Summary: Alicent's youngest daughter was raised beneath the strict gaze of the Faith, growing up surrounded by prayers. But behind the walls of the Red Keep lies a secret capable of destroying kingdoms, for the little princess is not King Viserys' daughter, but the child born of Queen Alicent and Ser Criston Cole.
Pairing: [Future Aemond x Reader]
Words: 5k
Part One here
Warnings: mentions of bastards
Author's note: In the next parts reader will be older, but for now i wanted to explore more her chilhood dinamics.
(I do NOT allow anyone stealing, translating or imitating this work)
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If Alicent built your days...
The rest of your family unknowingly filled the spaces she left behind.
You learned very early that your mother loved you in her own way, which often made it difficult to distinguish love in such a strict routine.
Meanwhile, others loved you much more easily.
King Viserys adored you.
Perhaps because you were his youngest. Perhaps because illness had already begun stealing years from him before it stole his body.
Or perhaps because, whenever he looked upon you, he saw only Alicent.
"My little flower," he would murmur every time you climbed onto the arm of his chair.
His joints ached too much to lift you now, but he always reached for your hand.
"So much like your mother."
You beamed whenever he said it. "I am?" The question always overflowed with emotion.
Viserys, despite having begun to lose sight in his left eye, was still able to see how you vibrated with joy every time your resemblance to your beloved mother was mentioned.
"So very much." He smiled tiredly, brushing a loose auburn curl away from your forehead. "The same hair, the same beautiful smile, and the same stubborn little chin." He said grabbing your small chin between his thumb and forefinger.
You giggled. "Mother says I shall not be stubborn."
Viserys laughed, the sound dissolving into a cough before he recovered. "Then your mother has forgotten what she was like as a girl."
You frowned thoughtfully. "Was Mother naughty?"
Alicent, seated nearby with her embroidery resting forgotten in her lap, looked up immediately.
"Your Grace." She said in a serious tone and with a reproachful gesture.
Viserys merely offered a sad smile. "No." He squeezed your tiny fingers in his big palm. "But she used to laugh more." A note of longing permeated his voice, a slight hint of sadness for a past that neither of them could quite recall.
And, for just a moment, something flickered across Alicent's face. A memory. A girl in a blue dress running through the gardens of the Red Keep, smiling, happy, and carefree. Long before duty took hold of her life, long before she was queen and wore crowns, long before she had to lead the proof of her dishonor by the hand through the halls of the Red Keep.
You never noticed the sadness behind her smile, you simply nestled closer against your father's side, hugging him tightly and burying your head in his chest.
"I hope I always look like Mother."
Viserys kissed the crown of your head. "You always will, my little dragon"
Across the room, Alicent lowered her eyes, clutching the embroidery she had been sewing so tightly that the needle pricked her skin, drawing a little blood.
She said nothing; she couldn't bear to correct him.
Nor could she bear to agree.
Princess Rhaenyra noticed everything.
Far more than Alicent wished she did.
The court was full of little performances. Knights boasted of their tournament victories, lords flattered their feats in battle during their youth, ladies whispered about the furtive glances that different lords gave them at night, while children played beneath tables too large for them.
And amidst all of it...
There you were.
Hair loose down your back.
One pale lock hidden somewhere beneath the heavy waves and your brown eyes searching curiously around the hall, trying to gather all the information the world wanted to give you.
Everything is fascinating to a five-year-old girl, especially the crown princess.
Rhaenyra was, for you, a muse straight out of a fairy tale. Her porcelain skin, her purple eyes, and her long white hair, always styled in the most dazzling ways, always seemed worthy of a queen. A Valyrian queen nonetheless.
The very image of House Targaryen, your father's house. Meanwhile, you, always observing from some shadowy corner of the palace, were the blood of Oldtown. The green Hightower blood ran through your veins, and your mother, as always, never hesitated to show it.
While your half-sister wore elegant black gowns with sleeves and necklines of red lace and intricate embroidery of dragons and tales from Old Valyria, your gowns were always deep green. Sober gowns, made of plain fabrics, without embellishments, embroidery, or any ostentatious, worldly decorations that might distance you from the faith of the Seven. The only adornment you wore was that necklace with the seven-pointed star that always hung heavily on your chest, like a figurehead of a ship announcing its wearer's entry into every room, representing the owner's identity and strength.
There was no doubt where your loyalty lay.
Every now and then you would catch Rhaenyra looking back at you.
She always smiled at you and you always smiled back. She never failed to return it, not once. You thought she was kind, The Realm’s Delight she was called once upon a time.
Alicent knew better.
One afternoon, while musicians played softly in the background and the children chased one another between the columns, Harwin Strong leaned lazily beside Rhaenyra.
His eyes followed you as you hurried after Helaena. "There she goes."
Rhaenyra hummed. "There she does."
Harwin tilted his head.
"She has your friend's smile."
"My former friend’s smile." Rhaenyra corrected him.
"But not her eyes." Harwin's grin widened.
"No." Rhaenyra's eyes never left the girl running around. "For years..." she said quietly, "...she stood in this very hall and looked at my boys as though they were stains upon the throne."
Harwin snorted softly.
"And now?" Rhaenyra's smile grew gentler, not quite cruel but simply tired. "Now she cannot look at her own daughter without seeing exactly what she spent years condemning."
There was no triumph in her voice, only irony. Perhaps even pity, she felt pity for you, because she knew that Alicent could never love you the way she loved Jace, Luke or Joffrey.
She felt sorry for you, because she knew that no matter how hard you tried, you could never have your mother's love.
Because every attempt to be more like her was one more reason to distance yourself further from the court, one more reason for Alicent to love you less.
A bastard, without a mother to protect your honour, your legacy, your legitimacy. A mother who would never be able to encourage you, to motivate you to take your rightful place at court. A mother who, instead, made you hide in the shadows of the Red Keep.
Her eyes moved toward where her children were playing carefree. Her brown curls swayed with every movement. What would become of her own children if she weren't there to defend them? How cruel would the court be to mere infants who had done nothing wrong but believe their mother?
She couldn't even imagine, she couldn't even imagine how his children would feel if every time he looked at them, contempt and disgust were reflected in his eyes.
She couldn't even imagine looking at them the way Alicent looked at him.
He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy.
Ser Criston Cole never allowed himself to linger near you.
That was the safest thing. The wisest thing. The most honorable thing, or so it was said.
He was Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
You were the King's daughter.
Distance was duty.
Distance was survival.
And yet distance became impossible around you.
He was the protector of the Queen, and you were always with her. In that you were alike, both always following the queen from a prudent distance and obeying her orders.
Every child in the Red Keep admired Ser Criston. He was patient and he never raised his voice.
You didn't have a clear opinion of the knight who always followed your mother. He was simply there; Cole never tried to engage you in conversation and only answered the queen when required.
However, as time went on you realized that you could demand that he answer your questions and Alicent, for some strange reason that you didn't know at the time, never stopped you.
Unlike many knights, who wouldn't bow their heads to address you and were incapable of giving you a minute of their time, Criston Cole always answered your questions, even the ridiculous ones that only a little girl could think of.
"Could a dragon fit inside the throne room?"
"No, Princess." He always replied with that courteous and chivalrous manner. The most faithful servant. The knight of the seven kingdoms, one might say, always noble, polite, and dedicated to the cause of answering the princess.
"What if it was very little?"
Cole glanced at the queen, who was hiding a small smile, as they walked through the palace corridors. Seeing no negative reaction from your mother, he replied, "Perhaps."
"What if it curled into a ball?"
He pretended to consider it, straightening up and readjusting his grip on the sword... "...A very little dragon."
You nodded solemnly. "That’s what I thought."
He smiled despite himself.
Other members of the council or even other knights laughed about the stupid questions and curiosity that plagued the little princess mind.
Criston did not. He never laughed at you, not once.
One day, while Alicent was resting on the garden porch talking with other ladies, and after you had insisted terribly on wanting to go and find beetles for Helaena, your mother had sent you to Criston with the good protector that he was.
There wasn't much space to walk around; it was already late afternoon and the shadows only rested in the vicinity of the buildings and some tall trees in the garden.
Cole was beside you and couldn't hide the pain in his chest as you spoke of not being able to leave the shade, since Mother had strictly forbidden you from being in the sun.
However, when it came to crossing from one shadow to another, running to get through the sun as quickly as possible, and lacking a parasol, you casually grabbed Sir Criston's hand so that you could both cross the terrible border of sunbeams.
Criston nearly forgot how to breathe. Your fingers were so impossibly small and they wrapped trustingly around one of his gloved hands as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
He looked down, and you were chatting happily about the orange butterflies your sister had shown you. Your hands still united even after you had reached the shadow again.
Completely unaware.
He wanted–
Gods...
How he wanted to lift you into his arms, to kiss your forehead, to tell you that you had inherited your mother's laugh. That your curiosity came from him, that he knew every expression upon your face before you made it. That your eyes and your skin were completely perfect the way they were, and that there wasn't anything wrong with them because they came from your father.
From your real father, whose hand you were now holding.
Instead, he gently untangled your fingers from his, coming to a halt.
"You shouldn’t hold my hand, Princess. Only your Mother’s or your Lady’s hand"
You looked up, confused. "But I wanted yours."
His chest tightened so painfully he thought the armour itself might crack and with a solemn tone he knelt in front of you. "...Mine must hold a sword, to protect you in case of an attack."
"Oh." You accepted the explanation instantly.
Children always did.
That night, Criston remained in the training yard until long after sunset.
He trained until the last of the squires had retired, until the torches burned low. Until sweat soaked through the linen beneath his armour.
It was not enough.
Later, behind the closed doors of his chambers, he knelt before the image of the Warrior.
He prayed. And prayed. And prayed.
Then he reached for the leather scourge he had sworn he would never need again and, even so, he took off his shirt.
When dawn came, no one remarked upon the stiffness in the Lord Commander's movements.
No one noticed the fresh marks hidden beneath the white cloak of the Kingsguard.
Pain was easier than wondering what kind of father he might have been.
Of all your siblings...
Helaena understood you best.
Perhaps because neither of you quite belonged where everyone expected.
Her chambers were unlike any others in the Red Keep. Noisy courts became quiet there, silks and precious jewels gave way to jars of butterflies, spiders and beetles.
Most people found caterpillars sleeping inside little wooden boxes unsettling but you found them fascinating.
"They're beautiful." You whispered as you pressed your face to the glass box.
Helaena smiled as she played on the floor with her new acquisition, a small blue caterpillar that seemed to have thousands of tiny green feet. "They're only ugly until they change."
You crouched beside her. "Do they know they're going to become butterflies?"
"I don't think so."
"Then how do they know what to do?"
Helaena looked thoughtfully at the tiny caterpillar resting in her palm. "...Perhaps they simply become who they always were."
You considered that for a very long time; here you have the silence and freedom to think in peace without anyone watching. A small Eden into which it seemed the presence of the Seven could not enter.
Mother never interrupted when you were with Helaena.Perhaps because she believed insects could never lead anyone toward dragons.
But Helaena, without ever intending to, became the only place where you forgot yours.
If Helaena became your sanctuary
Aegon became your shield.
He would have denied it to anyone who asked. Loudly and repeatedly. That he did not care about the annoying ball of red hair that seemed to appear in any dark corridor of the palace and that always followed him around asking incessant questions about nothing in particular.
He would always deny it with an eye roll dramatic enough to be seen from Dragonstone.
Yet everyone within the Red Keep knew the truth.
Prince Aegon Targaryen would torment his brother from sunrise until supper, he could sneak frogs into the kitchens, steal enormous quantities of wine from beneath the noses of servants, and escape three tutors in a single afternoon.
And Prince Aegon never arrived on time to anything.
Not to his lessons, not to sword practice, and not to supper. Not even to the endless prayers his mother insisted the family attend together.
If a septa expected him at the seventh bell, she learned to expect him at the eighth. If a maester summoned him, another servant was usually sent to fetch him a second time.
Everyone complained, everyone sighed, and everyone had long since accepted that Prince Aegon Targaryen simply did as he pleased.
Except when you asked for him.
The first time had happened by chance. You had been sitting cross-legged in the library with a High Valyrian book almost as large as your lap, quietly sounding out the unfamiliar words beneath your breath.
Aegon wandered inside with every intention of hiding from his own lessons.
"What are you doing?" He asked almost listlessly as he looked at you there, sitting on the floor with the book between your legs.
"I'm learning High Valyrian."
"...Why?" he asked after a second.
You looked up, confused. "Because Father says every prince and princess should know it."
"...That sounds dreadful." He said as he lay listlessly down on the chaise lounge, with one leg dangling on the floor and the other bent over the soft pillows.
You frowned at one of the lines, got up with effort, and, staggering with the book in your arms, went to where Aegon was resting. You climbed onto the chaise lounge and over Aegon's body as he grunted, finally sitting with your back against his stomach and reopened the book.
"I don't know this word." You said, pointing at the word and moving the book close to Aegon's face.
Aegon slightly lowered his arm from his eyes and barely glanced at the page before replying, "It means dragonkeeper."
You pondered for a few seconds before pointing to another word. "And this one?"
"Fire." Aegon said wearily, covering his eyes with his arm again.
You frowned slightly before turning several pages, trying not to drop the heavy book, searching for another word. "And this?" You impatiently pointed at another word. "Arg...uris? Ar...guris? Argh...ugh...uris? Argh...oooris?"
"Gods..." Aegon laughed “Arghurys”
"Arg...uris."
"...No."
You frowned. "Ar...guris?"
"Still no."
You tried again, slower this time, and intoning almost as if you were howling at the moon, "Argh...ugh...uris."
Aegon laughed even harder, clutching his stomach with his hands as he trembled from the laughter that came from him.
You pouted "I'm trying."
Once he stopped laughing, he said with a small smile, "I know." He nodded as he sat up slightly using his elbows, then leaned closer, tapping the word with one finger. "Arghurys. It means hunter."
Your face brightened and you looked at them with the biggest smile anyone had ever given you. "You know High Valyrian!" you said excitedly.
"I suppose." He murmured softly.
You nodded, convinced. Yes, you had already decided. "You'll help me."
It was not a request.
Aegon looked toward the open library doors as though considering escape. Then he looked back at you and thought of the beautiful smile you had given him. No one had ever smiled at him like that, and a warm sensation filled his chest.
"...Fine."
After that, it simply became expected.
If you asked Aegon to help with your lessons, he came. No matter what else he had been avoiding.The maesters quickly learned that there was only one reliable way to ensure the prince attended anything on time: To tell him his little sister was waiting.
"You are late again, Your Grace."
"I know." He said, rolling his eyes.
The master clasped his hands and tried again. "You have already missed your other lessons."
"I know." He barked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
The maester waited a few seconds before adding, "...Princess Y/N has been waiting for nearly half an hour."
Aegon stood still, before turning around and shooting the Maester a murderous glare. "...Why didn't you say so first?"
He would already be walking away before the old maester had finished speaking.
He never cared enough to study for himself, but he hated not knowing the answers to your questions.
So, more often than not, the evening before your lessons, he could be found lazily turning the pages of whatever book the maesters had assigned you, grumbling beneath his breath about dull kings and impossible High Valyrian grammar.
Not because he enjoyed it, but because he liked the way your face lit up whenever he knew the answer.
You never understood why everyone insisted your eldest brother was lazy. He certainly looked lazy, he yawned through lessons, skipped half of them altogether, and complained about everything.
Yet somehow, whenever you wanted him, he was always there.
As children, it never crossed your mind that people could change. To you, your brother had always been good. You believed he always would be.
And you would spend years trying to remember this version of your brother.
The one who always came when you called.
If Aegon became your protector...
Aemond became your greatest contradiction.
Aemond was… Peculiar.
Not that he disliked you, that would have required finding you interesting enough to dislike in the first place.
For years, he simply couldn't understand you.
You woke before sunrise without complaint, you knelt through every prayer, you copied every line the septas set before you with neat, careful handwriting. Your dresses were always immaculate and your posture never faltered. Your long auburn curls fell perfectly down your back, never braided, never pinned, never out of place.
You thanked every servant, you curtsied to every lord, you lowered your eyes whenever an elder spoke.
Everything about you was...
Painfully ordinary.
You were exactly the sort of little lady Mother wished all her children had become.
And Aemond could not understand how someone carrying the blood of Old Valyria could be so utterly uninterested in everything that made House Targaryen… Well, House Targaryen in itself.
He devoured histories and you memorised hymns. He spent afternoons tracing old maps of Valyria and you embroidered flowers onto handkerchiefs. He could spend hours listening to the old Dragonkeepers speak and you politely excused yourself before they had finished their stories.
Whenever someone mentioned dragons, your attention drifted elsewhere.
It made no sense to him.
Sometimes he wondered whether you simply lacked curiosity altogether.
You never questioned anything, never argued, and never demanded anything.
You simply accepted everything and it irritated him far more than it should have.
Then came the comparisons. Not from Mother, never from Mother but from everyone else.
"The Princess has remarkable penmanship." and "The Princess has already memorised the fourth chapter." or "The Princess recited the Star without a single mistake." and even "The Princess is most diligent."
Always the Princess.
Aemond never struggled with his lessons. He was usually the brightest pupil in every room at least until people began mentioning you in the same sentence. And he disliked that far more than he cared to admit.
Not because you outperformed him, you rarely did, but because everyone seemed so impossibly impressed whenever you accomplished the very same things they had always expected of him.
As though neat handwriting were somehow more remarkable on your page than on his, as though your discipline deserved admiration while his was merely expected. He found it deeply unfair.
You, meanwhile, couldn't understand your brother at all.
Everyone insisted Prince Aemond was clever. And you surely believed them.
He certainly knew an extraordinary amount about dragons, swords, kings and places with names you could barely pronounce.
Unfortunately, those also happened to be the only things he ever seemed interested in.
He rarely smiled, rarely laughed, rarely joined Aegon when he invented games for you and Helaena through the corridors, and rarely sat with Helaena among the flowers.
He always seemed astonishingly busy while not doing anything in particular. Simply thinking, always inside his own mind.
You eventually decided Aemond simply preferred books to people.
You didn't dislike him.
You simply couldn't think of a reason to seek him out. There was nothing the two of you enjoyed together.
When Aegon found you, he taught you High Valyrian, he made you laugh, and he even tickled your little nose. When Helaena found you, she showed you beetles hidden beneath leaves and told you about the little animals that nobody else saw. When Mother found you, there were prayers, lessons or long evenings brushing your hair.
When Aemond found you there was usually only silence. And strangely enough, neither of you minded it.
Yet there was one thing Aemond noticed more than anything else: Mother.
She was never affectionate. Not truly, no to anyone. She did not kiss scraped knees, she did not tell bedtime stories, and she did not shower any of her children with embraces or laughter.
Duty always came before tenderness.
That much was true for all of them.
And yet she was always beside you. Every morning, every afternoon, and every evening.
Always watching out for you. She corrected the way your sleeves sat upon your wrists, she reminded servants to bring your parasol, she disappeared with you behind the doors of her chambers every single night, she inspected your lessons herself, she walked the gardens with you, and she called for you. Constantly.
Aemond could not remember the last time Mother had spent an entire afternoon with him.
He saw the little smiles she reserved only for you. Brief and almost invisible, gone as quickly as they came. Most people would never have noticed them.
Aemond did. He noticed everything and each one lodged somewhere beneath his ribs. He told himself it was because you required more supervision. Because you were younger, because little sisters always needed looking after. He repeated those explanations until he almost believed them.
Almost.
For years the two of you barely existed in each other's worlds.
If Aemond spent the afternoon buried somewhere within the library, you were likely in the sept, reciting prayers beside your mother.
If you embroidered quietly beneath the shade of the gardens with Helaena, Aemond was somewhere near the Dragonpit, pestering Dragonkeepers with endless questions.
If he disappeared into the training yard, you were practising your handwriting.
If you walked beside the Queen through the castle corridors, he had already taken another passage entirely.
It became an unspoken rule of childhood.
You always seemed to be walking in opposite directions, like the two ends of a compass that refused to meet.
On the rare occasions your paths crossed within the endless corridors of the Red Keep, neither of you stopped. Just a brief glance, a polite nod and then you continued walking.
You to the sept and him to the library.
You to your embroidery and him to his histories.
It never felt strange, not to either of you.
There simply never seemed to be a reason to remain in the same room for longer than necessary.
That evening, everything began as it always did. The servants were dismissed and the doors closed. The familiar crystal bottle rested upon the table beside Mother's silver brush.
You climbed onto the cushioned stool before her mirror without needing to be asked, your long auburn curls already tumbling down your back as Alicent stepped behind you.
The room filled with the familiar rhythm of the brush gliding through your hair. Slow, gentle, and patient.
You loved this part.
Outside those chambers, Mother was always the Queen.
Inside them, and just for a little while, she became simply Mother.
You watched her reflection through the mirror as she carefully gathered the thick lock of hair hidden deep at the nape of your neck, separating it from the rest with practiced fingers.
The soft auburn roots had returned once again.
She sighed almost imperceptibly before uncorking the crystal bottle. The sharp scent of vinegar and herbs filled the room. You barely noticed it anymore, and now you even associated that smell of ammonia with a safe and happy place.
As the little brush painted the mixture onto your roots, your eyes wandered absentmindedly towards the open window, The cold night breeze gently swayed the silk curtains.
Faintly, beyond the thick stone walls of the chamber, the distant sounds of the castle settling for the night drifted through the silence.
Somewhere far below, a door closed. Footsteps echoed briefly along a corridor.
Then nothing again.
Only the quiet, steady rhythm of the brush moving through your hair.
You smiled to yourself.
"...Mother?"
"Hm?" Her attention never left the careful strokes of the brush.
"If Aemond wanted..." You started speaking in a small voice and Alicent hummed distractedly. "...could you make one of his white locks red too?"
The brush stopped. Not gradually but instantly.
You looked at her reflection, waiting for an answer.
She hadn't moved. Her hand remained suspended in the air, the little brush still resting against your hair.
"...So he could look a little more like you," you continued innocently. "Then we'd match." You said excitedly, noticing and trying to fix the shift in your mother's mood.
Silence.
You frowned.
"I could even show Helaena how to apply it, then even Aegon and her could match."
The colour drained from Alicent's face so quickly it almost frightened you.
For one terrible heartbeat she simply stared at your reflection. Then, all at once, she spun your stool around so abruptly your feet slipped from the wooden footrest.
Her hands landed on your shoulders, her slender fingers gripping you with a devastating force. A small, frightened whimper escaped your lips when you saw your mother's terrified eyes.
"Never." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it sounded harsher than any shout you had ever heard.
You blinked up at her, startled.
"...Mother?"
Her fingers tightened without her realising.
"You will never say those words again."
"I only thought—"
"No." She said, shaking you by the shoulders as the word cracked through the room. Her breathing had become even now, each breath shallower than the last.
"Not to Aemond." Another shake. "Not to Aegon." Another. "Not to Helaena." Her eyes searched yours with something you had never seen before.
Not anger, not disappointment, but terror.
They reminded you of the eyes of sheep before they were incinerated by Sunfyre, the dragon of your beloved brother Aegon. You had only witnessed it once, but those trembling eyes of the lambs had left such a mark on your memory that you still had nightmares about them.
"You will never tell anyone about this."
"I wasn't going to—"
"No one." Her voice trembled. "Not your brothers." Her fingers dug a little tighter into your sleeves, now grabbing your wrists. "Not your father, not the servants, not the Maester, not anyone."
You saw how your mother's eyes changed color, how a dark shadow completely obscured them, leaving aside that tearful brightness and replacing it with flashes of blind anger.
You had no idea what you had done. The little bottle? The white lock? Nothing made sense anymore.
Your lower lip trembled. "...Mother?" For the first time, your voice sounded frightened and a tear rolled silently down your cheek. "I don't understand."
Alicent's face crumpled for the briefest of moments, but almost immediately she closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe. She straightened her back and walked away from the vanity, her back to you. When she turned around to look at you again, the panic had been pushed back behind the familiar mask of the Queen. That slight sneer of disgust and contempt that was already so familiar on your mother's face.
"You don't need to understand." She spoke slowly, cold as snow. "You only need to promise me."
You nodded quickly. "I promise. I do, mother. I will never tell anyone," you said as small sobs escaped your lips.
"No." Alicent barked, and for a moment you could see a flicker of anger again before it was overshadowed by a look of contempt. "Look at me."
You did while you were drying the tears that kept falling with the sleeves of your nightgown and trying to wipe them away with the soft embroidery of the cuffs of your nightgown on your cheeks.
"Say the words." She said in a cold tone, her eyes wide with shock. The queen appeared with regal bearing and all her magnificence just a few steps away, almost as if she were in a royal audience, her posture immaculate. "Say the words, daughter. Your Queen commands you."
And you, with your childlike innocence, did what your mother told you: "I promise I won't tell anyone." Sealing a promise that would last for years.
Children usually did what their mother told them to do.
She held your gaze for another long moment, searching your face as though trying to decide whether a child could truly keep a secret she did not even understand.
The room was silent once more.
The brush still rested abandoned upon the floor where it had slipped from Alicent's fingers.
You rubbed your sleeves where she had held you, more confused than hurt.
Mother had never looked so afraid, not even when Father had fallen ill, and not even during the thunderstorms that rattled the windows of Maegor's Holdfast.
Whatever terrible thing you had almost said, you could not understand what it had been.
You only remembered Mother's face.
Years later, you would realise that something had died inside those chambers that evening.
After that night, you never quite got your mother back.
For your mother became harder to find beneath the Queen.
After that night, there were moments when you could still get a glimpse of your mother. But they became fewer with every passing year,
Until at one point, only the Queen remained.
Thus grief, too heavy for words, whispered to an overburdened heart until it broke.
Tell me what you think about exploring her childhood. This might be slowburn with Aemond (since I’m starting since they’re children) but trust me with this one.
Summary: Desperate to save his realm, Dream seeks help from a powerful, feared being ... you. Instead of demanding a painful price, you surprise him with a strange request. Flustered but out of options, he agrees.
Part I - The Price of Mercy
Part II - Dinner with a Goddess
Part III - Coffee, Confessions, and Choking
Part IV (End) - The Dream He Dared to Shape
The Price of Mercy
The Dreaming was bleeding.
Dream walked through its corridors, his palace of thought. The sky above cracked with silent thunder.
All because of what he’d done.
A moment of duty. A moment of justice. A moment of blood.
Family blood.
And by the ancient Law, that was enough to summon the Kindly Ones. They were not kind. They would come. They always did. And they would unmake him.
He had exhausted every path.
There was only one door left.
And even he feared it.
You.
He had seen you once, long ago, walking through a Roman temple as if you were bored by time itself. A creature of eerie calm, elegant and still like a mirror pond untouched by wind. Beauty in a form mortals could never survive, but you walked among them like you barely noticed the difference. You had looked at him once, just once, and Morpheus had felt… something.
He didn’t dwell on it.
Destiny had warned him then.
"Do not cross her. She is the unknown chapter, the untethered clause. The Law listens to her in silence. And she charges dearly."
But he was out of options.
So, he descended through layers of reality, past dreams and gods and concepts, until he reached the threshold of your realm, an impossible space suspended between choices and probabilities, colored like dusk and rimmed with the soft laughter of stars.
Your domain was quiet, but not empty. Lanterns floated, casting soft golden light against a midnight backdrop. You sat on a couch made of impossible geometry, legs crossed, sipping tea that shimmered between blue and gold.
You felt his arrival and smiled without looking.
“Took you long enough.”
Morpheus stood still. Tall, still robed in night and regret. His face impassive.
But his eyes… hesitated.
He looked at you, truly, and something ancient and strange twisted behind his ribs. Your beauty was… disarming. The kind that wasn’t trying to seduce or impress. Just was. Effortless. Alive. You were elegance without vanity, danger without cruelty. And you smiled at him like a cat with a secret.
He straightened. His cloak curled behind him like a shadow offended by the light.
"You know why I’m here."
You circled him slowly, watching how his shoulders tensed, how his jaw clenched when you got too close. A flicker in his gaze. He wasn’t used to this. Being seen.
"I do. You want a law bent. A rule rewritten. A leash placed upon the Kindly Ones before they tear you and your precious realm to ribbons."
"Yes."
"That’s not usually something done without consequence, Dream. The Laws of the Endless are older than even your melancholy. You’re asking me to interfere."
He stepped closer, tone taut, restrained.
"I have tried all other paths."
You sighed, the sound somewhere between weariness and dramatic flair.
"Of course you have. And now you’ve come to me, expecting pain. Sacrifice. A price so sharp it leaves your soul limping."
He stiffened. His heart beat once, too loud in his ears.
"I will pay what is necessary."
You tilted your head. Your voice shifted, becoming cool, detached. The same script you’d used with gods, devils, and fools alike:
"The favor you ask comes with cost. Not of coin. Not of blood. But of truth. Of surrender. Of something irreplaceable. All who have bargained with me have walked away different. Most do not walk away at all."
You turned. He was waiting for torment. For agony. His black eyes, so often hollow, held a flicker of dread.
And you were…
Bored.
Gods, they’re all the same. Expecting doom and torment. Never just… asking what I want. Not even a ‘how are you’. Tch. And that restaurant just opened too…
And then it hit you.
The restaurant. The one you had tried to go to last week, only to be turned away at the door because "no singles allowed."
So here he was. Tall. Brooding. Rather unreasonably handsome, in that haunted, starving-poet sort of way.
And available.
You grinned.
"I’ve decided your price."
He braced himself.
"There’s a new restaurant in the Waking World. They serve the best lobster this side of the galaxy. Problem is, it’s couples-only. And I want to try their spicy citrus-butter crustacean."
He blinked.
"…I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." You walked towards him, hands folded behind your back, voice playful. "I want to go. I want their lobster. Their chef is a magician with butter and fire. But they don’t allow singles. I tried to bring my pet snake, but apparently that ‘violates the vibe’.
He frowned. "You… wish to dine with me?"
You smirked. "I want the food. They require a partner. You’ll do."
His brows furrowed. He searched the shadows for a trap. “That’s… it?”
You stepped closer, voice a whisper of amusement.
"What? Were you expecting I’d demand your memories? Your voice? Your first love’s heartbeat in a jar? Please. I’m not that cliché. I’m just bored. And hungry."
Morpheus hesitated. "You wish me to… date you?"
"Call it what you want, honey."
He choked. "…Honey?"
You leaned in, lips close to his ear.
"Too much?"
He straightened instantly, clearing his throat.
You watched, delighted, as his eyes flicked in every direction like he expected a trap to spring. “I—I don’t…”
“Relax. I won’t bite. Unless the lobster’s bad.”
His lips parted. Words failed him.
“So,” you continued, voice low and amused, “what’ll it be, Dream? Date or death?”
"I… accept. The terms. I choose the… date."
"Oh, how romantic," you teased, spinning on your heel. "Now. You’ll need to dress well. This place is fancy."
You turned, finger raised.
"You’ll need to pick me up. I expect you at eight sharp. No shadows. No sand. No ravens. Knock on the door like a normal being."
His voice was faint, nearly stunned.
"I… see."
"Do you?"
You stepped close again, smile playful, eyes glittering.
"You sure you’re okay with the price, Dream of the Endless? You seem a little… flustered."
He looked away quickly. "I am… simply surprised."
His ears turned faintly pink.
"Hm." You leaned back. "You’re cute when you’re trying not to blush."
Silence stretched, thick with something unexpected. Not doom. Not dread.
Anticipation.
"So," you said, extending your hand. "Do we have a deal?"
He stared at it, then at you.
There was no trick. No hidden malice.
Just you, beautiful, kind (against all rumors), and maybe a little lonely.
He hesitated. Then, slowly, solemnly, placed his hand in yours.
It was warm. Surprising.
“We have a deal.”
You smiled.
He turned to leave, half-floating, half-fleeing, his mind a storm of confusion.
And behind him, you laughed softly.
The Kindly Ones would be kept at bay. Your price was paid.
And perhaps… you wouldn’t be so bored after all.
You smiled. "Excellent. I’ll see you Friday. Don’t be late, honey."
He flinched again.
He stepped back through the veil, heart pounding like a mortal’s.
The Law had been bent. The Kindly Ones halted.
And all it cost him…
…was a date.
He touched the place on his hand where your fingers had rested.
Your laugh still echoed in his ears.
He could not stop the small smile that formed at the corner of his lips.
This is the first part of 4 delicious chapters, ehehehe, enjoy!
“Since then, she has been the beacon I follow.” He lowered the sword, for no truer words had ever been spoken, and the irony of their predicament nearly turned Gwayne into an hypocrite.
summary: Ser Gwayne finally had enough of the dishonorable endearment of the Hand towards his sister, the Queen Dowager, and decides to confront the Kingsguard. He did not expect to find such strong devotion beneath Ser Criston's behavior, nor did he ever thought the oddness that seemed to surround the man could become so twisted.
word count: 2k
genre/warnings (in this post): yearning, angst, mentions of war and trauma, political drama, existential dread, nihilism, ser criston being emo, gwayne being done with his bs, gwayne is married to my oc who is daughter of daemon and rhea royce (her name is alyssa, but I think I don't mention that in this particular scene), daeron is gwayne's eldest son, gwayne wields the ancestral sword of house royce, unrequited lore dump perhaps? also, this scene is a first draft so it'll probably have some changes once i publish the fic in the "right" order, that being said this is unedited and not proofread, i just wanted to get it out there to feel better, lmao. let me know if i should add something else here... oh, and english is not my first language ;)
spoilers! takes place in season 2 of house of the dragon, but also contains mentions to events that take place in season 1
notes: this is part of a series I'm writing, and on my (current) outline it takes place on chapter 11, but I wrote this out first since the inspiration for it came as I was rewatching season 2; the overall scene and dialogue is taken directly from episode 8, I only added narration and my fic plot to it - so it's more of a reframing of the scene from Gwayne's pov. as i said in the warnings, this is part of a gwayne x oc fic i'm currently writing, but this specific scene can be read as gwayne x wife!reader (since i mention him having a wife)
credits: divider by @strangergraphics, the pics are from the show (my own screenshots, feel free to use them, no credit needed)
130 AC - Somewhere in the Crownlands
He absentmindedly polished his sword, pouring his devotion in the steel because he could not pour it in its rightful place. Once again he inspected the runic inscriptions carved into the cursed metal, once again he wondered what they meant. Surely his wife would have told him the meaning if she knew, the thought came as it always did when he sat down to work the blade.
Gwayne sighed, throwing the rag on the table beside him, he’d only wear it thin if he kept at it for any longer. She surely knew… not only the meaning of the runes, but that he was out here looking for her. Before his thoughts could dwell any deeper in the memory of his beloved, a curious sight caught him by surprise — not further from where he was seated, he saw Ser Criston holding a rag.
Now, there was nothing wrong with that. If the dornishman weren’t holding the rag rather tenderly, and if Gwayne didn’t recognize the rag as the one his sister gave to the man on their first departure. Not only that, but it wasn’t the first time he caught the man doing so. Gwayne got up abruptly, unable to reign in his displeasure when facing the truth that reared its ugly head towards him once more.
He approached the man from behind, slowly and carefully to not startle him — although Cole seemed too lost in thought, or perhaps memory, to notice the threat.
“Do you think nothing of your oath…” he raised Lamentation to the dornishman’s neck. “Lord Commander?”
The man lowered the battered handkerchief. “I think of nothing else, my lord.”
He moved forward, walking over the felled tree to face the dishonorable knight. “Steward’s son from Dorne,” he said before he could think better, “fucking the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”
Ser Criston nodded, commenting in passing, “Former queen. She has broken no oath, for all I may have done.”
“I could send you to the Wall.” And, if the Gods were to favor his merciful heart, be done with all this madness.
“You could.” Cole said in that manner of his, “Stain the Hightower name for a generation… King’s mother and his Hand.”
“She is my sister,” he pressed the blade, feeling his hand tremble from the barely suppressed rage. How dared he speak of his sister like that, without shame or restraint.
Cole gasped, “She saved my life,” he said as a matter of fact, “Twice. Once from the headsman’s axe and once from myself.”
He couldn’t tell what Cole was getting to, the man irked him since he first saw him. Something about him just felt wrong, but Gwayne wasn’t sure exactly what; he had meant to let go of the prejudice, but then he noticed the shared glances between the man and his sister. His sweet, innocent sister, who had been used as a pawn her whole life by their devious father.
Gwayne thought now his duty to protect her from falling prey to other devious men. Not only for her own safety, but for the safety of the realm, for the safety of her children… seven hells, for the safety of his own family, if he was truly honest about it. He was a selfish man, and all his worries lied in whether his wife and sons would survive this madness, or be dragged into it and perish.
“Since then, she has been the beacon I follow.” Ser Criston said, the truth spilling out of his chest as if Gwayne had carved it out with the Valyrian blade in his hand. He lowered the sword, for no truer words had ever been spoken, and the irony of their predicament nearly turned Gwayne into an hypocrite.
He turned away then, unable to face the knight’s confession without spilling out his own. What would he do with Gwayne, he wondered, if he knew the truth of his presence there? Would he have sympathy for him? Would he aid him in his quest to find his dear wife? Aid them in rescuing their children from the hands of his degenerate cousin? Would he betray his cause for love if it came to that?
“Do not think I have no shame in me, ser,” the white knight said, “Desire for women has brought me grief after grief.”
“Then resist it,” he said, unsure if to himself or to the man behind him.
Ser Criston chuckled softly, and paused for a moment, before replying, “Oh, would that it were so simple.”
Damn it, damn him! “Your brothers in the Kingsguard find a way.” He berated, his tone biting.
“Do they?”
Gwayne looked at the man, incredulous of the claim.
Cole hummed, “Perhaps they do,” he pondered, clearly thinking of his next words, “Or perhaps all men are corrupt…”
Gwayne felt naked, stripped to his very bones. Criston Cole looked at him, and saw him, as the mortal man he was, not as the brother of a queen, not as the husband of a princess, not as the son of the man that once held the same position he had now. He found himself nearly in agreement with his sister’s lover.
“And true honor is a mist,” he continued, “that melts in the morning.”
“That is a bleak philosophy.” Gwayne said without hesitation; he would not allow this lowborn man to dictate his view on life.
“I have no philosophy,” Ser Criston replied. Then looked at his sword and grabbed it. “Or rather my philosophy was this.” He said, pointing it towards Gwayne, who instinctively braced himself. The grip on his wife’s sword tightened.
“To protect the righteous.” He fiddled with the sword. “And dispense justice on the rest. But now…” He carved the sword on the soft ground of the forest. “You saw what I saw…”
Gwayne recalled the first time he saw a dragon, the huge beast was beautiful in a terrifying way, but its true terror would only make itself known to him years later. Even then, afterwards, what terrified him wasn’t the possibility of him being on the receiving end of the flames, it was the beast going mad and taking his wife away from him — flying away to the ruins of Old Valyria never to be seen again.
And, as if the Gods didn’t have enough tormenting him, they gave his son a beast of his own… the egg hatched on the cradle, beside his little redhaired boy. His own wife couldn’t believe it, herself seemed to have more of her mother in her than of her father. Yet, both her and Daeron had fire and blood in them, underneath their disguise.
Gwayne had felt brave at the time, the dragon as small as a housecat, unable to breathe fire, unable to fly for more than a few feet. He played with the miniature blue beast then, if only to hear the glad sounds his little boy made and behold the sun in the semblance of his lady wife.
He had yet to see the destruction such a little thing could do once it had grown large enough. But he saw it in time, The Vale had a wild dragon of its own; Sheepstealer, they had named it. Gwayne was glad sheep was its preferred food source. The possibility had come to him then, but his wife had a dragon of her own to protect their peace of mind, and the wild beast never wandered too close to their lands anyway.
So, once again, the inevitable was delayed. He hoped it had been delayed forever, though. The screams came back to him first — screams from what now feels to be another life, screams with foreign accents and carrying the strong taste of sea salt.
“The dragons dance, and men are like dust under their feet.” Cole’s voice narrated his memories.
He thought he had seen hell when he first saw his wife’s dragon burn men alive in the Stepstones. He thought there couldn’t be anything worse than that. How mistaken he had been, how naive… his father had been right all along. Rook’s Rest had been a different kind of hell.
His gut twisted at the thought of it, and he gave thanks to the Old Gods and the New that his wife could be found somewhere in those same lands, on horseback, safer without her dragon. And a shameless part of him prayed the beast was chained deep within the Dragonpit, miles away from her.
“And all our fine thoughts, all our… endeavors are as nothing.” Cole concluded.
Gwayne had had enough of the dornishman, like his own sister, apparently the man didn’t know when to stop talking.
“We march now toward our annihilation…”
Silence reigned, finally. Well, as silent as it could get amidst a warcamp in the middle of a forest.
“To die will be a kind of relief,” The Hand of the King added, out of nowhere, and looked up at Gwayne.
He couldn’t be serious. Surely he had misheard the man.
He knew Ser Criston had seen battle before they set out to wage their King’s war, he had seen death and decay before. Surely…
“Don’t you think?”
The man lost his mind, it was the conclusion Gwayne arrived at, as to not lose his own. Ser Criston Cole, Commander of the Kingsguard, Hand of the King… had gone mad.
And it was this madman who was leading the charge against the Blacks… It was this man who had Gwayne’s life hanging on his treacherous hands. Cole, the madman, standing between Gwayne and his wife.
They looked at each other, but now Ser Criston no longer saw an equal, Gwayne realized, he saw a dead man walking; and Gwayne himself saw not a fellow knight, but the maker of their demise… a mortal man raised to the place that rightfully should only belong to the Gods.
Cole went back to cleaning his sword. And Gwayne found that his thoughts got lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth.
His heart felt heavier than he had ever felt, a new kind of terror, more insidious, but no less real. He closed his mouth, chewing on his bottom lip — a nervous habit since he was a kid — and looked around the camp.
He no longer saw brothers-in-arms, his subordinates, or men at the service of the Crown; he saw dead men.
Dead men, all of them. Dead men awaiting for the order to march to the place of their final rest.
He sat beside the mad knight, still holding Lamentation in his right hand. He had never understood the sword’s name; for an ancestral sword he thought the name was grim and poorly translated the values of House Royce, values he came to know intimately after living in Runestone with his lady wife for a few years.
Sure, those felled by the sword would lament their demise, and their families would lament their loss. But the name never felt quite right, because it didn’t fit the view Gwayne had of knighthood, of battle, or even of death. Like the ancestral sword of his own house, Vigilance, which now was wielded by his twat of a cousin. Or Blackfyre, the sword that now belonged to his nephew, King Aegon II.
He took in the forest around him, the sounds of life that mimicked its rhythm. Ephemeral, they were. Short, no matter how loud; or subtle, or piercing, or gentle, or threatening. They were all quick to come alive, and quicker to find their end. He might understand the name of the sword he carried now, after Ser Criston’s less than savory speech.
Lamentation… What a meaningful name to give a sword, indeed.
Death, Gwayne thought to himself; to lament means to carry death around in the shape of grief or sorrow. He held the sword with both hands, taking a good look at the strange veins in the metal, and the stranger inscriptions from a tongue that were once common, but now few and fewer spoke.
To wield a sword is to lament for the failed deeds of life. It had nothing to do with the notions of knighthood he had learned as a squire. Perhaps he too was as naive as his sister, and clung to the easier truth because certainly the harder would destroy him as easily as dragonfire.
Closing note: again this was purely indulgent, and more an exercise in writing than anything. I wrote this while actively watching the scene, which I also had to replay several times to get all the dialogue and details right; which in turn had me noticing the amazing acting and the scene landed even more poignantly than in the first time I watched it. I had the idea for this fic because of Gwayne's micro facial expressions, and overall vibe, it immediately gave me the idea that he had an ulterior motive for having joined Ser Criston and then the plot came naturally after that. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this. And I most definitively will continue to write it, since this wip is once again my current hyperfixation. If you feel inclined, let me know your thoughts on the original scene, and how this reframe changed your perspective on it!
Please, do not feed my work into any AI, nor repost here or into any other platform, I do not consent to that! You can reblog and like if you want to express how much you enjoyed it, the interaction is appreciated.
Could we get a fic where Gwayne and his wife save Helaena and the twins. She gets to the castle before blood and cheese do and begs Helaena to leave with her. They each carry a twin on the ride back plus their respective dragon.She convinces rhaenyra to marry her younger kids to the twins to keep them safe (visenya lives). Helaena swears her loyalty to rhaenyra so now team black have more dragons. (Luke and Jace live too please)
Extra points if when she was sneaking in Targ!reader saw or heard Cole and Alicent sleeping together ( why it was so easy to get into the castle).So she can gossip about it when she gets back to dragon stone. Please I will never ask for anything again!!!!!❤️❤️❤️
The rescue
But what if I want you to ask me stuff?? 🧐
Saw this and immediately started writing so here’s a present for bedtime so not really proofread 🩵
“Shh.” Gwayne whispers to you even though you weren’t making any noise. The man ignoring the look you give him in response. His sword in hand while he checks to see that you’ve not been seen. You two having to get past Alicent’s chambers to get to Helaena’s and the nursery. “I can hear something.”
“We need to be quick.” You whisper back, not caring if you have to kill a few people to get your precious Helaena and her children out unharmed.
“Fine, let’s go.” He whispers grabbing your hand to sneak past the door that noises are coming from.
“Holy shit.” You whisper recognising the voices.“That’s Cole. With Alicent.”
“What?” Gwayne whisper hisses, not wanting to believe you.
“Listen.”
“Fuck no.” He whispers grabbing your hand to drag you along. “I thought we have to be quick.”
-
“Helaena.” You say quietly to the sleeping girl. You knowing she’s a grown woman now, but she will always be the little girl who would bet to play in the gardens with you in your mind. “darling it’s me.”
“Sister.” She asks in confusion slowly waking, before looking at you in shock when she realises you’re actually there. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here to get you and the twins.” You say gently, brushing some of her hair out of her face.
“Really?”
“Really, it’s not safe for you here.” You confirm, wishing she’d never been dragged into this stupid war.
“Where are we to go?” She asks anxiously, playing with her fingers.
“I’ll tell you when we’re safe but we need to get the children.”
“Ok.” She says agreeing surprisingly quickly, getting out of bed to give you a hug. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too darling.” You reply kissing the side of her head before passing her some slippers and leading her out of the room.
“Uncle gwayne.” She says excitedly, having missed her uncle who always listened when she spoke.
“Hello sweetheart, let’s get you and the children out safe then we can hug.” He says softly, wanting to cuddle the girl but knowing you don’t have long.
“They’re this way.”
-
“I’ll carry Jaehaera.” Helaena says picking up her sleeping daughter softly. Her loving her son but treasuring her daughter. The girl begins so much like her already.
“I’ve got Jaehaerys.” You say to Gwayne who’s keeping watch. Holding the sleeping boy close to you, making sure to pick up the little toy dragon he was sleeping with. “Is it clear?”
“Clear, let’s go.” He says softly ushering you and Helaena out. Telling you both to keep close while you make your way out. All going well when you reach Alicent apartments, you worrying Helaena might want her mother to join. Luckily she doesn’t, just wanting her children out and safe. You all hearing moans coming from behind the door. Gwayne looking traumatised when he hurries you both along.
-
“Where are we going?” Helaena asks stood next to dreamfrye and Stormfrye. Your dragons having missed each other. Luckily dreamfrye was known to take herself flying so her leaving wasn’t unusual.
“Dragonstone.” You say carefully, knowing she’ll be scared.
“No!” She protests, having heard repeatedly that if Rhaenyra even sees her children she’ll have them sentenced to death. “She’ll kill my babies.”
“No she won’t Helaena.” You say firmly, knowing you would never let anything happen to the children. Even if Rhaenyra went back on her words, you praying she never would. “I promise you.”
“Uncle Gwayne?”
“The children will be safe, we’ve made a deal with her to keep you and the children safe.” Gwayne reassures, mentally viewing Helaena as one of his children. “We won’t let any harm come to them we promise.”
“Ok.”
-
“Helaena.” Rhaenyra greets, smiling at the young woman, her holding her daughter close to her while Gwayne holds her son. “They must be the twins.”
“You won’t hurt them will you?” She asks, fear in her voice as she looks between the queen and Jaehraerys. “Even the boy?”
“No, I won’t hurt them.” Rhaenyra tells her youngest sister softly. “But I do offer you a deal.” She continues, knowing she wouldn’t let any harm come to the children anyway. “When they’re older your daughter marries my son Joffrey.”
“How old is he?”
“He’s not much older than the twins.” You reassure the girl, understanding her fears.
“What of the boy?”
“I have a daughter, Visenya.” Rhaenyra replies a sad smile in her face as she thinks of the daughter she can’t be with. “She’s a newborn but when she’s grown he shall wed her.”
“Ok.” Helaena agrees after looking at you and Gwayne for guidance.
“Good.” Rhaenyra smiles. “In the meantime you may join our sister and your uncle to the vale to live there while the war continues.”
“The vale?” She asks confused, not expecting you to go there.
“We’re going there with all the children to keep them safe.” Gwayne says, knowing it’s going to be a bit of a full house. But happy about it.
“And I get to go with you?” She asks, making sure she’s not a captive for Rhaenyra.
“You do.”
-
Bonus
“Nyra.” You call running over to her and Daemon as the two talk in the hallway. You having just put the children to bed. Helaena in your chambers talking to Gwayne and Daeron.
“Why do you look so smug?” She asks giving you a suspicious look. Recognising it from when you were children and you were up to something.
“Guess what Gwayne and I walked past on our way to get Helaena.” You say practically jumping on the spot in excitement, finding the whole with funny. Gwayne not finding it anywhere near as amusing.
“How am I meant to know? Is it something that will help in the war?” She asks, looking at you in intrigue.
“Alicent was fucking Cristian Cole!” You blurt out, knowing she’ll be shocked. Especially after all the grief she gave Rhaenyra for doing the same thing when she was young and drunk.
“Ha!” Daemon shouts out with a cackle finding the new hilarious.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Reader (Hob's Daughter) Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Tag List: Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me ❤️
Over the four months following your first meeting with your father’s strange friend, you busied yourself with work and music. There was always enough of both. The orchestra’s winter programme required longer rehearsals, additional sectional work and several evenings spent beneath the conductor’s increasingly unforgiving stare. Difficult passages were repeated until your shoulder burned and the skin beneath your fingertips hardened further. A fractionally early entrance could condemn the entire string section to another twenty minutes of repetition.
You attended lectures between rehearsals, accepted private work whenever it appeared and continued taking shifts at the New Inn because orchestras paid considerably less than people imagined. When you were not performing music, you were writing it. The melody you had first recovered in dreams remained with you in perfect detail.
You played it often, although never casually. There was something within it that refused to become ordinary. No matter how frequently you returned to the opening phrase, the final passage still carried the same weight. Grief lived within the notes—not the immediate violence of new loss, but something older and quieter. Grief preserved so long that it had become part of the person carrying it. You did not understand why it made you think of your father’s friend.
You remembered his presence in the dream only indistinctly. A pale figure dressed in black. A voice confirming that you had finally found the correct ending.
Sometimes, when you played the final passage, you remembered impossible eyes filled with distant stars. Then the image vanished. You began writing another piece several weeks later.
Unlike the first melody, this one did not arrive complete. It came in fragments. A sequence for the violins appeared while you were travelling on the underground. You wrote it across the back of an old receipt before it could disappear.
A passage for the woodwinds occurred to you while you were behind the bar. You wrote that one on an invoice and nearly caused Hob to submit half a musical movement with the monthly accounts. At night, the piece followed you into dreams. You dreamed of an enormous chamber built from dark stone. Its ceiling rose so high that it disappeared into mist, and the music did not come from musicians but from the architecture itself.
The strings lived within the walls. The brass sounded beneath the floor. Voices moved among the arches overhead.
At the centre of the chamber stood a black tree. There were no leaves upon its branches. Instead, sheets of music hung from them, turning softly in a wind you could not feel. Some contained passages you had already written.
Others held music you had not yet discovered. You reached for one of the pages. A pale hand removed it before you could touch it.
You looked up. Your father’s friend stood on the opposite side of the tree. He did not look entirely as he had in the New Inn.
His black clothes moved as if they had been cut from smoke and shadow. His skin appeared almost luminous against the darkness, while his eyes contained not merely points of light but vast, turning skies. You should have been frightened. Instead, you were annoyed.
“I was about to read that.”
He held the page between long white fingers.
“It is not yet written.”
His voice seemed to come from the stone around you.
“Then why is it hanging from a tree?”
“Because you have dreamed it.”
You moved around the trunk, but he remained opposite you.
“May I have it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you must find it yourself.”
You frowned at him.
“You gave me the ending of the other melody.”
For one instant, something entered his expression. Pain. It was ancient and immense, but gone so quickly that you were uncertain whether you had seen it at all.
“That song was not yours to create,” he said. “You merely found it again after it had been lost for a very long time.”
“And this one is?”
“Yes.”
You looked up at the pages shifting among the branches.
“Is it good?”
His gaze settled upon you.
“Why does that matter?”
“Because I am writing it.”
“You ask whether it is good because you wish to know whether others will admire it.”
His voice remained calm. That made the judgement in it worse.
“You have not asked whether it is true.”
You stared at him.
“That is unnecessarily severe.”
“Is it inaccurate?”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came. He extended the page towards you.
You reached for it. Before your fingers touched the paper, it folded in upon itself and became a white moth. It flew through your hand and vanished among the dark branches.
“That was irritating.”
“You will remember what is required.”
Silver light split the trunk of the tree. The music inside the walls grew louder. You looked at him through the widening fracture.
“Will I remember you?”
The chamber began to collapse into mist. He watched you as the darkness drew him away.
“Perhaps.”
You woke with your arm extended above you and your fingers closed around nothing. You remembered the black tree. You remembered the moth.
You remembered speaking to someone, although his face faded the moment you attempted to hold it. The music did not. You wrote until nearly midday.
By the time Hob entered the kitchen, you had covered the table in manuscript paper. He stopped in the doorway with a cup of tea in one hand.
“Another one?”
You did not look up.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“This one is being difficult.”
Hob crossed towards the table and looked down at the pages. He had never learned to read music fluently despite possessing seven centuries in which to do so. He claimed he understood enough. You suspected this meant he could identify when the notes moved upwards.
“Is it like the other melody?”
“No.”
You tapped the end of your pencil against the page.
“The other one felt as though I was remembering something. This feels like I am searching for something that has not happened yet.”
Hob’s mouth tightened.
“Peculiar.”
You glanced up.
“What is?”
He gestured vaguely towards the manuscript.
“All these songs coming to you in your dreams shortly after my immortal acquaintance surfaced again.”
You stared at him.
“You think he has something to do with it?”
Hob hesitated.
“Not purposefully, probably.”
“Probably?”
He sat opposite you.
“His return may have had something to do with you dreaming.”
You lowered your pencil. The suggestion should have sounded ridiculous. It did not.
“I saw him in two of my dreams. Possibly more.”
Hob became very still.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“Which ones?”
“The music ones.”
His expression changed in a way you could not interpret.
“Did he speak to you?”
“Only in the last one. I think. I cannot fully remember.”
You frowned, attempting to recover the memory.
“He helped me finish the first melody. In another, he would not let me read a piece I had not written yet.”
Hob stared at you and chuckled.
“What is he?” you then asked.
Hob looked down at your manuscript.
“That is not for me to share.”
“So he is not like you?”
A strange sound escaped Hob. It might have been a laugh.
“No.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he is slightly more important than me.”
You leaned back in your chair.
“Slightly.”
“Considerably.”
“Is he a vampire?”
Hob looked at you in disbelief.
“What?”
“I am merely asking.”
“No.”
“He is pale, dresses entirely in black and apparently enters dreams.”
“He is not a vampire.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Hob rubbed one hand over his face.
“And let’s just say that, if you see him in your dreams, it is not as random as you think.”
You frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means he was there by choice.”
You stared at your father.
“That is not how dreaming works.”
Hob held your gaze.
“It is when it concerns him.”
The room became strangely quiet. You thought of the pale figure at the edge of the rehearsal room. The black tree.
The voice that had known precisely which piece of music you were trying to find.
“He chose to enter my dreams?”
“It would appear so.”
“Why?”
“That,” Hob said slowly, “is something I intend to ask him.”
You studied his face.
“Should I be concerned?”
Hob did not answer immediately. That concerned you more than an immediate denial would have. At last, he reached across the table and turned one of the pages towards himself as though he understood anything written upon it.
“He is not careless with those who dream.”
“That was not an answer.”
“No.”
His gaze returned to you.
“But if he intended you harm, I doubt he would have helped you finish a song.”
You thought of the sorrow in the final passage.
“It was not merely a song.”
Hob noticed the change in your voice.
“What was it?”
You shook your head.
“I don’t know.”
You gathered the pages together.
“But I think it belonged to someone he loved.”
********
The new composition developed over the weeks that followed. You did not see the stranger again. Not in waking life.
Not clearly in dreams. Occasionally, you sensed someone at the edge of them. A figure standing beyond the range of the stage lights.
A shadow beneath the arches. A presence listening without interrupting. Whether it was truly him or merely your imagination, you could not tell.
You completed the composition without further help. The final movement emerged one rainy morning while you were walking towards rehearsal. You stopped beneath the awning of a closed shop and wrote it with the paper pressed against the brick wall. By the time you reached the conservatoire, the ink had bled in several places and the sleeve of your coat was soaked.
The music remained. Maddy heard the first orchestral reading two weeks later. She sat in the otherwise sparse recital hall holding two coffees and a paper bag containing pastries. She was not musical, beyond a few childhood piano lessons she described as psychological warfare, but she attended almost every performance you gave.
She had strong opinions regarding composers. She liked Tchaikovsky. She tolerated Brahms.
She claimed Wagner made her want to invade a neighbouring country. Your composition began with a violin alone. The other strings entered gradually, forming themselves around the melody without consuming it. Woodwinds followed, hesitant and searching. Beneath them, the cellos introduced a second theme—warmer, darker and somehow older than the first.
The two melodies circled one another. At times, they appeared to argue. At others, each seemed to exist solely because the other was present.
They came together for only eight measures. Then they parted. The violin continued alone until the final note disappeared.
Silence followed. The conductor did not immediately lower his baton. The musicians remained still.
Professor Steven O’Callaghan sat in the third row with your score open across his knee, his pen motionless in his hand. At last, the principal cellist exhaled. The sound seemed startlingly loud.
Maddy waited until you reached the corridor before catching both your arms.
“What the hell was that?”
You nearly dropped your violin case.
“Good afternoon to you too.”
“No. You do not get to behave as though that was normal.”
“It was an orchestral composition.”
“It was five minutes of emotional devastation.”
You took one of the coffees from her.
“That seems excessive.”
“The horn player cried.”
“The horn player cries frequently.”
“Professor O’Callaghan looked impressed.”
You glanced towards the closed doors.
“Professor O’Callaghan always looks as though he is deciding whether someone deserves to survive.”
“Today he decided you did.”
You laughed softly and began walking. Maddy followed.
“Where did it come from?”
“I wrote it.”
“I understand the basic principle. Where did you get the idea?”
You adjusted your bag over your shoulder.
“A dream, mostly.”
Maddy stopped.
“Again?”
You continued towards the courtyard. She hurried to catch up.
“Was he there?”
You looked at her.
“Who?”
“The weird, hot one.”
You nearly walked into the door.
“What?”
“Your father’s strange friend. The pale one who looks as if sunlight personally offended him.”
“I only vaguely remember it.”
“But he was there again? Just like in the last dream?”
“Yeah.”
Maddy stared.
“You have dreamed about the same man twice?”
“Apparently.”
“And what was he doing?”
You pushed open the courtyard door. Cold air moved around you.
“Listening.”
“That is either romantic or deeply sinister.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“It was odd. It felt as though he already knew the music and was waiting to see whether I could find it.”
“Perhaps your subconscious chose him because he frightened you.”
“Perhaps.”
You took a cautious sip of coffee.
“Dad said—”
You stopped and bit your tongue. Maddy’s eyes narrowed immediately.
“Your dad said what?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
You hesitated. Hob had not expressly forbidden you from telling anyone what he had said. He had merely made it very clear that the truth belonged to his strange friend and was not his to share. Besides, telling Maddy that the man had possibly entered your dreams deliberately would lead to questions you could not answer without revealing considerably more about Hob than she had ever been permitted to know.
So you lied.
“Dad said dreams are sometimes strange and that I shouldn’t overthink them.”
Maddy stared at you.
“That was the dramatic secret?”
“It was not a dramatic secret.”
“You stopped halfway through the sentence and looked as though you had nearly revealed a state conspiracy.”
“I momentarily forgot how unhelpful his advice was.”
“It is extremely unhelpful.”
“Exactly.”
Maddy continued to watch you suspiciously.
“Did he say anything about his friend?”
“Only that he has always been peculiar.”
That, at least, was true.
“How long has he known him?”
You concentrated upon replacing the lid on your coffee.
“A long time.”
“That was evasive.”
“I don’t know the precise answer.”
Also true.
“Your father is extremely odd about that man.”
“My father is extremely odd about many things.”
“Fair.”
You continued across the courtyard. Maddy remained beside you.
“But your father is right. Dreams can be strange,” she said. “I dreamt something entirely absurd last night.”
You glanced towards her. Her expression changed.
“Actually, never mind.”
“No. You cannot introduce an absurd dream and then refuse to explain it.”
“It was inappropriate.”
“Even better.”
Maddy groaned.
“It involved Sven.”
You stopped. Sven Dahl was the orchestra’s assistant conductor, a broad-shouldered Swede with an austere face and an unnerving ability to silence an entire brass section merely by removing his glasses. He had spoken to Maddy perhaps six times.
Four of those conversations had concerned where she was permitted to sit during rehearsals. You stared at her.
“Sven?”
“I told you it was absurd.”
“What happened?”
“I am not giving you details.”
“Were there details?”
Maddy covered her face.
“Unfortunately.”
You began laughing. She struck your arm with the pastry bag.
“Stop it.”
“Perhaps your subconscious is trying to tell you something too.”
Maddy glared at you.
“Like what?” she asked. “Unlike your father’s weird friend, Sven isn’t exactly scary.”
“I don’t think Dad’s friend is scary.”
Maddy’s expression changed immediately.
“So you think he’s hot too.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You took another sip of coffee and decided to change the subject before she could become any more insufferable.
“That old book I was reading when Dad’s friend first appeared—I dreamed the actual ending.”
Maddy lowered her hands.
“The house with the people in the walls?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know it was the actual ending?”
You thought of the sentence that had appeared beneath the final printed paragraph. The house was gone, but what had lived within it had learned her name. You had never told anyone about that.
“It matched what he described.”
“He might have invented it.”
“I found a surviving letter online confirming that the ending had been changed.”
Maddy considered that.
“That is strange.”
“I also found out the author was delirious for several days before the final manuscript was submitted.”
“Clearly.”
“He apparently kept talking about voices moving through the walls.”
Maddy stopped walking.
“You might have mentioned that part sooner.”
“It was probably the fever.”
“Or your father’s terrifying friend knows far too much about obscure dead authors.”
“Both possibilities are equally comforting.”
Before you could say anything more, the door behind you opened. Professor Steven O’Callaghan stepped into the courtyard. He wore a dark wool coat buttoned neatly over his suit. His silvering hair had somehow remained untouched by the wind.
His gaze moved first to you and then to Maddy.
“Miss Gadling.”
You shifted your violin case against your hip.
“Professor.”
“May I speak with you?”
Maddy looked at you.
“I can wait.”
Professor O’Callaghan’s smile was professionally polite.
“It may take some time.”
Maddy hesitated. You nodded towards the gate.
“I’ll call you.”
She squeezed your arm before leaving. Professor O’Callaghan waited until she had gone.
“Walk with me.”
*********
Steven O’Callaghan had taught at the conservatoire for nearly eighteen years. His reputation extended far beyond the institution. He had discovered soloists, secured grants for composers and introduced promising musicians to patrons whose approval opened doors throughout Europe.
Students he favoured received opportunities. Students he disliked tended to find those opportunities disappearing. You had attended two of his courses. His criticism was merciless, precise and usually correct, which made it difficult to dismiss.
You followed him into his office. Scores covered one wall. Framed photographs showed him beside celebrated conductors, composers and musicians whose biographies you had studied. He gestured towards the chair opposite his desk.
You sat.
“Your work today was exceptional.”
You looked at him. Praise from Professor O’Callaghan was ordinarily followed by an insult.
“Thank you.”
“It lacks discipline in places.”
There it was. He removed his coat.
“The transition preceding the final recapitulation is indulgent. Your use of the horns is emotionally effective but structurally unjustified.”
“I can revise it.”
“You should.”
He moved behind his desk.
“However, the central idea is gifted.”
The word landed harder than you expected. You lowered your eyes briefly.
“Thank you.”
“Do not become embarrassed. False modesty is tedious.”
You looked up.
“It was not false modesty.”
“Good.”
He sat.
“You are talented, Miss Gadling. More talented than several people who already possess the career you imagine for yourself.”
You remained quiet.
“But talent is rarely enough.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His gaze remained fixed upon you.
“The profession is crowded. Institutions release hundreds of competent musicians every year into an industry without enough space for them. Most will teach children, play weddings or abandon performance.”
“There is nothing wrong with teaching or playing weddings.”
“No. But that is not what you want.”
You did not respond. He leaned back.
“You want to compose.”
“Yes.”
“You want serious orchestras to perform your work.”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually is what people say when they do not know how to proceed.”
His voice softened.
“I know how.”
Hope entered you before caution could prevent it. Professor O’Callaghan possessed connections you could not create for yourself. A recommendation from him could accomplish more than years of applications.
“There is a residency in Vienna next spring,” he said. “Four composers. Full funding. Professional performances at its conclusion.”
You knew the programme. Every student composer did.
“Applications closed months ago.”
“Officially.”
You looked at him.
“One of the successful candidates has withdrawn.”
“And you select the replacement?”
“I advise the committee.”
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag.
“Would you recommend me?”
Professor O’Callaghan smiled. It was not a kind expression.
“I might.”
The hope cooled.
“What would you require?”
He rose from his chair.
“Commitment.”
“To the residency?”
“To your development.”
He came around the desk. Something in your body understood before your mind did. Your shoulders stiffened.
He stopped beside you. Too close.
“You are young,” he said. “You have not yet learned how often careers are built outside formal auditions.”
You stood.
“I should leave.”
He placed one hand against the back of your chair, obstructing the easiest route towards the door without quite touching you.
“You misunderstand me.”
“I do not think I do.”
His expression hardened.
“Do not be childish.”
Disgust moved through you with such force that it became physical. You were suddenly conscious of the closed door and the quiet corridor beyond it.
“Move.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You should think carefully before choosing indignation.”
His other hand settled against your waist. You stepped away so quickly that the chair struck the desk.
“Do not touch me.”
He removed his hand. His composure made it worse.
“Nothing has happened.”
“You offered me a residency in exchange for sleeping with you.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Then recommend me without this conversation.”
Silence. His eyes cooled.
“You are gifted, but difficult.”
“Meaning?”
“You lack patience with authority. Your manner is abrasive. You are too quick to interpret correction as attack.”
“This was not correction.”
“This tendency to dramatise discomfort will not serve you.”
You reached for the door. His voice followed you.
“Vienna would change your career.”
Your hand stopped upon the handle. For one terrible moment, you saw everything he was offering. A residency.
Professional musicians performing your work. Access to a world you had spent years trying to enter. Then you remembered his hand on your waist.
You opened the door.
“Then I will have to change it myself.”
You stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind you. You did not run. You wanted to.
Instead, you walked through the conservatoire with your back straight until you reached the street. Only then did you breathe. Your hands were shaking.
Maddy answered on the second ring.
“How did it—”
“Where are you?”
Her voice changed immediately.
“The café opposite the station. What happened?”
“I’m coming.”
**********
Maddy wanted you to report him. She also wanted to return to the conservatoire and pour coffee over his head. You prevented the second plan.
You were less certain about the first.
“He will deny it.”
“Of course he will. Men like that practise denying things before they do them.”
You stared into your untouched tea. Maddy sat opposite you in the corner of the café. Her anger had made her frighteningly calm.
“Did he lock the door?”
“No.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“Not directly.”
“Did he touch you?”
You swallowed.
“My waist.”
Maddy closed her eyes.
“I am going to kill him.”
“You cannot kill a professor because he touched my waist.”
“Watch me.”
“That would cause additional administrative difficulties.”
She opened her eyes.
“You are making jokes because you feel sick.”
You looked towards the window.
“Probably.”
“Tell your dad.”
Your answer came immediately.
“No.”
“Why not?”
You imagined Hob hearing what had happened. He would believe you. He would not ask whether you had misunderstood, what you had worn or why you had entered the office.
That certainty should have made telling him easier. Instead, it made you imagine what he would do afterwards. Hob had adapted to modern laws.
He had not entirely abandoned older ones.
“Because Dad would do something.”
“Good.”
“Something bad.”
“Also good.”
“He occasionally abides by laws that stopped existing in the fourteenth century.”
Maddy considered that.
“Can he frighten O’Callaghan without committing a felony?”
“I am not confident he distinguishes between those activities.”
She reached across the table and covered your hand.
“You cannot do nothing.”
“I know.”
“Write down everything that happened.”
You nodded.
“And never meet him alone again.”
“I have no intention to.”
“Good.”
You drew in a slow breath.
“Do not tell Dad.”
Maddy’s mouth tightened.
“For now.”
“Maddy.”
“For now,” she repeated. “But if O’Callaghan threatens you, harms your work or comes near you again, I am telling Hob. Then I am helping him select the most appropriate medieval punishment.”
You nearly smiled.
“Thank you.”
“Do not thank me. I am still considering the coffee.”
**********
You did not tell Hob. You wrote down every detail. You sent a copy to Maddy and saved several more.
Then you changed for work. The New Inn was quiet that evening. Rain had discouraged most customers. A two-person folk band occupied the small platform beside the fire, playing for several regulars, a young couple sharing wine and an elderly woman who appeared to have fallen asleep.
The musicians were siblings named Niamh and Conor. Niamh sang and played guitar. Conor moved between a bodhrán, mandolin and fiddle with the relaxed competence of someone who had learned music in crowded rooms rather than formal lessons.
You had heard them before. They were good. You preferred classical music. You liked structure, discipline and the intimacy created when dozens of musicians surrendered themselves to the same written intention.
But folk music possessed a freedom you envied. Nothing remained fixed. A tune could change according to the room and the people playing it.
You were wiping the bar when Conor approached during their break. His gaze dropped to your left hand.
“You play.”
You looked at your fingers.
“Is it that obvious?”
He held up his own callused fingertips.
“Fiddle?”
“Violin.”
“Same thing.”
“Do not say that near anyone from the conservatoire.”
He grinned and held out his fiddle.
“Play the next set.”
You laughed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’m working.”
Hob spoke from the other end of the bar.
“You are not working especially hard.”
You looked at him. He had been distracted all evening, glancing towards the door every few minutes. Someone was expected.
You knew who before the door opened. The room changed. The flames sank slightly in the fireplace.
The elderly woman woke, looked towards the entrance and promptly closed her eyes again. The stranger stepped inside. He wore black.
His pale face was as severe as you remembered, his hair untidy above eyes that caught the dim light in an impossible way. Recognition moved through you. Rain against tall windows.
A black tree. A white moth. Then it was gone.
Hob straightened.
“You’re late.”
The stranger approached the bar.
“We agreed upon no hour.”
“I said evening.”
“It is evening.”
Hob looked pointedly towards the clock.
“Barely.”
The stranger glanced towards the quiet table Hob had reserved for them. Then his attention moved towards the stage and the fiddle in your hands.
“I thought we could sit over there,” Hob said.
“No.”
Hob blinked.
“No?”
“I shall remain here.”
Conor extended the fiddle towards you again.
“One tune.”
You looked at Hob. He shrugged.
“Go on.”
“You pay me to work.”
“I pay you poorly enough that I cannot reasonably object.”
You took the fiddle. It was heavier than your violin, its varnish worn where countless hands had held it. You tested the strings.
Conor’s eyebrows rose.
“Classical?”
“Mostly.”
“Try to forget that.”
“I have spent fifteen years being told not to.”
Niamh laughed from the stage. You stepped onto the platform. Maddy emerged from the back carrying clean glasses.
She saw you holding the fiddle. Then she noticed Hob’s friend at the bar. Her eyes widened.
She mouthed, the weird hot one. You ignored her. Niamh began with a familiar tune.
You listened through the first repetition and entered on the second. Conor watched you closely at first. By the third repetition, he stopped. He moved to the bodhrán and allowed you to carry the melody. The tune quickened.
You followed. Niamh changed the rhythm. You answered.
Without a conductor or written score, the music loosened beneath your hands. Nothing existed except the next phrase and the certainty that the others would meet you there. At the bar, Hob poured himself a drink. Dream stood beside him and listened.
Hob watched you for a moment. Then he turned towards his friend.
“She told me you appeared in her dreams.”
Dream’s gaze remained upon the stage.
“Did she?”
“Twice.”
“Yes.”
Hob waited. Dream offered nothing more.
“Did you give her melodies?”
Dream looked towards him.
“No.”
“Then why is she dreaming music no one else recognises?”
“She found them herself.”
Hob frowned.
“You helped her complete a piece she had thought about.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
The fiddle tune ended and another began almost immediately. Dream watched you adjust to the unfamiliar melody.
“She came seeking answers within my realm.”
“She was asleep.”
“Nevertheless, she sought them.”
“Once?”
“Again and again.”
Dream’s voice remained quiet.
“She returned to the same melody. She rejected every ending her own mind attempted to create because she knew none of them were true.”
Hob looked towards you. You were smiling as Conor called out a change half a moment before making it.
“So you gave it to her as a favour, because she is my daughter?”
Dream’s eyes returned to Hob.
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation. Hob’s expression changed.
“Then why?”
For several seconds, Dream said nothing. The room seemed to recede around him.
“Because she possesses a gift I have not witnessed in a mortal for thousands of years.”
Hob stared.
“What sort of gift?”
Dream’s gaze shifted back towards you.
“Music does not merely occur within her. She perceives what lies behind it. Memory. Story. Truth. She hears what has been forgotten and sometimes what has not yet been created.”
Hob’s fingers tightened around his glass.
“You have seen this before.”
“Yes.”
A pause followed.
“The last mortal in whom I witnessed such a gift was my son.”
Hob turned towards him. Surprise briefly overcame his concern.
“You had a mortal son?”
Dream did not answer. His gaze remained fixed upon you. The tune had slowed. You stood beneath the low stage lights, your eyes half closed as you followed the melody into a quieter passage.
After a moment, Dream said:
“Her gift will mature in time.”
Hob studied his face, recognising the deliberate change of subject but choosing, for now, not to challenge it.
“What does that mean?”
Dream considered the question.
“Often, nothing.”
Hob looked at him.
“Nothing?”
“Some mortals are simply gifted. They create works that outlive them. They touch the dreams of others and never understand how.”
“And the others?”
Dream’s face became unreadable.
“Some are something else.”
Hob lowered his voice.
“Are you concerned?”
Dream looked at him.
“If I were concerned by every gifted mortal in every galaxy, Robert Gadling, I would have little time for anything else.”
“That is not the same as saying no.”
“No,” Dream agreed. “It is not.”
Hob watched him.
“And you do not know which she is.”
“Not yet.”
On the stage, you completed the song. Applause moved through the room. Dream did not look away.
*********
You remained for the rest of the set. By the end, several more customers had gathered near the fire, drawn by the music from the rain-dark street. The trouble began shortly afterwards.
Four men entered already drunk. You knew it from the volume of their voices and the exaggerated care with which one of them leaned against the bar. Hob served them a single drink each.
He refused the next round. The largest man stared at him.
“We’ve only had one.”
Hob collected their glasses.
“You had several before you arrived.”
“You following us?”
“No. You smell like a distillery fire.”
Maddy turned away to hide a smile. The man struck the bar with his palm.
“Get another round.”
“No.”
“We are paying.”
“Still no.”
Conversations quietened. Hob remained calm.
“Time to leave.”
One of the man’s companions pulled at his arm.
“Come on, Dean.”
Dean shook him off.
“I said we want another drink.”
“And I said you’re leaving.”
Dean reached across the counter. Hob caught his wrist. The movement was so fast you almost missed it.
“Let go.”
“Gladly, once you agree not to swing at anyone.”
“I wasn’t going to swing.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“You don’t know what I was thinking.”
Hob’s mouth curved without humour.
“I have been in more tavern fights than you have eaten dinners. I know exactly what you were thinking.”
Dean tore his hand free. His elbow struck a glass. It fell and shattered across the floor.
Beer spread between the fragments. Maddy swore. You stepped from behind the bar with a cloth and dustpan.
Dean looked at you.
“You work here?”
You looked pointedly at the cloth in your hand.
“Plainly.”
“Tell your boss to stop being a prick.”
Hob moved between you.
“Leave.”
Dean laughed.
“What, she your daughter?”
Hob’s face became still. Of every possible question, the man had chosen the worst one.
“Yes.”
Dean looked you over. Your skin crawled.
“Could do better than working in this dump.”
You crouched to collect the glass.
“I am beginning to understand why you require three friends to accompany you into public.”
Conor made a choking sound from the stage. Dean stepped towards you. Hob blocked him.
“Enough.”
“She said—”
“I heard her.”
“Teach her some manners.”
“I attempted to. She resisted.”
You looked up.
“Consistently.”
Dean shoved Hob. It was a poor decision. Hob moved half a step backwards.
Nothing more. His face changed. For an instant, you saw the older man beneath him: violent, experienced and entirely unsurprised by confrontation.
He seized the front of Dean’s coat. Before he could do anything else, your father’s friend spoke. His voice was quiet.
Everyone in the room heard it.
“You will leave this place.”
Dean turned towards him.
“Who the hell are you?”
Dream stepped forward. The lights within his eyes appeared brighter.
“You have dreamed of a river for eleven years.”
Dean’s anger faltered. One of his companions went silent.
“Every night,” Dream continued, “you stand upon the bank and hear your brother calling from beneath the water.”
The colour left Dean’s face.
“Shut up.”
The flames bent low. Shadows lengthened.
“You tell yourself you could not have saved him.”
Dream’s voice did not rise.
“But in your dreams, you remember that he was still breathing when you left.”
Dean stumbled backwards.
“How do you know that?”
Dream’s expression held no mercy.
“He will be waiting when next you sleep.”
Dean turned towards the door. His companions were already leaving. He followed them.
The door slammed. Silence filled the pub. Maddy whispered:
“What the fuck?”
Dream looked at her. She lowered her eyes.
“Sorry.”
Hob released a slow breath.
“I did not need help.”
Dream regarded the broken glass and Hob’s clenched hand.
“Clearly.”
“You could have told him to leave without excavating his worst trauma.”
Dream returned to the bar.
“He required persuasion.”
Hob looked towards the closed door.
“Is his brother truly waiting for him?”
“Yes.”
“That seems cruel.”
Dream’s gaze settled upon him.
“The dead are not always cruel merely because they wish to be remembered.”
Hob said nothing more.
*********
The remaining customers left soon afterwards. Niamh and Conor packed away their instruments. Maddy disappeared into the back, though your phone vibrated almost immediately.
THE WEIRD HOT ONE IS A DEMON. A second message followed. OR PSYCHIC.
Then: STILL HOT. UNFORTUNATELY. You put your phone face down.
Hob took the dustpan from you.
“I’ll clean that.”
“You are terrible at sweeping.”
“I owned an inn before modern brooms existed.”
“That explains the problem.”
He crouched beside the broken glass. You wiped spilled beer from the bar. Dream remained.
You expected him to sit with Hob. Instead, he approached you carrying a book. You had not seen it in his hands before.
Its binding was dark green, old but carefully preserved. No title appeared upon the cover. He placed it on the counter. You looked at it.
Then at him.
“What is this?”
“An earlier work by the same author.”
“The author of the house novel?”
“Yes.”
You touched the cover.
“I could not find any others.”
“This was published under another name.”
You opened it carefully. The title page read The Drowned Orchard by E. L. Vane. Brown ink filled several margins.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His gaze remained upon you.
“Because I believe you may enjoy it.”
The answer was almost ordinary. From him, it felt significant.
“Does it have another false ending?”
“No.”
“A happy one?”
“That depends upon what you consider happiness.”
“Does the heroine marry an untrustworthy solicitor?”
“No.”
“Promising.”
Something shifted faintly at the corner of his mouth. You looked at him more closely. The fragments of your dreams stirred again.
“I had a strange dream about the ending of the other book after you visited last.”
His attention sharpened.
“What did you dream?”
You described the house. The former inhabitants trapped within its walls. The solicitor feeding names to something beneath the cellar.
You did not mention the final sentence appearing in the waking book. Some instinct urged you to keep that part to yourself. Dream listened without interruption.
“When I woke, it felt as though I had actually read the ending,” you said. “Not invented it.”
“Perhaps you did.”
“In a dream.”
“Dreams preserve many things believed lost in waking.”
You studied him.
“You speak as though dreams are a place.”
His eyes appeared to darken.
“Do they not feel like one?”
You thought of the vast chamber. The black tree.
“Sometimes.”
You ran your fingers across the edge of the book.
“I have had other strange dreams.”
“About what?”
His question came more quickly than you expected.
“I dreamt about composing. About playing the violin. Entire compositions appear, or pieces of them.”
“Do these dreams frighten you?”
“No.”
You considered the first melody.
“One made me sad. I woke crying, although I did not know why.”
Dream’s face became utterly still. You remembered the final passage and the grief held inside it.
“There was someone in that dream.”
His gaze did not move from yours.
“Was there?”
“I think it was you.”
The words sounded absurd when spoken aloud. You looked down.
“God. Why am I telling you this?”
“You believe it was me.”
“Vaguely. You looked different.”
“How?”
You tried to hold the memory.
“Your clothes moved although there was no wind. Your eyes…”
For one instant, you saw them. Galaxies turning in endless darkness. The image vanished.
“They were not human.”
Dream said nothing. Behind you, Hob had stopped sweeping. You could feel him listening.
“You were watching me play,” you continued. “I could not find the ending, and then it appeared.”
Dream’s eyes lowered briefly.
“You played it.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Every note.”
Grief passed across his face. This time, you did not imagine it. It was too vast to belong to an ordinary man.
“Was the melody yours?”
“No.”
“Someone you knew?”
Silence gathered around him.
“You do not have to answer.”
His gaze moved towards the rain-dark windows. He said nothing. You watched him for a moment, but his expression had closed completely, leaving no indication of who had composed the melody or why it affected him so deeply.
Realising you had stepped too close to something private, you quickly changed the subject.
“Do you like classical music?”
His gaze returned to you.
“I do.”
You reached beneath the bar for your bag. Several concert programmes were folded inside the outer pocket. You removed one.
Then hesitated. Dream watched you.
“This may seem strange.”
You held out the programme. He looked at it without taking it.
“It is a concert next Thursday.”
“I can read it.”
“Yes. Obviously.”
You nearly withdrew the paper. Instead, you continued.
“We are playing Mahler and Mendelssohn. We are also performing the new piece I composed.”
His gaze moved to your face.
“The one you found amongst the leaves of a tree.”
The phrasing struck you as peculiar.
“Yes.”
You tightened your fingers around the programme.
“Please do not think I am being strange. I simply have this feeling you might enjoy it.”
Dream remained silent. That made you speak faster.
“I don’t know why. Perhaps because of the dreams. They felt too real, and you were listening, and now I am inviting you to a concert because my subconscious apparently has opinions. But please don’t read anything into it. I am only—”
“You are only what?”
You faltered.
“I don’t know.”
Hob straightened behind you.
“You should go,” he told Dream. “You will appreciate it. Most of the programme comes from the nineteenth century, when music still possessed structure.”
You looked over your shoulder.
“Music still has structure.”
“Some of it.”
“You are not qualified to hold that opinion.”
“I have listened to music for seven hundred years.”
“Mostly while drunk in taverns.”
“That remains listening.”
Dream accepted the programme. His fingers brushed yours. They were cold.
Not unpleasantly. Merely absent of the warmth you expected from living skin. He examined the details.
“You are not attending your daughter’s performance?” he asked Hob.
Hob grimaced.
“I attend many of them.”
“He does,” you admitted.
“I have a private function that evening,” Hob said. “It has already been postponed twice, and apparently the stability of a local charity depends upon my supervision of forty accountants with access to an open bar.”
Dream folded the programme once and placed it inside his coat.
“I shall consider it.”
You nodded.
“That is all I meant. There is no obligation.”
“I am aware.”
Hob came around the bar.
“You are leaving already?”
“I have remained longer than intended.”
“You always say that.”
Dream regarded him.
“We have met twice within five months.”
Hob smiled.
“At this rate, people may assume we are friends.”
A stillness passed over Dream’s face. Then he said quietly:
“Perhaps they would be correct.”
Hob’s smile became softer. Dream turned towards you.
“Good night, Y/N Gadling.”
“Good night.”
His eyes rested briefly upon the green book.
“Do not read the final chapter before sleep.”
You frowned.
“Why?”
“You dislike it when characters ignore warnings in stories. I wondered whether you would be any wiser when given one yourself.”
Before you could respond, he crossed the room. The door opened at his approach. He stepped into the rain-dark street and disappeared.
݈݇—Pairings: Ser Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Princess!Reader.
݈݇—Themes/Warning: This is a love story with a tragic ending. Slow burn-ish?. Swoon-worthy. Eventual Smut. MUTUAL PINING. YEARNING. LONGING. Courtly romance. Strangers to lovers to forced-enemies. Political marriage. Gentleman Gwayne Hightower. Touch-starved. Emotional terrorism. Happy moments that make the ending hurt worse. S1–S3 HOTD canon divergence. Inspired by "DAYLIGHT" by Taylor Swift & "PROVIDER" by Sleep Token.
Masterlist
Author’s Note: This prologue is set on the present day (Season 3). And the following chapters will be from Season 1 and so forth until we reach present day again.
PRESENT DAY
For you, the Eyrie had felt like a cage dressed in clouds. High above the world, where the wind screamed like the ghosts of every Arryn who’d ever ruled these stones, and the only warmth came from the hearths that never quite chased the chill from your bones. You stood in the shadowed curve of the High Hall, one hand pressed flat against the hidden swell beneath your robe.
Vaelys’ distant call resonated from the mountain crags below, the sound of old Valyria’s last pearl breathing in the thin air. Your dragon. The reason you were here at all. The living price your sister had paid to keep the Vale’s spears pointed toward the true queen.
Your cousin, Jeyne Arryn, sat at the Arryn throne, eyes cold and calculating as she faced the man who had flown here on dragonback to bleed her coffers dry. Daemon stood at the bottom with that cunning, lethal grace, silver hair loose over one shoulder, the faint smirk on his lips promising that every word out of his mouth was both offer and threat.
You watched in silence. Exhausted down to the marrow.
The war had already taken too much. Your sister’s crown. Your freedom. The last easy night’s sleep you could remember. And now this—Daemon bargaining with your life and your dragon as if they were coins on a table.
“…Gold,” he said, “Enough to keep the queen’s cause breathing. Or we take back what belongs to the blood of the dragon. The girl. And the Pearl.” His violet eyes flicked toward you. “Vaelys is one of our largest dragons next to Vermithor and would serve the realm far better beneath a rider who isn’t hiding in the clouds.”
Jeyne’s mouth tightened. The Vale had sheltered you and had asked the dragon’s presence as the price for her soldiers marching into war. Losing either would gut her defenses.
A long, tense silence stretched. Then Jeyne exhaled through her nose, practical to the bone. “Take the gold but keep your threats behind your teeth, Daemon Targaryen. The dragon remains where it protects the living.”
Daemon’s smile was of satisfaction, the look of a man who had just watched an opponent fold. “Wise. The queen will remember your loyalty.”
He waited for a beat to let the victory settle. Then those eyes found you again, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop another degree.
“May I speak with you, niece?”
Your fingers curled tighter into the robe, shielding the gentle curve that no one in this room was supposed to see.
“You may speak right here, uncle,” you said flippantly. “There are no walls in the Eyrie that haven’t already heard every secret worth keeping.”
Jeyne’s brow lifted, but she said nothing. Daemon’s smirk deepened, though something colder flickered behind it. “Aemond has disappeared from Harrenhal. The whispers say Criston Cole’s army remains there now without their one-eyed prince guarding the skies…”
Your stomach turned.
“Reclaim it and return here,” Daemon went on, “Take Vaelys. Burn the traitors out before they root deeper. One strike and the queen’s path to the throne clears.”
You stared at him, the exhaustion cracking sharper. “Reclaim it? Just like that? And what if Aemond and Vhagar are waiting in the dark for me. What then?”
Daemon waved a dismissive hand. “Aemond is gone. My eyes in the riverlands confirmed it days ago. Harrenhal breaks even dragonriders; the castle stands exposed now, its prince vanished like mist off the water. If he remained, the skies would already be black with Vhagar’s wings and the riverlands would be ash. They are not. The fortress is ripe. Take it.”
You glanced at Jeyne—your shield in this high, lonely place—searching for an anchor in the storm of his words. But Daemon moved before she could speak, voice dropping almost intimately.
“Isn’t your husband there, among Cole’s ranks?”
The laugh that escaped you was short and brittle. “You’d have me burn my husband and his army?” The words came out softer but no less cutting. “Turn Vaelys’ fire on Gwayne? To what? Test my loyalty?”
Daemon’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Are you? That’s the enemy’s army, niece. Your loyalty is to your blood. To your sister.” A pause, his gaze flocking down to your stomach. “You have more than yourself to think of now.”
“You dare question where my loyalty lies?”
Your blood turned to ice. The child had been the one thing that still belonged only to you. Not to the Blacks. Not to the Greens. Not to the war. And now Daemon spoke of it as though he had every right to know. How? How in the seven hells did he know?
You had only discovered the pregnancy after the lines had been drawn, after there was no safe way to send word. Rhaenyra knew. Jeyne knew because she had to. Rhaenyra had sent you here, with child and vulnerable, to keep the child safe from the upcoming storm. Since sides had been chosen and love had become a battlefield of its own.
Daemon watched the shock ripple across your face with that same infuriating calmness. “Do stop reaching for your belly each time you grow frightened. Even the dullest courtier would have guessed it eventually.”
You drew a slow breath in, the thin mountain air sharp in your lungs, and forced steel into your spine. “I shall go… yet I would hear the order to burn spoken from my sister’s own lips. Not from yours.” You turned then to Jeyne. “I shall return, My lady.”
Jeyne’s eyes softened, she nodded as she accepted. You stormed past Daemon without another glance, the hem of your robe whispering over the cold stone, and deliberately shouldered him as you went. You were already descending the winding steps when his voice carried after you.
“You should thank me, niece. For now you shall see your Hightower husband before he meets his end.”
His words chased you down the steps, but the true weight of them had already been living behind your eyes for weeks. The dreams you get are always the same. The brief flash of auburn hair. The sudden bloom of dragonfire. The way a body crumpled beneath the heat. You had woken gasping his name more nights than you could count, certain the gods were showing you Gwayne’s end—the price of loving a man who wore the wrong colour in a war of dragons.
You and Gwayne come up with an idea to keep Daeron safe, you just hope your sister believes you. Targ!reader but not connected to my other fics as the dance doesn’t happen in them.
I wrote the majority of this over a week ago so ginger Daeron is canon in this, and of course you voted for the fic I was most unsure about posting☠️
“What are you thinking about?” Gwayne asks wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head in your shoulder. You looking out into the gardens where Daeron is sat reading cuddled up with the dragons. The girls playing next to him while Baelor is sleeping in the nursery.
“What to do next.” You muse leaning into him. Wishing that this stupid war hadn’t started in the first place.
“How so?” Your husband asks kissing your shoulder.
“I want to stand with my sister.” You say, knowing she’d do the same for you. But not willing to risk your son’s life. “But Daeron will be a risk to her claim so I don’t know what she’ll do with him.”
“What of Aegon?” Gwayne suggests half heartedly, not liking his nephew’s. Him thinking them both the furthest thing from how prince’s should behave.
“You know as well as I he will be a cruel king, especially with Aemond by his side.”
“So we need to think of something that will keep all the children safe.” He says, voicing your thoughts. Also wanting to find a way Daeron will be safe from all possible harm.
“I have an idea, a terrible idea but an idea nonetheless.” You say turning around to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His still on your waist.
“What is it?” He asks up for any suggestion. The children meaning the word to him.
“We claim he’s ours.” You say quietly, not wanting to risk anyone possibly overhear your idea.
“What?”
“We say that the real reason he was send to ward was because I had him out of wedlock and Alicent and my father covered it up.” You elaborate, it being an incredibly risky idea.
“Everyone would think you a whore.” Gwayne rebuttals thinking it a good idea otherwise.
“They think that anyway.” You quip with a sad smile, your husband’s incredibly religious family having never liked you. “It would keep him safe.”
“We could ask your sister to legitimise him as our son.” He suggests, continuing on knowing you won’t change your mind.
“We can claim he’s is mine alone.” You offer, not wanting to affect Gwayne’s reputation.
“My love, I say this with all the love and care in the world.” He says with a smile, brushing some of your hair out of your face. “That boy is the spiting image of a Hightower, even removing the hair.”
“He does look like you and Alicent.” You admit reluctantly, normally loving how much Daeron looks like Gwayne. Now finding it inconvenient.
“Exactly, so I’m going to be necessary for this scheme.” He says, thinking of the next steps of your plan. “How are we going to get anyone to believe it?”
“I was sick.” You say in shock, remembering that you kept coming down with the flu that year. The maesters unable to find the reason, it clearing up not long after Daeron’s birth.
“What?”
“When Alicent was with child I was sick a lot.” You say in excitement never more grateful about being sick. “I was hardly seen in court and I was confined to my chambers.”
“You’re a genius.” Gwayne say softly, pulling you into a kiss.
“I’m only a genius if this works.”
-
“Come on Kepa is riding with Daeron on Tessarion.” You say to the girls one you reach the dragon pitts. You all having to sneak away in the night so Ormund can’t stop you. “You’re with me.”
“But I want to ride Skrykos!” Rosie pouts, not understanding why you’re leaving. Let alone in the middle of the night and have to be quiet about it.
“She’s coming with us but we need to leave quickly.” You say, adjusting the baby carrier you’re wearing. You youngest child sleeping against you.
“Why?”
“We just do sweetheart.” Gwayne says checking you’ve got everything. Helping Rosie and Lily onto your dragon. “We’ll explain once we’re there.”
“I’m sorry.” Daeron whispers to you while you give him a once over to check he’s alright.
“What are you sorry for sweetheart?” You ask, knowing he hasn’t done anything to warrant giving an apology.
“It’s my fault we have to leave.”
“We would have to anyway as I’m Rhaenyra’s sister.” You reassure him, cupping his face in your hands as you give him a forehead kiss. “Now just follow me and fly close, your father will pretend he’s not terrified but he hates flying so you’re in charge.”
“Ok muña.” He says a soft smile on his face. Grateful that you and Gwayne chose to raise him. Him aware Ormund was supposed to.
“I love you.” You say firmly, needing him to know.
“I love you too.” He responds pulling you into a hug, carful not to squish his brother, before going over to his dragon.
“Come on Rosie, lily hold tight.” You say to your girls before you take flight.
-
“Why are you here?” Daemon demands watching you and your family climb of your dragons. Rhaenyra and Jace stood behind him. Jace having grown so much since you last saw him.
“I’m here to speak to my sister.” You say stepping forward, ignoring Gwayne’s look of worry when you pass him your young son.
“You mean the queen.” Daemon corrects, not trusting you as you’re now a Hightower.
“I mean my sister the queen.” You clarify know how your uncle is.
“Sister.” Rhaenyra pushing past daemon, ignoring his look. You both meeting in the middle of your family’s. Gwayne stood infront of the children wary about the whole thing, having passed Baelor to Daeron.
“Rhaenyra.” You say softly, having missed your best friend and sister. Before remembering yourself and curtsying to her. “I mean your grace.”
“What are you doing here?” She asks softly, having been worried you would betray her.
“With the Hightower as well.” Daemon interjects glaring at your husband, Gwayne just rolls his eyes at the dig.
“I’m here with my husband and our children for asylum.” You say ignoring daemon and giving all your attention to your sister.
“What of the Hightower prince? Daeron isn’t it?” Daemon interjects once again, clearly desperate to be included in the conversation.
“That’s what I want to discuss, in private preferably.” You say giving your uncle a look before looking back at your queen. “Please.”
“Come.” She say wanting you to follow her back to the castle. “Jace can take your family to the throne room while we talk.”
“Rhaenyra.” Daemon hisses not trusting you.
“You have my protection, for the time being.” Rhaenyra says ignoring her husband.
“Thank you.”
“Come, we shall speak.” She says taking your hand to lead you away. Gwayne greeting Jace with respect. Daemon following you after threatening your husband.
-
“I have a confession.” You announce, once the doors shut behind you. Hoping this is the right decision. Allowing your anxiety to show on your face as you know it will help you.
“What is it?” Rhaenyra asks, scared you somehow had something to do with her being usurped.
“Daeron isn’t father’s son.” You say blurt out, not looking at your sister while you say it.
“So Alicent had a bastard.” Daemon laughs flopping into a chair after pouring himself some wine. “How has the boy got a dragon?”
“He’s my son.” You ‘admit’ playing with your wedding ring in discomfort. Praying they believe you.
“What?” Rhaenyra asks in confusion, never thinking that would be your confession.
“You remember that I was sick and had to be isolated in my chambers when Alicent was with child? That’s because she wasn’t, I was.” You explain, taking the wine your sister offers you before she sits downs in shock.
“Why does he look like Hightower then?” Daemon asks, the most untrusting of the two.
“Because Gwayne is his true father.” You responded giving him a look as though it’s obvious. “Do you remember that tourney? The one that was for Jace’s nameday that Gwayne competed in?”
“Why didn’t you marry?” Rhaenyra asks, unsure of why you didn’t drink moontea or marry to cover it up.
“He wanted to, he kept apologising for ‘stealing’ my virtue.” You say with a slight laugh, actually quoting your husband. Him having kissed you before your betrothal and then feeling guilty for it. “But father was trying to marry me off to the Lannister’s and Gwayne had to leave back to old town the next day. I didn’t know I was with child until it was too late, so father made Alicent pretend he’s was hers.” You explain, looking at the floor as if in regret. “And well, you know the rest.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” Rhaenyra asks, believing you. Having known how much you’ve cared for the boy since his birth. This being the best explanation for it as you never cared much for Alicent’s other sons, Helaena being different.
“Because it’s the best way to keep him safe.” You say, actually telling the truth. The realm viewing him as your son instead of your father’s would make him a lot safer. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Daemon asks, believing you. Him knowing he’d to the same for his children.
“You don’t.”
-
“Muña!” Lily shouts running over to you when you enter the throne room after Rhaenyra and daemon. Her agreeing to declare Daeron as your true born son. You picking up your youngest daughter and giving Gwayne a nod, letting him know everything has gone to plan. “Baelor bit me!”
“Oh no, that not good.” You say knowing your girl is being dramatic as he doesn’t have teeth yet. “How was it with your cousin?”
“Fine.” She says resting her head on your shoulder. “He talk with Kepa for ages.”
“Is it true?” Jace asks his mother, having been informed by Gwayne what you’ll of been talking about.
“Is what true?” Rhaenyra asks, looking at your family with a smile on her face. Wishing she had gotten to spend more time together with you before all this started.
“About Daeron?” Jace clarifies, not sure what to think but having a feeling it’s the truth. Why else would you go through all this trouble?
“That he’s my sisters true son? Yes he is.” Rhaenyra confirms, noticing the confused look on your eldest’s face.
“What?” Daeron asks looking between you and Gwayne. “What is she talking about?”
“We’ll explain everything later darling I promise.” You say gently, knowing you’ll have to lie. Your boy being too kind and soft for deceit knowing he deserves better.
“You have pledged your loyalty to me, so you may go to the Vale.” Rhaenyra declares, knowing Jeyne Arryn will allow it given your dragons. “You’ll be safe there, on the condition you look after my sons and when I ask you fly back and fight for me.”
“As long as it’s just me, we have a deal.” You say not letting your son partake in war.
“Deal, I’ll write you a letter to give to lady Jeyne. She’ll accept you.”
“Thank you Rhaenyra, truly.” You say to you sister wanting to give her a hug. Her notacing your hesitation and makes the first move, pulling you into her arms and holding you tight. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.” She whispers back, having missed you more than anything. “Thank you for trusting me.”
If it's not too much trouble, could you write to Gwayne where the reader is Daemon's daughter? She has Silverwing with a dragon! During a tournament, he asks her for a favor, and when he wins, he declares her queen of love and beauty. imagine Daemon sitting next to his daughter, completely distraught by this. An extra bonus if she's secretly in love with him!!!
Sorry if you didn't understand very well, english is not my first language!
Him, really?
Thank you so much for the request I love it 🥰 Only possible warning is kisses!! No description of reader apart from your a princess. Also Laena is our best friend/stepmother so takes place before the dance.
“Princess.” Ser Gwayne Hightower says nodding at you while you walk past him with your father. Both men ignoring each other given your father’s hatred for all things Hightower. You, on the other hand, have different feelings, about Gwayne anyway.
“Ser.” You reply, looking the handsome knight up and down, offering him a small smirk. Happy your father can’t see your face.
“Bloody Hightower.” Daemon mumbles glaring at the knight, hating all things green. Especially hating the look the knight was giving you.
-
“Princess, would you do me one honour of granting me your favour?” Gwayne asks you loudly riding up to be next to the platform you and your family were sat on. A smirk visible on his face, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
“Of course Ser.” You say picking up the favour you made especially for the man. Bending over the fence to place it on his lance, not taking your eyes off him, him doing the same to you. “I wish you luck.”
“Thank you princess.” He says more softly, thinking you look like the picture of a princess while you smile.
“What was that?” Your father hiss’s when you sit back down next to him, Laena on his other side. Your stepmother being a similar age to you.
“Whatever do you mean?” You ask, playing innocent. Knowing if he knew your actual intentions for the knight he might die of shock.
“That, giving Hightower your favour!”
“Honestly father, you need to calm yourself.” You say calmly, taking a drink of a passing by servant. “It’s not the end of the world that I gave someone my favour, I’m of marriage age and have been for a while.”
“That’s beside the point, he’s a Hightower, Otto Hightowers son at that!” Daemon whisper shouts, willing to accept you with anyone. As long as they’re not a Hightower obviously.
“What does his father have to do with me?” You ask dryly, taking a sip of your drink while you raise an eyebrow at your father.
“It’s a ploy.”
“How so?” You ask rolling your eyes at the paranoid man.
“I don’t know yet but I’ll find out.”
“Laena please talk some sense into him.” You ask your stepmother/friend, her being one of the only people who can manage your father.
“I’m not getting involved.” She says with a slight laugh, hand resting on her baby bump. Her being a few moons behind Rhaenyra, your cousin having given birth a few days ago. “But he is handsome.”
“He is.” You agree, smirking knowing exactly what the woman’s doing. “Honourable too.”
“No, absolutely not!” Daemon furiously whispers, glaring at both you and Laena. “Never in a million years is my daughter allowed to think a Hightower handsome!”
“Shut up it’s Ser Gwayne’s turn.” You say smiling while you lean back into your chair, throwing a grape from the plate beside you into your mouth.
-
“Ser Gwayne Hightower, winner of the tournament, please crown your queen of love and beauty.” The king says later that day. Gwayne having won the whole tournament now able to crown his queen.
“Princess, may I crown you?” He asks you, charming smirk on his face. When he walks up to you, the man holding a floral crown and kneeling before you.
“You may.”
-
“Wé’lltor tatagon ñuha jorrāelagon, ao urnegon so ja'unndthomeva tembyr se ao wônza.” Well done my love, you looked so handsome when you won. You mumble against your lovers lips, him moaning in response loving when you speak in high Valyrian despite not understanding a word of it. Head lulling to the side as you kiss down his neck.
“Marry me.” He whines, having been wanting to marry you from the moment you met, his desire only growing when you’d kiss him. Kissing being as far as he’ll let you go, not wanting to dishonour you more than he already has.
“Gwayne.”
“I know your father hates my family but I love you so much.” He says seriously, hand resting on your neck to make you actually look at him. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me and I don’t want to spend another moment apart. So please, marry me.”
“Ask me properly and I’ll say yes.” You tease, desperately wanting to say yes but knowing you shouldn’t. You giving him a soft kiss, trying to convey all your feelings before pulling away. “I best go I’m late for dinner.”
-
“Princess Laena!” Gwayne calls, running over to the woman. Her on her way to the dragon pits wishing to take vhaegar on a nice flight before labour began. Her secretly scared as it’s her first babe, you being the only one aware of her fears. “I have a request.”
“I’m not speaking to daemon for you.” She says firmly, not slowing as Gwayne reaches her side. Leana not being able to walk at much of a speed anyway.
“What? No, how do I ask a dragon for their blessing.” He replies walking backwards so he can keep looking at the woman wanting to give her his undivided attention.
“What?”
“I wish to marry and Silverwing is very important to her, so I’d like the dragons blessing first.” He explains as if it’s a simple task, not a life threatening one.
“Not her fathers?”
“I think I’ll have better luck with the dragon.” He laughs, knowing your father won’t approve solely because of his last name.
“You’re not wrong.” Laena says, up for some fun and a distraction. “Come we will plot.”
-
“What are you doing?” You ask warily entering the dragon pits to see Gwayne trying to give Silverwing a goat, her preferring them to sheep.
“Shit.” He mumbles, quickly turning around and seeing Laena try and seek out. Not being the most stealthy given her condition. “My love.” He says voice going higher. Him immediately caving and telling you what he’s doing the second you give him a look. “I’m trying to get silver wings permission to wed you.”
“You’re asking silverwing?” You ask softly, loving the man in front of you even more. No potential suitor having cared for your dragon before.
“Yes, I know her approval is the most significant.” He says sheepishly, internally very grateful the dragon hasn’t eaten him. So court up in his thoughts he doesn’t even notice you’re now right infront of him.
“Marry me.” You say softly, looking at your knight with complete love and adoration in your eyes. You not wanting to spend a moment away from him.
“What? My love I’m trying to propose!” He whines, having a whole plan.
“Tough.” You smile wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your forehead against his. “Marry me Gwayne Hightower.”
“Yes, of course I’ll marry you, I’ve been trying to ask you for moons.” He laughs catching your lips in his, both of you giggling when you hear Silverwing let out a happy chirp.
-
Bonus
“Kepa, you can’t be mad.” You say entering his private solar, him and Laena sat talking about what to name the babe.
“Well now I know I’m going to be mad.” He says raising an eyebrow at you, wondering what you could of possibly done.
“I just said you can’t be.” You reiterate, pacing in front of them. Knowing Laena won’t be of much help knowing your friend will fain ignorance.
“What did you do?” He asks you suspiciously, trying to think of anything you could do that would make him truly mad and not thinking of anything.
“I’m betrothed.” You respond quickly, deciding to just get it over with.
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Enough, who are you marrying?” Laena asks, knowing smirk on her face. Finding the whole thing hilarious as she knows your father with pout, but not hurt the Hightower man as you love him. Your father willing to put up with anything as long as you’re happy.
“Ser Gwayne.” You admit, hoping your father won’t over react.
Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen!Reader (She/her)
Summary: As Daemon Targaryen’s only daughter without a dragon, you have never lacked for love, not when your father has spent your entire life ensuring you want for nothing, and certainly not when Caraxes has always treated you as though you belong to him, too. When you are betrothed to Ser Gwayne Hightower, Daemon is determined to despise the match. Unfortunately, Gwayne proves difficult to frighten away, especially when he begins loving you with the same gentle devotion you have always deserved.
Warnings: Protective father Daemon, excessive fluff, family teasing, arranged betrothal, brief insecurity about not having a dragon, one deeply inconvenienced Gwayne Hightower, and a very spoiled princess. caraxes being a spoiled brat
note: just a super long and fun one shot. mostly daemon pov, we die on the hill that he was born to be a girl dad.
masterlist
One shot
The first gift Daemon Targaryen ever gave his daughter was not a doll.
It was a Valyrian steel dagger.
“You cannot give that to an infant,” Rhaenyra said, staring down at the silver-haired babe sleeping peacefully in her father’s arms.
Daemon looked at the weapon, then at his daughter.
“She will grow into it.”
“She cannot even hold up her own head.”
“All the more reason to begin preparing her.”
The dagger was confiscated.
The second gift was a tiny silver crown, custom-made to fit a head that had barely grown enough hair to hold it in place.
The third was an entire chest filled with gowns sewn from silk imported across the Narrow Sea.
The fourth was a pale mare from the Reach, purchased before you had even learned to walk.
By the time you were five, you owned more jewelry than most noblewomen acquired in a lifetime.
By the time you were seven, Daemon had commissioned a private library because you once mentioned that the Red Keep’s collection did not contain enough stories about the stars.
By the time you were ten, he had purchased an entire ship after you said you liked the carved seahorse on its prow.
“You are going to ruin her,” Rhaenyra warned him.
Daemon watched as you stood on the docks, delightedly waving to the sailors now assigned to your entirely unnecessary vessel.
“She is a princess.”
“She does not need a ship.”
“She liked it.”
“She liked the carving.”
“And now she has both.”
Rhaenyra sighed.
Daemon smiled.
There were few things in this world that Daemon Targaryen loved gently.
You had always been one of them.
You were his first daughter, born small and quiet, with a soft heart that seemed entirely at odds with the fire in your blood. Where Daemon met the world with sharpened steel and bared teeth, you greeted it with patient smiles and open hands.
You apologized when servants bumped into you.
You carried spiders outside rather than allowing guards to crush them.
You cried when a kitchen boy burned his hand and remained beside him until the maester arrived.
Daemon did not understand where such sweetness had come from.
He protected it viciously.
The only thing he had never been able to give you was a dragon.
An egg had been placed in your cradle, as tradition demanded.
It had never hatched.
A second was brought from Dragonstone when you were three.
It remained cold.
When you were old enough, Daemon walked with you through the caverns beneath the Dragonmont, searching for some sign that one of the unclaimed dragons might accept you.
None did.
You had said nothing as the keepers led you away.
You had held your head high through supper and smiled when your younger sisters spoke excitedly of flying.
Only after the castle had gone quiet did Daemon find you curled beside the stone hearth in your chambers, your face hidden against your knees.
He lowered himself beside you without speaking.
For a while, you both watched the flames.
“I am sorry,” you whispered eventually.
Daemon’s expression darkened.
“For what?”
“For disappointing you.”
The words were barely audible.
They wounded him more deeply than any blade ever had.
Daemon turned toward you.
“You have never disappointed me.”
“I am a Targaryen who cannot claim a dragon.”
“You are my daughter.”
You glanced at him through tear-damp lashes.
“That should make it worse.”
“It makes it irrelevant.”
“But everyone else—”
“Everyone else is not you.”
Your lower lip trembled.
Daemon reached out, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“The dragons are old, stubborn creatures,” he said. “They are proud and temperamental, and most of them possess less sense than a drunken sellsword.”
Despite yourself, you gave a watery laugh.
“They have overlooked the greatest treasure in Westeros.”
“You do not mean that.”
“I have never meant anything more.”
He rose and extended his hand.
“Come.”
“Where are we going?”
“To show you that you are not without a dragon.”
It was well past midnight when Daemon led you onto the darkened fields beyond Dragonstone.
The wind coming off the sea pulled strands of silver hair across your face. You clutched your cloak around your shoulders and followed your father toward the enormous shape resting beneath the cliffs.
Caraxes raised his long head before you had taken more than a dozen steps.
The Blood Wyrm’s rumble moved through the earth beneath your slippers.
You stopped.
Daemon did not.
Caraxes had always known you.
When you were a babe, Daemon had carried you close enough for the dragon to breathe your scent. The dragonkeepers had protested until Caraxes lowered his head and gently pressed the warm end of his snout against your tiny blanket.
Your first word had not been father.
To Daemon’s everlasting offense, it had been something resembling Caraxes.
You had spent your childhood slipping the dragon pieces of roasted meat from your plate, brushing soot from his scales, and falling asleep beside his warm flank while Daemon trained nearby.
Caraxes had never been yours.
Yet he had always behaved as though you belonged to him.
That night, he moved toward you, his long neck curving until his enormous head rested in the grass at your feet.
You placed a trembling hand against his scales.
Caraxes released a low, crooning sound.
“He knows,” Daemon said.
“Knows what?”
“That you are upset.”
Your eyes filled again.
“I wish he had chosen me.”
Daemon stepped behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders.
“He did.”
You looked back at him.
“Not in the way dragons choose riders,” he continued. “But he has known you since the day you were born. He would burn armies for you.”
Caraxes huffed warm air across your skirts.
Daemon’s mouth curved.
“And apparently he would also like you to scratch beneath his jaw.”
You laughed and obeyed.
The Blood Wyrm’s eyes drifted half-closed with pleasure.
“Do you wish to fly?” Daemon asked.
You hesitated.
“Now?”
“The sky does not close at night.”
You looked from him to Caraxes.
“But I am not his rider.”
“No,” Daemon agreed. “You are mine.”
He lifted you into the saddle before climbing behind you.
Daemon wrapped one arm securely around your waist as Caraxes rose.
The first rush of wind stole the breath from your lungs.
Then Dragonstone disappeared beneath you.
The sea became a sheet of black glass, the moon scattering silver across its surface. The clouds opened around you, cool mist brushing your cheeks. Your father’s arm remained firm around your middle, his chest warm against your back.
Caraxes climbed higher.
You laughed.
The sound carried into the night.
Daemon lowered his head beside yours.
“Still believe you have no dragon?”
You rested your hands against the leather of the saddle and looked down at the world spread beneath you.
“No.”
After that, you flew with Daemon whenever he would allow it.
Which was often.
He took you across Blackwater Bay at sunrise, over the forests of the crownlands in autumn, and above the towers of King’s Landing when the streets below glittered with festival lanterns.
You sat before him as a child and behind him when you grew older, your arms wrapped securely around his waist.
Caraxes always seemed to know when you were coming.
He would lift his head before you appeared and release a pleased cry that echoed through the Dragonpit.
The dragonkeepers whispered that the Blood Wyrm was calmer when you were near.
He allowed you to touch his face, clean the smaller scales around his horns, and sleep against him during long summer afternoons.
Once, after a lord’s son mocked you for failing to claim a dragon, Caraxes snapped at the boy so fiercely that he fainted.
Daemon gave the dragon an entire sheep as a reward.
“You encouraged him,” Rhaenyra accused.
“I did nothing.”
“You told Caraxes, and I quote, ‘Well done.’”
“He showed restraint.”
“The boy wet himself.”
“I said restraint, not mercy.”
The court continued to pity the princess without a dragon.
You never understood why.
You had Caraxes.
You had your father.
And between them, no one in the Seven Kingdoms could have made you feel unprotected.
Then came Gwayne Hightower.
The betrothal was announced during a council meeting.
Daemon nearly overturned the table.
“A Hightower?”
King Viserys closed his eyes.
“It is a politically advantageous match.”
“It is an insult.”
“It will strengthen ties between our houses.”
“It will strengthen my desire to commit murder.”
“Daemon.”
“My daughter will not be handed to some green-cloaked peacock because Otto Hightower wishes to tighten his grip on the throne.”
Across the room, Otto’s expression hardened.
“This is not about my ambitions.”
“Everything you do is about your ambitions.”
“Father,” you said softly.
Daemon turned.
You sat near Rhaenyra, your hands folded neatly in your lap.
Unlike your father, you had not reacted with anger.
You looked nervous, certainly, but not afraid.
Daemon’s face softened by a degree.
“You do not have to marry him,” he said.
Viserys sighed.
“She has not even met him properly.”
“Then she is already better off.”
“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warned.
“What?”
“You are behaving like a child.”
“I am behaving like a father.”
“A deeply irrational father.”
“My daughter deserves better than a Hightower.”
Otto lifted his chin.
“My son is an anointed knight from an ancient and respected house.”
“He wears green.”
“Green is our house color.”
“Exactly.”
You pressed your lips together.
Daemon’s gaze snapped toward you.
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
Your shoulders shook.
The sight did nothing to improve his mood.
The first time Gwayne arrived at the Red Keep after the announcement, Daemon made him wait outside the council chamber for nearly an hour.
Entirely on purpose.
“He has been standing there since the bells,” you reminded him.
Daemon continued sharpening Dark Sister.
“Has he?”
“You know he has.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Father.”
“He should develop patience. Marriage requires a great deal of it.”
“Being married to me?”
“Being married beneath my supervision.”
When Gwayne was finally allowed inside, he entered with the composed expression of a man determined not to acknowledge that he had been deliberately insulted.
He was dressed in the deep green of his house, his auburn hair swept back from his face. He bowed first to you, then to Daemon.
“My princess.”
“Ser Gwayne.”
His eyes met yours.
For a brief moment, you forgot your father was glaring at him from three paces away.
Gwayne smiled.
It was not the polished smile of a courtier.
It was warm and slightly nervous.
You smiled back.
Daemon’s chair scraped sharply against the floor.
“So,” he said.
Gwayne looked at him.
“So?”
“You wish to marry my daughter.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Gwayne glanced at you again.
Daemon noticed.
His scowl deepened.
“I have admired the princess for some time.”
“Admired what?”
“Her kindness.”
Daemon blinked.
It was not the answer he had expected.
Gwayne continued carefully.
“I have seen her visit the lower courtyards with food during winter. I watched her sit with an injured stable hand until a maester came. I have heard servants speak of her with genuine affection rather than obligation.”
You stared at him.
You had not known he had noticed any of those things.
“And you believe that qualifies you to marry her?” Daemon asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“I believe loving her might.”
The room fell silent.
Daemon leaned back.
“You have met her twice.”
“Four times.”
“You were counting?”
“Yes.”
“That is unsettling.”
“I thought it was romantic,” you murmured.
“It was,” Rhaenyra said from the doorway.
Daemon glared at both of you.
“No one asked.”
The unfortunate truth was that Gwayne Hightower was very difficult to dislike.
Daemon tried.
He tried with admirable dedication.
He arranged early morning training sessions and struck Gwayne hard enough to leave bruises beneath his armor.
Gwayne returned the next morning.
Daemon spent an entire evening describing, in vivid detail, every terrible thing he would do if Gwayne caused you pain.
Gwayne listened patiently.
When Daemon finished, he asked whether the list had been arranged by likelihood or severity.
You laughed so suddenly that wine nearly came from your nose.
Daemon did not find it amusing.
Gwayne remembered the names of servants.
He thanked cooks.
He listened to Viserys discuss old Valyria for nearly two hours without once appearing bored.
He brought flowers for Rhaenyra and a book of Dornish poetry for Helaena.
He treated you with a gentle attention that never felt rehearsed.
When you spoke, he listened.
When you became quiet in crowded rooms, he did not demand that you entertain him. He simply stood beside you until you felt comfortable again.
He learned that you liked candied lemons but disliked lemon cakes.
He learned that you preferred silver jewelry to gold.
He discovered that you read when you could not sleep and began bringing you books from Oldtown.
Once, after hearing you mention that a ribbon on a market stall was pretty, he returned to purchase it.
“You did not need to do that,” you said as he tied the pale blue silk around your wrist.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because you liked it.”
The answer sounded so much like something Daemon would say that you stared at him.
Gwayne’s brows rose.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
From the other side of the courtyard, Daemon watched with narrowed eyes.
Rhaenyra followed his gaze.
“You like him.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I tolerate his continued existence.”
“He reminds you of yourself.”
Daemon looked offended.
“He does not.”
“He buys her unnecessary gifts because she looks pleased.”
“That proves nothing.”
“He threatened a lord last week for speaking poorly of her.”
“The lord deserved it.”
“And now he is standing beneath the sun holding a parasol because she mentioned being warm.”
Daemon turned back toward you.
Gwayne held the parasol in one hand and your basket of flowers in the other while you knelt beside a patch of lavender.
He looked perfectly content.
Daemon frowned.
“He is holding it incorrectly.”
“Of course.”
Your favorite visits were to the Dragonpit.
Gwayne was less enthusiastic.
It was not that he was a coward.
He simply possessed a sensible awareness that Caraxes was a fire-breathing creature large enough to swallow him whole.
Daemon took great pleasure in this.
The first time Gwayne accompanied you, Caraxes raised his head and fixed one enormous golden eye on the knight.
Gwayne stopped walking.
Daemon smiled.
“Something wrong?”
“Not at all.”
“You have gone pale.”
“It is warm.”
“It is never warm in here.”
You slipped your hand into Gwayne’s.
“He will not hurt you.”
Caraxes released a rumbling growl.
Gwayne watched a thin curl of smoke rise from his nostrils.
“That does not sound particularly reassuring.”
“He is only curious.”
“He appears hungry.”
“He has already eaten,” Daemon said.
Gwayne glanced at him.
Daemon smiled wider.
“Mostly.”
“Father,” you chided.
Caraxes lowered his head toward you.
You released Gwayne’s hand and approached without hesitation, pressing both palms against the dragon’s warm snout.
The Blood Wyrm crooned.
The terrible sound softened into something almost affectionate.
Gwayne’s fear momentarily gave way to wonder.
You stood before one of the largest and most dangerous creatures in Westeros, your silver hair catching the glow of the torches, your forehead resting gently against crimson scales.
Caraxes was careful with you.
Almost impossibly so.
“He loves her,” Gwayne said quietly.
Daemon’s smugness faded.
“Yes.”
“Did he ever try to bond with her?”
“No. His bond is mine.”
Gwayne nodded.
“But she is part of you.”
Daemon looked at him.
Caraxes shifted, curling his long neck around you protectively.
“So he considers her his,” Gwayne finished.
Daemon studied the knight for a moment.
“You understand dragons better than I expected.”
“My sister was fond of telling me that creatures often understand love more easily than men do.”
“Your sister is irritatingly correct.”
You turned.
“Gwayne, come closer.”
He hesitated.
Caraxes stared.
You held out your hand.
Gwayne had faced tourneys, battlefields, and your father’s interrogation.
Approaching Caraxes was somehow worse.
Still, he moved toward you.
Slowly.
Caraxes growled when he came within several feet.
Gwayne stopped.
You reached back and took his hand.
“He is protective.”
“So I have gathered.”
“He needs to know I trust you.”
“And how do we convince him of that?”
You guided Gwayne’s hand toward Caraxes’s snout.
“Try not to smell frightened,” Daemon advised.
Gwayne shot him a look.
“That is tremendously helpful.”
Your laughter seemed to settle the dragon.
Caraxes’s growl faded.
Gwayne’s palm finally touched one crimson scale.
The Blood Wyrm huffed warm air over him.
Gwayne’s cloak flew backward.
He remained standing.
After a moment, Caraxes pulled away without attempting to bite off any part of him.
You beamed.
“He likes you.”
“He tolerated me.”
“From Caraxes, that is practically a declaration of love.”
Daemon crossed his arms.
“He has poor judgment.”
Caraxes turned his head and knocked Daemon sideways with his snout.
Gwayne coughed into his fist to disguise his laughter.
You did not bother disguising yours.
A few weeks later, Gwayne watched you fly for the first time.
Daemon had invited him to observe.
Invite was perhaps the wrong word.
Daemon had informed him that if Gwayne intended to marry a Targaryen princess, he should witness what he was attempting to take away from Dragonstone.
The implication was clear.
You mounted Caraxes behind your father, wrapping your arms around Daemon’s waist.
Your gown had been replaced by riding leathers embroidered with silver thread. Your hair was braided away from your face, and excitement made your eyes shine.
Daemon looked over his shoulder.
“Ready?”
“Always.”
Caraxes launched himself from the cliff.
Gwayne’s heart stopped.
The dragon dropped toward the sea before his wings opened.
Your laughter reached the cliffs.
Gwayne stood frozen, watching Caraxes climb into the sky.
You looked small against him.
Small, but not afraid.
Daemon guided the dragon through the clouds, then turned back toward Dragonstone.
As Caraxes swept low above the cliffs, you stretched one arm into the wind.
You looked radiant.
Not like a princess who had been denied a dragon.
Like a woman who had never needed to own the sky to belong in it.
When Caraxes landed, Gwayne approached as you climbed down.
Daemon placed both hands around your waist and lowered you safely to the earth, though you were perfectly capable of dismounting alone.
Your cheeks were flushed from the wind.
“Well?” you asked Gwayne.
He stared at you.
“Well what?”
“What did you think?”
“I think I understand why poets struggle.”
You blinked.
Daemon groaned.
Gwayne stepped closer.
“There cannot possibly be words for how beautiful you looked.”
Your cheeks turned warmer.
Daemon moved between you.
“There are many words. None need to be spoken.”
“Father.”
“What?”
“You invited him.”
“I invited him to watch. Not to become unbearable.”
The days passed more quickly after that.
Your betrothal no longer felt like something arranged by kings and councils.
It felt like walks through the gardens.
It felt like Gwayne carrying books to your chambers because he had noticed you were tired.
It felt like quiet conversations beside the sea and his cloak around your shoulders when the wind turned cold.
It felt like his fingers brushing yours beneath the supper table.
It felt like laughter.
It felt, increasingly, like love.
One afternoon, Gwayne found you alone on a balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay.
Caraxes and Daemon were distant shapes in the sky.
You watched them until they disappeared behind the clouds.
“Do you ever wish he were yours?” Gwayne asked.
You knew immediately whom he meant.
“Caraxes?”
“Yes.”
You considered the question.
“When I was younger.”
“And now?”
You smiled.
“No.”
Gwayne leaned beside you.
“Why not?”
“Because loving something does not always mean possessing it.”
His gaze settled on your face.
You continued watching the sky.
“Caraxes belongs to my father. Their bond is something ancient and rare. I would never want to change it.”
“But you love him.”
“Very much.”
“And he loves you.”
“In his own terribly loud way.”
Gwayne smiled.
You turned toward him.
“Does it concern you?”
“What?”
“That I have no dragon.”
“No.”
“Your family may prefer—”
“My family is not marrying you.”
His answer came without hesitation.
Gwayne reached for your hand.
“You are kind when you have every reason to be proud. You are gentle in a family that has taught the world to fear its fire. You make servants smile when you enter a room, and children follow you through the halls because they know you will stop for them.”
Your eyes stung.
“You sit beside dragons without needing to command them,” he said. “You do not need one to prove who you are.”
You lowered your gaze.
Gwayne lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles.
“I would choose you if you had ten dragons.”
He kissed your hand again.
“I would choose you if you had none.”
Naturally, this was the precise moment Daemon landed in the courtyard below.
He looked up.
Saw Gwayne kissing your hand.
And shouted something in High Valyrian that made Caraxes roar.
The wedding was held on Dragonstone.
Daemon had initially insisted it take place nowhere else.
“If the Hightowers wish to attend, they know where to find us.”
Otto objected.
Daemon was delighted.
The ceremony was beautiful, though not small.
Nothing involving Daemon’s daughter could ever be small.
Silver banners moved in the sea wind. Thousands of white flowers covered the stone walkways. Musicians played from the balconies, and enough food had been prepared to feed half of King’s Landing.
“You said it would be intimate,” Rhaenyra remarked.
Daemon surveyed the crowded hall.
“It is.”
“There are six hundred guests.”
“I excluded several houses.”
You wore silver silk embroidered with pearls.
Your hair was arranged in Valyrian braids, the small crown Daemon had given you as a child resting upon your head after being remade to fit you.
Around your throat hung a ruby pendant in the shape of a dragon.
A gift from your father.
When Daemon came to escort you, he stopped in the doorway.
You smiled nervously.
“Is something wrong?”
He said nothing.
His eyes moved over your gown, your crown, your face.
For once, Daemon Targaryen appeared entirely without words.
“Father?”
“You look like your mother,” he said quietly.
Your expression softened.
Daemon approached and adjusted a strand of hair that did not need adjusting.
“I can still end this.”
You laughed.
“No.”
“I could.”
“I know.”
“One word, and Gwayne Hightower will never cross your path again.”
“Because you will send him away?”
Daemon looked toward the window.
“Something like that.”
You took his hand.
“I love him.”
His jaw tightened.
It was not anger.
Not truly.
Daemon had spent your whole life ensuring that you never had to reach for anything he could not give you.
Now you had found something beyond his keeping.
A life that would carry you away from him.
“I know,” he said.
“And he loves me.”
“I know that, too.”
“You admit it?”
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
You kissed his cheek.
Daemon closed his eyes.
For a moment, he held you as he had when you were little—one hand at the back of your head, the other wrapped tightly around you.
“You will always have a home here,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“If he displeases you, come back.”
“Father.”
“If his family displeases you, come back.”
“I will.”
“If Oldtown is too cold—”
“It is warmer than Dragonstone.”
“Then if it is too warm.”
You laughed against him.
Daemon sighed.
“Visit often.”
“I promise.”
When you entered the hall on your father’s arm, Gwayne forgot to breathe.
Daemon noticed.
“Hm.”
Rhaenyra stood nearby.
“What?”
“He looks frightened.”
“He looks in love.”
“Similar conditions.”
Gwayne’s eyes remained fixed on you as you approached.
He looked at you as though the hall had emptied.
As though the music had faded.
As though you were the only thing left in the world.
Daemon placed your hand in his.
He did not release it immediately.
Gwayne waited.
Daemon tightened his grip.
“Father,” you whispered.
“I am considering my options.”
Gwayne, to his credit, did not attempt to pull you away.
Finally, Daemon released your hand.
“If she cries,” he said under his breath, “Caraxes will find you.”
Gwayne nodded solemnly.
“I assumed as much.”
“If she is unhappy—”
“Father.”
“—Caraxes will find you.”
“You already said that.”
“It bears repeating.”
The vows were spoken.
The cloak was placed around your shoulders.
When Gwayne kissed you, the hall erupted in applause.
Daemon did not clap.
He was too busy staring at Gwayne with the expression of a man reconsidering the political consequences of murder.
At the feast, Gwayne barely left your side.
He brought you wine, though you had not asked.
He moved your chair away from the draft.
He remembered to place candied lemons on your plate.
Daemon watched all of it.
Rhaenyra leaned toward him.
“You approve.”
“I do not.”
“You cried during the vows.”
“There was smoke from the torches.”
“You were standing outside.”
“It traveled.”
“Of course.”
Late that evening, Gwayne found Daemon alone on the cliffs.
The sea spread dark beneath them.
Caraxes rested nearby, one golden eye half-open.
Gwayne approached cautiously.
“I wanted to thank you.”
Daemon did not turn.
“For threatening you?”
“For trusting me with her.”
“I do not trust you.”
“You allowed the marriage.”
“Viserys allowed the marriage.”
“You could have stopped it.”
Daemon glanced at him.
They both knew this was true.
Gwayne looked toward the open doors of the hall.
Inside, you were laughing with your sisters.
“I know you believe no one is worthy of her.”
“No one is.”
“I agree.”
That earned Gwayne his full attention.
“I cannot promise that she will never be sad,” Gwayne continued. “Or that our life will always be easy. But I can promise that she will never question whether she is loved.”
Daemon remained silent.
“I will listen when she speaks,” Gwayne said. “I will protect her without attempting to cage her. I will bring her home whenever she asks.”
“Home?”
“Here.”
Daemon’s expression shifted.
“And when she wishes to fly,” Gwayne added, looking toward Caraxes, “I will never ask her to remain on the ground for my comfort.”
The Blood Wyrm lifted his head.
Gwayne swallowed.
Daemon stepped closer.
“My daughter has spent much of her life believing there was something missing from her because no dragon chose her.”
“There is nothing missing from her.”
Daemon studied his face.
“No?”
Gwayne looked through the open doors.
You had noticed them now.
Your eyes found his across the distance.
You smiled.
Gwayne smiled back.
“She has always been the sun,” he said. “Dragons have simply been circling her.”
Daemon followed his gaze.
His daughter.
His little girl.
Still smiling.
Still safe.
Still loved.
“Take care of her,” Daemon said.
“With my life.”
“If she misses Dragonstone—”
“I will bring her.”
“If she wishes to stay for months—”
“I will wait.”
“If she asks for a dragon—”
“I will remind her that she already has one.”
Caraxes released a low rumble.
Gwayne glanced toward him.
“Two, perhaps.”
Daemon almost smiled.
Almost.
“Welcome to the family.”
Gwayne’s expression softened.
“Thank you.”
“I was speaking to Caraxes.”
The dragon huffed.
Gwayne laughed.
Daemon did not, but some of the sharpness left his face.
Behind them, your voice carried across the terrace.
“Gwayne!”
He turned immediately.
You stood beneath the torchlight, one hand holding your skirts.
“Come dance with me.”
Gwayne bowed to Daemon.
“Prince Daemon.”
“Hightower.”
Gwayne returned to you.
You took his hand and pulled him into the hall.
Daemon watched as Gwayne rested one hand at your waist.
You whispered something that made your husband laugh.
Caraxes lowered his head beside Daemon.
“She is happy,” Daemon murmured.
The Blood Wyrm crooned.
“Yes,” Daemon said. “I know.”
the end.
-----------------
Bonus Scene: An Unexpected Visitor
Your new home was a Hightower estate several hours beyond King’s Landing.
It was not Oldtown—not yet.
Gwayne had suggested spending your first year somewhere closer to Dragonstone so that the change would not feel quite so severe.
He pretended the decision had been practical.
You knew better.
The estate was beautiful.
The stone walls were covered in climbing roses. The gardens stretched toward a clear lake, and your chambers had been arranged with every comfort Gwayne knew you preferred.
He had filled one room with books.
He had ordered blue silk curtains because they reminded him of the ribbon he once tied around your wrist.
He had even instructed the kitchens to keep candied lemons prepared.
You loved your new home.
Still, there were mornings when you woke expecting to hear Caraxes outside.
On those mornings, Gwayne held you a little closer.
“You miss them,” he said one evening.
You sat together beneath a tree overlooking the lake, your head resting against his shoulder.
“A little.”
“Your father or the dragon?”
“Yes.”
Gwayne laughed.
“You know we can return whenever you wish.”
“We visited last week.”
“Then we will visit again.”
“My father will think you cannot survive without his supervision.”
“Your father already thinks that.”
You smiled.
Gwayne kissed the top of your head.
A deep roar shook the sky.
Every bird in the trees scattered at once.
You sat upright.
Gwayne went still.
Another roar followed.
It was long, sharp, and painfully familiar.
Your face brightened.
“No.”
Gwayne stared toward the horizon.
A red shape moved through the clouds.
“No,” he repeated.
You were already on your feet.
“Caraxes!”
The Blood Wyrm descended over the estate.
Servants screamed.
Guards scattered.
Horses broke free from their handlers and fled toward the fields.
Caraxes swept over the towers so low that several roof tiles tore loose beneath the force of his wings.
Gwayne stood frozen beside the tree.
“This cannot be happening.”
You ran toward the courtyard.
Caraxes landed in the center of the gardens, crushing a fountain and half of a carefully maintained hedge beneath his claws.
He lifted his head and released a triumphant cry.
You laughed.
“Caraxes!”
The dragon lowered himself the moment he saw you.
You reached him and threw your arms as far around his snout as you could manage.
Caraxes crooned so loudly that the windows trembled.
“You came to see me,” you whispered, scratching beneath his jaw.
His golden eyes drifted closed.
Gwayne approached with extreme caution.
Behind him, guards stood with weapons raised.
“Lower those,” he ordered.
One of the men stared at him.
“My lord, the dragon—”
“Belongs to my wife’s father.”
Caraxes opened one eye.
Gwayne corrected himself.
“And apparently also to my wife.”
The guards lowered their weapons.
Gwayne stopped beside you.
“Did your father send him?”
“I do not think so.”
“You think he escaped?”
Caraxes huffed.
The gust nearly knocked Gwayne backward.
You looked up at the dragon.
“Did you leave the Dragonpit without permission?”
Caraxes gave a rumbling sound.
Gwayne stared.
“Is he answering you?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did he say?”
“That he has no regrets.”
“You cannot possibly know that.”
Caraxes turned and demolished the remainder of the fountain with his tail.
Gwayne looked at the shattered marble.
“Never mind.”
A rider arrived less than an hour later.
He galloped into the courtyard on an exhausted horse, nearly falling from the saddle.
“My princess!”
You turned from where you sat against Caraxes’s foreleg.
The dragon had made himself comfortable in the destroyed gardens.
The messenger stumbled toward you.
“Prince Daemon sends word that Caraxes has escaped the Dragonpit.”
Gwayne looked at the enormous dragon occupying his courtyard.
“Yes,” he said. “We had gathered that.”
“The prince is on his way.”
Your eyes widened.
“My father is coming here?”
The messenger nodded breathlessly.
“He said—”
The pounding of another horse interrupted him.
Daemon entered the gates at speed.
He dismounted before the animal had fully stopped and strode into the courtyard.
His gaze moved from you, to Gwayne, to Caraxes, to the ruined fountain.
Daemon placed his hands on his hips.
“Caraxes.”
The dragon did not move.
“You disobedient beast.”
Caraxes closed his eyes.
“Do not pretend to be asleep.”
You covered your smile with your hand.
Daemon pointed toward the sky.
“Dragonstone. Now.”
Caraxes remained exactly where he was.
Gwayne looked between them.
“Does this happen often?”
“No,” Daemon snapped.
You raised a brow.
“Father.”
“Not often enough to be considered a pattern.”
“Caraxes escaped twice when I visited Driftmark.”
“An oversight.”
“And once when I stayed in King’s Landing.”
“Poorly secured chains.”
Gwayne stared at the dragon.
“He crossed half the crownlands because he missed her?”
Daemon looked offended.
“Obviously.”
Caraxes opened one eye and nudged you with his snout.
You laughed, placing both hands against his face.
“I missed you, too.”
The dragon purred.
Daemon sighed.
“You have spoiled him.”
“You gave him a sheep whenever he frightened someone who insulted me.”
“They deserved it.”
Gwayne rubbed a hand over his face.
“How do we convince him to leave?”
Daemon studied Caraxes.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“For her to tell him.”
You looked at the dragon.
Caraxes looked at you.
“I cannot ask him to leave immediately. He has only just arrived.”
Gwayne glanced at the ruined garden.
“Of course.”
“He can remain for supper.”
Gwayne stared at you.
“Your guest has destroyed our fountain.”
“He was excited.”
“He also crushed the roses.”
“They will grow back.”
Caraxes released a pleased trill.
Gwayne looked toward Daemon.
Daemon shrugged.
“She wants him to stay.”
“You are her father.”
“Yes.”
“Tell her this is unreasonable.”
Daemon’s expression became confused.
“Why would I do that?”
Gwayne closed his eyes.
By sunset, Caraxes had eaten three cows and fallen asleep across the western lawn.
Daemon remained for supper.
He criticized the wine, the chairs, the distance between your chambers and the nearest guard post, and the fact that Gwayne had not yet installed a dragon landing platform.
“We did not anticipate regular dragon visitors,” Gwayne said.
“You married my daughter.”
“I married a woman without a dragon.”
Daemon took a drink of wine.
“And yet.”
Outside, Caraxes rolled onto his side and flattened another row of hedges.
Gwayne watched through the window.
“I will have a platform constructed.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you.”
Gwayne’s irritation disappeared immediately.
Daemon noticed.
“Hm.”
After supper, you walked outside with Caraxes.
The dragon lowered himself so you could rest your forehead against his snout.
“I am happy here,” you assured him.
Caraxes rumbled.
“Gwayne takes good care of me.”
The dragon glanced toward your husband.
Gwayne stood several paces away, his hands clasped behind his back.
Caraxes exhaled a thin stream of smoke.
“I believe he is still deciding,” you said.
“I had hoped the wedding indicated his approval.”
“Caraxes is thorough.”
Daemon approached with your traveling cloak.
“Come.”
You turned.
“Where?”
“Caraxes will not leave without you.”
Gwayne’s brows rose.
Daemon draped the cloak around your shoulders.
“We will fly to Dragonstone. Hightower can follow tomorrow.”
Gwayne stepped forward.
“My wife is not leaving in the middle of the night.”
Daemon stared at him.
Gwayne stared back.
You looked between them.
Caraxes growled softly.
“No one is fighting,” you said.
Neither man moved.
You sighed.
“Gwayne may come with us.”
His face went pale.
Daemon smiled.
“Excellent idea.”
The three of you mounted Caraxes.
You sat before Daemon.
Gwayne sat behind him, holding the saddle with such force that his knuckles turned white.
“You may wish to hold on,” Daemon advised.
“I am holding on.”
“To something secure.”
“I am.”
Daemon looked down at Gwayne’s grip.
“That strap is decorative.”
Gwayne immediately wrapped both arms around Daemon’s waist.
You burst into laughter.
Daemon looked deeply offended.
“Remove your hands.”
“You told me to hold something secure.”
“Not me.”
Caraxes launched into the air.
Gwayne shouted.
You laughed harder.
The Blood Wyrm climbed toward the stars, carrying his rider, his beloved princess, and one deeply unfortunate Hightower across the darkened sky.
You looked back at Gwayne.
His eyes were tightly closed.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Is it not beautiful?”
“I have not looked.”
Daemon turned Caraxes sharply.
Gwayne’s arms tightened around him.
“If you strangle me,” Daemon shouted over the wind, “she will be widowed before reaching Dragonstone.”
“Fly straighter!”
“Caraxes dislikes straight lines.”
Caraxes roared in agreement.
You laughed until tears filled your eyes.
Below you, the world stretched silver beneath the moon.
Ahead, Dragonstone rose from the sea.
Your father’s arm was secure around you.
Your husband was clinging desperately behind him.
Caraxes flew happily beneath you.
Perhaps the court had been right.
You had never claimed a dragon of your own.
But as Caraxes carried you home through the clouds, you knew you had never truly needed to.
Lmaooo someone get my boy out of there hes been through hell the eyes never lie😭gwayne go pick up daeron with Tessarion and runn away! Take haleana with you while your at it💔
