” Alicent’s voice was sharp, laced with an emotion you couldn’t quite place—fear, anger, desperation. “Dragging her through the Keep like a common prisoner?”

Aemond’s jaw tensed, his fingers flexing at his sides. He said nothing, his eye burning with something dangerous, something unresolved.

“She was with him,” Aegon muttered, his voice laced with something bitter, something possessive. He took a step closer, his gaze flickering to yours. “She let him touch her.”

You stiffened.

Alicent turned her gaze to you, her brown eyes searching yours with an urgency that made your heart pound. “Is this true?” she asked, her voice softer now, pleading.

You hesitated.

Because what could you say? That a man simply held your hand? That his fingers had brushed your lips? That for the first time, someone outside of your own blood had looked at you as a woman, not a sister?

Before you could answer, Aemond scoffed. “She let him,” he repeated, his voice bitter, sharp as Valyrian steel. “She stood there and let him feed her fruit like some Dornish whore.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Aemond—”

“You should be grateful it was only her wrist I grabbed,” he continued, his voice low, venomous. “He touched her. He dared put his hands on something that does not belong to him.” Something. Not someone.

Your stomach twisted at his words.

“I do not belong to you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but the force behind it made all three of your brothers still.

Aemond’s eye darkened. Aegon clenched his jaw. Daeron, who had been silent until now, inhaled deeply, his eyes clouded with conflict. Alicent’s grip on you tightened, her own breath shuddering.

“You are my daughter,” she whispered, her voice thick with something pained, something exhausted. “Not some prize to be fought over.”

Aegon chuckled darkly. “Tell that to them,” he muttered, motioning toward his brothers before glancing at you. “Or better yet, tell it to yourself, sweet sister.”

Your breath hitched.

Alicent turned sharply to her eldest son, fire flashing in her eyes. “Aegon, enough.”

Aegon only smirked, tilting his head slightly as his gaze flickered over you, lingering. Alicent exhaled shakily before turning back to you, cupping your face between her trembling hands. “You will not see him again,” she said, her tone firm but laced with desperation.

You opened your mouth to protest, but she shook her head.

“No.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I will not allow this. You are to be married to a nobleman, not to be some Dornish prince’s plaything.”

You swallowed hard.

Married.

You knew it was inevitable. Knew your duty was to be bound to some lord, some prince for the sake of your family. But you had not expected it to happen so soon. Had not expected it to be dictated so harshly. Alicent turned to Ser Criston, who had been standing near the corridor in silence, watching the scene unfold with a clenched jaw.

“Take her to her chambers,” she ordered.

You wanted to argue. To protest. To remind her that you were not a child to be locked away. But the moment you met Aemond’s gaze—the storm raging behind his eye, the quiet fury simmering in Aegon’s smirk, the way Daeron simply looked away, as if he could not bear to meet your stare—you knew there was no winning.

Not this time.

So you swallowed your pride, inhaled deeply, and turned toward Ser Criston.

“Come, Princess,” he murmured, his voice softer than you expected. You followed him without another word. and behind you, you could feel their eyes watching. Burning. Waiting.

The door shut behind you with a quiet but final thud, sealing you inside the familiar sanctuary of your chambers. Your heart pounded in your chest, a wild, desperate rhythm that echoed the chaos inside you.

Your maids hesitated by the door, their hands clasped together, glancing at each other with uncertainty.

“My lady, are you certain—”

“Lock the door,” you interrupted, your voice sharp, unwavering.

Their eyes widened slightly at the demand, their hands twitching at their skirts. The weight of their silence was almost suffocating, thick with unsaid protests.

“Now.” Your tone left no room for argument. With hurried movements, they obeyed, the sound of the key turning in the lock cutting through the stillness of the room. You exhaled, your breath unsteady as you watched the small metal object slide beneath the heavy wooden door, glinting faintly in the dim candlelight.

And then, with the sharp tip of your slipper, you kicked it. The tiny key skidded across the floor, disappearing beneath the folds of the heavy curtains by the window.

Lost.

Just like that, you were alone.

Isolated.

Your body trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper, something raw that clawed at your insides. Frustration. Desperation. The realization that no matter how high the walls of this keep stood, you would never truly be safe.

Not from them.

Not from yourself.

With slow, measured steps, you moved to the center of your chambers, the silence pressing against your skin like a suffocating shroud. The air was thick with the remnants of the night, of heated glances and possessive touches, of whispered claims disguised as protection.

You pressed a hand to your temple, trying to will away the storm raging in your mind. Aemond’s grip, unrelenting around your wrist. Aegon’s smirk, knowing, taunting. Daeron’s quiet acceptance, his silence louder than any words. Your mother’s desperation, the exhaustion lining her face as she clung to you like she was trying to keep you from slipping away.

And then there was him.

Prince Qyle.

A man who had done nothing more than offer his hand, his voice soft with admiration, his presence unfamiliar in a way that was almost… freeing. But freedom was an illusion.

You had seen it in the way Aemond’s eye burned with quiet fury. Felt it in the way Aegon’s voice curled around the word belong. Heard it in the way Alicent had whispered, you will not see him again.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips.

This was your fate. Not as a daughter. Not as a princess. But as a prize. A thing to be possessed, claimed, stolen before another could reach out and take you first.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown, nails digging into your palms as you closed your eyes. The weight of your brothers’ stares still lingered on your skin, seared into the very marrow of your bones.

Would they come for you?

Would they be the ones to break through the locked door, to take what they had already deemed theirs? Or would you be left alone in this gilded cage of your own making, waiting, waiting— Always waiting.

The soft murmurs of the court faded into a distant hum as Alicent excused herself from the King’s solar, her movements hurried, her heart heavy with unease. The absence of your presence at supper gnawed at her, twisting something deep inside her chest. You had never missed a meal before—never isolated yourself like this.

Not until tonight.

Behind her, the hurried steps of her sons followed, their presence a silent defiance of her attempt to dismiss them. Aegon, his smirk long gone, walked with a tension that rarely graced his usually careless demeanor. Daeron, quieter, but no less persistent, exchanged glances with Aemond—whose face was unreadable, his one violet eye dark with something she could not name. When Alicent reached your chambers, she twisted the doorknob.

Locked.

A tight, sinking feeling settled in her stomach as she knocked, her voice firm yet laced with motherly concern. “Open the door, darling.”

Silence.

She knocked again, this time more urgently. “It’s me. Please, open the door.” Then, finally, your voice came—muffled by the thick wood separating you from them.

“Go away.”

Alicent stiffened.

“My love,” she tried again, her palm pressing against the door as if she could reach you through sheer will alone. “Please, don’t do this. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Your laugh was sharp, bitter—so unlike the melodic giggles she had cherished for years. “You already know.”

Her lips parted, but before she could utter another word, Aemond’s voice cut through the dimly lit corridor, low and tainted with something dangerously close to regret.

“Sister—”

“Do not call me that.”

A beat of silence.

Then, your voice again—shaking, but no less sharp.

“Is that what you see me as, Aemond? A Dornish whore?”

The words hit like a blade to the gut. Alicent’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes snapped to Aemond, whose entire body went rigid, jaw locking as he stared at the door as if he could will it to open. His fingers twitched at his sides, the leather of his tunic creaking under the pressure of his clenched fists.

Aegon let out a slow, exhaled curse under his breath. Daeron—sweet, quiet Daeron—simply stared, his expression one of quiet horror. The weight of what Aemond had done, of what he had said, settled upon them all.

“Aemond,” Alicent whispered, her voice barely audible, laced with a disbelief she rarely allowed herself to feel.

He said nothing. But he didn’t have to, because the damage was already done. She turned back to the door, pressing her palm against the wood once more, desperate, pleading. “My love, he didn’t mean it.”

A humorless chuckle. “Didn’t he?”

Alicent’s throat tightened, her nails digging into the door as she shook her head. “You know your brother. You know how he is when—”

“When he feels threatened?” Your voice was mocking now, brittle as shattered glass. “That is what I am to you all, isn’t it?”

Alicent felt her heartbeat in her ears, a sickening pulse that echoed your words. Aemond’s breaths grew heavier beside her, and when she turned to him, she saw something in his face that almost looked like fear.

“I never meant—”

“You all meant it.” Your voice wavered now, and that was what shattered her the most. She could hear it—barely contained, restrained but present nonetheless. The hurt. The betrayal.

A mother knows.

“Sweet girl,” Alicent whispered, pressing her forehead against the door as if the cool wood could ease the burning ache inside her. “Please, let me in. Let me see you.”

Nothing.

And then— “I don’t want to see any of you.”

The finality in your tone was the last dagger to her heart. Alicent took a step back, her vision blurring as her fingers trembled at her sides. Her sons stood behind her, silent, unmoving—each lost in the weight of what had transpired.

Aegon sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Well, Aemond, you’ve really fucked this one up.” Aemond said nothing. Because for the first time in his life— He had no way to fix it.

The days bled together like ink seeping into parchment, each moment stretching into the next, void of meaning, void of color. The once-vibrant world beyond your chamber door had dulled to nothing but distant echoes—pleas, whispers, the muffled arguments of those who had betrayed you.

You did not respond.

You did not move.

You only existed, trapped in this fragile shell of silence, your body curled atop your bed, clutching the porcelain doll that had once been your childhood comfort. Its glassy eyes stared at you, unblinking, soulless—a perfect reflection of the emptiness festering inside you.

Your lips were dry, chapped from disuse. The only thing that passed them was the occasional sip of water, just enough to keep you breathing, but never enough to make you feel alive. You had not eaten in days. The hunger clawed at your ribs, a dull ache that never quite left, but you welcomed it.

It was a distraction from the deeper, more unbearable pain. Outside your door, the world did not stop. It never did.

“Please, my love,” your mother’s voice trembled as she knocked softly against the wood, as she had done every morning, every night, every moment she could. “Just open the door. Just let me see you. Let me help.”

Nothing.

A pause. A shuddering breath.

“Your father asks for you,” she whispered. “He is growing weaker. He… he misses you.” Your fingers clenched around the doll. Your throat tightened. But you did not move. Another knock—louder, more insistent. This time, it was Aegon.

“Alright, this is ridiculous,” he huffed, frustration laced through the forced casualness of his tone. “You can’t just lock yourself away forever, little sister. You’re being dramatic.”

Still, you did not answer.

A sigh.

Then, Aemond’s voice—lower, restrained, guilty.

“Sister.”

It was not the word that made your stomach twist. It was the way he said it. Soft. Measured. Uncharacteristically vulnerable. Like he knew the damage he had done. Like he hated himself for it. A beat of silence passed.

Then another.

Then—

“I should not have said those words.” Aemond’s voice was quiet now, stripped of the sharp arrogance it usually carried. “I do not expect you to forgive me.” A pause. A swallow. “But please… come out.”

For a fleeting second, your grip on the doll loosened. But then you remembered. The way they had dragged you from the gardens. The way Aemond’s fingers had tightened around your wrist. The way he had spat those words at you, branding them into your skin like a searing blade.

Dornish whore.

And suddenly, the ache in your stomach was nothing compared to the one in your chest. You turned onto your side, pressing your cheek into the pillow, curling further into yourself.

From outside, the silence stretched.

Then, a sharp thud. Aemond’s fist against the door. “Aegon’s right,” he muttered, his voice colder now, tinged with something unreadable. “This is childish.”

A deep breath.

“And you are stronger than this.”

A single tear burned its way down your cheek. Not because of his words. But because a small, treacherous part of you wanted to believe him. That night, as the voices faded, as the knocking stopped, as the world quieted once more— You lay there, unblinking, the doll still clutched to your chest. And you realized— It was easier to feel nothing at all.

The door creaked as it swung open.

For the first time in days, you stood there—frail, silent, hollow. The dim candlelight flickered across your pale skin, casting shadows beneath your lifeless eyes. You did not look at them, the ones who had begged for your presence, who had knocked upon your door until their knuckles bruised.

Your mother inhaled sharply, her hands trembling at the sight of you. Aegon straightened from where he had been slouched against the wall, his usual arrogance replaced with something unreadable. Aemond’s eye flickered with a mixture of relief and something else—something sharp, something laced with regret. Daeron, the most innocent of them, simply stared, his lips parting as if to say something—only to stop when he saw the emptiness in your gaze.

You said nothing, You did not smile. You simply turned, your feet carrying you through the halls of the Red Keep, your brothers and mother trailing behind you like shadows.

No one dared to speak.

Not as you made your way through the winding corridors, past the looming figures of guards, past the lingering scent of burning candles and incense, past the hushed whispers of servants who had all but given up on ever seeing you again.

Not as you stepped into the threshold of your father’s chambers.

The air was thick with the scent of decay, of sickness. The once-mighty Viserys the Peaceful lay upon his grand bed, his body withered, his skin ashen, his breath shallow. His crown—your birthright, your family’s legacy—lay abandoned beside him, untouched, a symbol of a kingdom that was slipping through his fingers.

Your throat tightened. You had prepared yourself for this or so you had thought.

But nothing could have prepared you for the sight of him like this—so weak, so small, so far removed from the father you once knew, the father who had doted on you, who had once held you upon his knee and told you tales of Old Valyria, of dragons, of kings and queens long past.

Your lips parted—only for nothing to come out.

You could not speak.

The words—the grief—lodged itself in your throat, suffocating you. So you simply stepped forward, your trembling hands reaching for his. His skin was cold, far too cold, and yet, when your fingers brushed against his, his eyelids fluttered open.

For a moment, he looked confused.

Then—recognition.

“…Daughter,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. Your lips trembled. You tried to answer him, to let him know you were here, that you had returned.

But no sound came.

Your voice—your strength—was gone.

A broken breath escaped you as you simply sat there, your fingers curling around his frail hand. Your silence spoke louder than any words ever could.

Behind you, you heard movement. Your mother and brothers had followed you inside, standing just beyond the threshold, hesitant, watching. Alicent’s hand covered her mouth, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Aegon looked away, his fingers flexing at his sides as if struggling to remain composed. Aemond’s jaw tightened. Daeron’s lips pressed into a thin line.

They were seeing you now—truly seeing you. The shell of the sister they had broken. The princess who had locked herself away and emerged without a voice, without the light that once resided in her eyes. And for the first time— They understood the weight of what they had done.

The warmth of your father’s skin lingered against your lips as you pressed a trembling kiss to his forehead. His breathing was shallow—so faint it was barely there at all. You lingered for a moment, fingers ghosting over his fragile hand before you pulled away.

The room was suffocating. The scent of burning incense, the dim candlelight flickering against the stone walls, the sound of your mother’s quiet weeping—it was too much.

You needed to leave.

Your feet felt like lead as you turned toward the door. Each step was a battle, the weight of exhaustion pressing against your limbs. Days without eating, without truly living, had stolen the strength from your body, but you pushed forward.

One step. Another.

Then—nothing.

Your knees buckled.

A choked gasp escaped you as the world tilted, the stone floor rushing up to meet you. The sound of your mother’s frantic cry rang in your ears, distant, as if she were calling to you from the other side of the world.

“No—no, my love—!”

Hands grasped at you—familiar hands, desperate hands. Your mother’s arms wrapped around you, cradling your body against her as if she could keep you tethered to this world, as if her love alone could rewrite fate.

Your brothers were there—Aegon cursing under his breath, his usual arrogance replaced by something raw and broken. Aemond’s face was unreadable, but his fingers clenched into fists so tightly they trembled. Daeron’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

You tried to breathe.

Tried to hold on.

But it was too late.

A smile ghosted your lips as your blurred vision settled on your mother’s face, her emerald-green eyes wide with terror. You reached for her, brushing your fingertips against her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin one last time.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Then—nothing.

The world faded.

A great darkness enveloped you, pulling you under like a tide, deeper and deeper until there was no pain, no sorrow, no weight upon your chest. The exhaustion that had plagued you for so long melted away, replaced by something light, something free.

And then—

“Daughter.”

Your eyes fluttered open.

The room was gone. The heavy stone walls, the flickering candles, the throne that had cast a shadow over your entire life—none of it remained.

Instead, you stood in a grand hall bathed in golden light, the scent of dragonfire lingering in the air. The warmth of the sun kissed your skin, and the wind tousled your hair as if it were welcoming you home. And there—by the great arched window—he stood.

Your father.

Not the frail, dying man you had left behind, but the King he had once been—the man who had lifted you onto his knee and told you stories of Balerion the Black Dread, the father who had placed a crown of flowers atop your head and called you his brightest star.

Tears welled in your eyes, but they did not fall.

You were a child again.

A little girl with wild laughter, with bare feet against the cool stone floor, with a heart that had never known sorrow. With a soft giggle, you ran to him—your small hands reaching, your father’s arms opening wide to catch you. And as he lifted you into the air, spinning you as he had done long ago, you knew— You were finally home.

The great hall was silent.

Not the silence of peace, nor of reverence, but of grief—a silence so thick it suffocated, pressing upon the lungs of those gathered like a heavy fog. No one spoke, no one dared to. Even the torches along the walls burned lower, as if mourning alongside the kingdom.

At the center of the throne room, upon a bed of silken drapery, lay two bodies.

Viserys, King of the Seven Kingdoms, Ruler of the Realm—lifeless, his once-golden crown now set beside him. His frail body, no longer suffering, no longer withering away under the weight of his reign.

And beside him—you.

Draped in a gown of the purest white, the very color meant for a bride, not a corpse. A cruel trick of the gods, a mockery of fate itself.

Your hands were folded delicately upon your chest, as if in sleep. Your golden lashes rested against your cheeks, your lips curved into the faintest of smiles. A bride for no one. A daughter lost. A sister stolen.

Your mother knelt beside you, her trembling fingers brushing against your cheek. Alicent Hightower—Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the unshakable force behind the throne—wept. She did not care for who bore witness. She did not care for propriety or for the expectations of a court that demanded strength from her.

“This is not how it was meant to be,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, broken. “Not like this.”

Aegon stood at the foot of the bier, his face unreadable. His lips parted as if he wished to speak, to say something, but what words could undo what had been done? What jest, what arrogance, what careless remark could shield him from the agony of losing the only sister who had never seen him as a failure?

Aemond did not move.

He stood still as a statue, his lone eye locked upon your face. He had mocked you, taunted you, called you a Dornish whore in a moment of bitter rage—he had hurt you, and now you were gone. His fingers twitched at his side, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He would have given anything to take back those words, to undo that night, to fix what had been shattered.

Daeron, the youngest of your brothers, let his tears fall freely. His hand clutched at yours, gripping your cold fingers as if he could will life back into them. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, wake up.” But there was no answer, no warmth in your touch.

Helaena sat beside your mother, her sobs soft but unrelenting. She had dreamed of this. She had seen it before it happened, and yet she had been powerless to stop it. Her delicate fingers traced idle patterns upon the silk of your gown, as if trying to etch your presence into her memory before it faded forever.

The court stood at a distance, their faces a mix of sorrow and unease. Lords and ladies, knights and advisors—all gathered to bear witness not to a joyous union, but to a tragedy that would haunt the realm for years to come.

It was supposed to be your wedding.

You were meant to stand before them as a bride, draped in finery, adorned in jewels, a crown upon your head as you took your place beside a husband of your choosing. Your mother was supposed to smile as she placed a veil upon you. Your brothers were supposed to drink in your honor, to fight over who would have the first dance.

Instead, you lay cold and still, untouched by time, wrapped in the shroud of death. Your mother’s fingers curled into your gown, clutching at the fabric like a lifeline.

“My love,” she murmured. “My sweetest girl.”

She had lost her youth.

She had lost her husband.

And now—she had lost you.

Aegon turned away first, unable to look any longer. He stormed out of the hall, his shoulders trembling, his grief masked by frustration. Aemond lingered, his fingers twitching at his side as if he wanted to reach for you but couldn’t bear to touch something so fragile. Daeron did not let go.

Your mother did not move.

The bells of the Red Keep tolled in the distance, their solemn chimes echoing through the castle, announcing to the realm what they had lost.

A King.

A Princess.

And with them, the last remnants of innocence in a world that had always been far too cruel.

Tag List : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @hayleythecannibal @ceoofglytchell l @ashblooddragons @laedeviour @venusbyline

#hotd imagine #hotd one shot #hotd x reader #hotd #aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #prince aegon targaryen #hotd fanfic #aegon ii fanfic #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #jacaerys valaryon x reader #aemond x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #hotd daemon #hotd alicent #gwayne hightower #viserys targaryen #hotd angst #aemond fic #aegon fanfic #daeron targaryen #hotd daeron #house of the dragon #house targaryen #house hightower #targtowers

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

someone