β summary: you're not speaking to them. how long before they break?
β pairing: Gwayne Hightower, Ormund Hightower, Aegon II Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Daeron Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Jacaerys Velaryon x f!reader
β content: 18+ MDNI | fluff | a little angst | implied smut | annoying husbands | hardheaded men
β a/n: i wanted to add onto the original by doing the other AKOTSK/HOTD men. as always, thank you so much for the likes, comments, reblogs, requests, and asks. π€
AEGON β Three Days.
The first day he pretends he is not bothered at all. He drinks, he acts out, he stays up the whole night through, making a great show of being a man who doesn't care. By the second day the show is wearing thin, because the truth is that he cares a lot. All he wants is to be near you, but he is stubborn, and some part of him is convinced that you ought to apologize first. By the third day, he cannot bear it another hour. He comes to your room pouting like a scolded child, saying he is sorry, begging you to speak to him again. "I cannot continue!" Dramatic to the very last. You give in, partly because you did miss him, and partly because you would rather not have the whole keep hearing him carrying on like this.
AEMOND β Two Days.
More than anything, Aemond is desperate for love; the love you give him so freely, that no one else ever has. He knows he was wrong. He knows you are right not to speak to him. But he will not say so, because his pride is a vast and immovable thing. He lies in his own bed that second night, cold and alone and sleepless, and decides at last that his pride is not worth this. He rises, sneaks into your chambers and climbs silently into your bed, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "May I stay?" he asks. He cannot make himself say the words I was wrong, that is not his way, but the look in his eye, and the tears standing in it, say it loudly enough. You nod.
DAERON β Forever, Potentially.
He does not remember the fight, or you telling him to sleep elsewhere. He simply wakes to find you not speaking to him, and being who he is, assumes your love for him has finally run dry, that you no longer have it in you to endure him, and he is crushed by it. But he understands. Someone like you deserves a far better husband than the likes of him. So he resolves to disappear, to stop being a burden, to never trouble you again. It goes on like this for almost a week while you slowly lose your mind, because what in the actual hell is happening?! You confront him at last. He is stunned, he remembers none of it, but more than that, the revelation that you still love him undoes him completely. He pulls you into his arms and kisses you hard. The kind of kiss where his arms are around your waist pulling you impossibly close and your hands are curled in the front of his doublet. You're left so breathless you don't even remember why you were upset. He apologizes, swears he will change, he does not want to live in a world in which you have stopped loving him.
GWAYNE β An Hour.
The sweetest, most devoted husband, completely undone by the barest hint of your displeasure. If you are upset and not speaking to him, he lasts an hour at the very most before he comes to you with a little gift and a very big apology. He is so sorry for being so careless, he will never do such a thing again, never ever, he swears it. And he is so handsome and so sincere as he says it that staying angry is simply not an option available to you. You step into his arms and let him hold you and kiss you.
JACAERYS β Less Than an Hour.
The stress he carries makes him irritable sometimes, careless, a symptom of his youth as much as anything, and he says something snippy when you were only trying to help. He does not even let you leave the room. The words are barely out of his mouth before he regrets them and is apologizing. You try to walk past him and he stops you gently, both hands on your shoulders, his eyes piercing straight through you. He is putting an end to this before it can go anywhere at all. He repeats his apology, his hands sliding from your shoulders down to hold both of yours. You nod, but you need a moment, and he gives it to you. Your silence is the only thing he can think of, occupying him entirely until, an hour later, you come and find him, and climb into his lap, and let him hold you. He will never speak to you that way again.
ORMUND β A Day.
He is a pain in your ass, and he wants to break you. "Hmm. Not speaking to me now?" he says with that infuriating smile the moment he realizes what you are doing. He crowds your space all day, and he is, frankly, impressed by the sheer iron of your resolve. If only all his soldiers possessed your discipline. "How long do you imagine this can continue? You must speak to me sooner or later." After a full day of it, you do indeed snap. "Seven hells, do you ever stop talking?!" You storm out of the room, slamming the door behind you. He will not tolerate that in his house; he follows you, his fury matching your own, as he pulls you into the bedchamber. What follows is a fight indeed, a battle for dominance, each of you determined to have the upper hand. You win.
VALARR β Until Supper.
You and Valarr are in the middle of a thunderous fight, the first of your marriage. You and he on opposite sides of the room, nothing but tension and frigid air between you, when you decide to stop speaking to him altogether. He wants to fix this, but he also does not think hashing it out in the heat of the moment is particularly productive,not while you are both still upset. He lets you be silent, but you do not get to be angry at him all day. He comes to dress for supper and makes it clear he means to talk about it now, and he apologizes thoroughly for his part in it. It is difficult to maintain anger against someone so clearheaded. You apologize, forgive him, and ask him to help you with your dress. He decides to skip supper in favor of eating something else entirely.
Summary: You find a missing cat that belongs to a certain Targaryen. During the time which takes you to find the owner, Vhagar becomes attached to you, so now Aemond must deal with sharing her with you.
a/n: I had this in my drafts waiting for Aemond to come back in the show and him down and his dragon flying away was perfect for this!
The first time you saw Vhagar, she was a lump of storm clouds curled against the concrete base of your building, so still you almost mistook her for a discarded sweater. It was late autumn, that particular gray hour when the sun gives up and the streetlights havenβt quite decided to take over, and you were fumbling for your keys with cold-stiff fingers when the lump moved.
Not a sweater. A cat. A massive, ancient-looking cat the color of woodsmoke and iron, with a face like a disappointed dowager countess who had seen empires rise and fall. Her fur was thick and slightly ruffled, the way old velvet gets when itβs been stored wrong, and she was watching you with enormous yellow-green eyes that seemed to hold entire centuries in their depths.
βHello,β you said, because you were the kind of person who talked to animals automatically, even when they looked at you like that.
The cat opened her mouth and yowled.
It wasnβt a meow. It wasnβt even a proper cat sound. It was a declaration, a demand, a rusty hinge of a noise that seemed to ask where you had been and why you hadnβt brought tribute. She stood up, stretched with the deliberate slowness of a creature that had never needed to hurry for anyone, and padded directly toward you.
βDo you belong to someone here?β you asked, looking at the entrance to your apartment building. The cat wound herself around your ankles with surprising force for something so elderly, nearly knocking you off balance. Her fur was cold from the outside air, and when you bent down to touch her, you felt the frail architecture of age beneath the thick coat, shoulder blades too prominent, a spine like a string of beads.
She had a collar. Good leather, emerald green, with what looked like real gold hardware. But there was no tag. No phone number. No name.
βSomeoneβs looking for you,β you murmured, scratching behind one ragged ear. The cat closed her eyes and leaned into your hand with the air of someone accepting their due. βCome on, then. Letβs get you inside.β
You opened the door and she walked in ahead of you like she owned the place, which was probably how she walked into every room sheβd ever entered. The lobby was empty. You expected her to head for one of the apartment doors on the ground floor, to indicate somehow where she lived, but instead she sat down in the exact center of the lobby and began grooming her flank with the meticulous disdain of someone who had been terribly inconvenienced.
βRight,β you said. βNot helpful.β
You waited. The cat groomed. The elevator went up and came back down empty. Someoneβs mail was sticking out of box 3B. The radiators clanked.
βOkay,β you said finally. βI have to go up. If youβre still here tomorrow, weβll figure something out.β
She paused mid-lick to give you a look that said she had never been dismissed in her life and wasnβt about to start now.
She was still there when you got back from work the next day. Not in the lobby, outside again, on the same patch of concrete, curled into the exact same shape as if sheβd never moved. The November dark had settled in thick and cold, her fur was beaded with the beginnings of frost, it made your chest clench.
βAbsolutely not,β you told her, scooping her up before you could think better of it. She was heavier than she looked, a dense warm weight in your arms, and she made a sound like a creaking door as you carried her inside. βYouβre coming upstairs. Youβre eating something. Weβre figuring out who you belong to.β
She didnβt struggle. She settled against your shoulder like sheβd been doing this for a thousand years, her purr starting up low and rough like a motor that hadnβt been run in a while. Her claws kneaded gently into your coat, catching on the wool.
Your apartment was small. One bedroom, a galley kitchen, a living room that doubled as a dining room that doubled as an office. The cat surveyed it from the threshold with an expression you could only describe as politely appalled.
βItβs not much,β you said defensively, setting her down. βBut itβs warm.β
She sniffed the baseboard. She investigated the corner where the radiator met the wall. She walked into the kitchen and sat down in front of the refrigerator with the clear expectation that it would open for her.
βWhat do you even eat?β you muttered, opening the fridge and scanning your meager contents. You didnβt have cat food. You didnβt have anything that seemed cat-appropriate. But you did have milk, and you did have a package of those cheap hot dogs from a supermarket.
βThis is probably terrible for you,β you said, boiling one anyway and cutting it into small pieces, pouring a bowl of milk. βBut you look like youβve survived worse.β
She ate like sheβd never seen food before. She drank the milk in laps. She looked up at you with a milk-white mustache on her gray muzzle and made a sound that resembled approval.
βYouβre welcome,β you said, and sat down on the floor beside her.
You put up posters in the neighborhood: FOUND CAT, with a photo that didnβt do her justice and your phone number at the bottom. You posted in the local lost pet groups. You took her to a vet to check for a microchip, but there was nothing, which the vet found strange given the obvious quality of her collar.
βThis is full-grain Italian leather,β the vet said, turning the collar over in her hands. βAnd the hardware is eighteen-karat gold plated. Someone spent a lot of money on this cat.β
βBut no tag,β you said.
βBut no tag,β the vet agreed. βSome people just assume their animals will never get out. Especially indoor cats. Howβs she been eating?β
βEverything,β you said. βAnything. I gave her the crusts from my grilled cheese yesterday and she acted like it was a five-star meal.β
The vet laughed. βAt her age, thatβs a good sign. Sheβs healthy, just old. Very old. Probably fifteen, maybe older. Keep doing what youβre doing.β
So you did. You bought proper cat food eventually, the decent mid-range kind from the grocery store, and she ate it with the same enthusiasm sheβd shown for the hot dogs and the milk and the leftover tuna salad. She slept on your bed every night. She sat in the window and watched the street below. You started calling her Lady, for lack of anything better, she ignored it with the same regal indifference she showed to everything else.
βYouβre someoneβs, arenβt you?β you said one evening, scratching under her chin while she purred like a broken generator. βSomeone filthy rich.β
She closed her eyes and leaned into your hand, offering no answers.
You found the flyer on a Tuesday morning in early December, taped to a lamppost two blocks from your work office. The paper was thick and slightly glossy, the kind of paper that cost money, and the photo printed on it was clearly professional, the same gray cat, the same yellow-green eyes, but photographed against a dark background with studio lighting that made her look like a painting.
MISSING: VHAGAR, the flyer read. $7,000 REWARD FOR SAFE RETURN.
There was a phone number. That was all. No name. Just the catβs name, the reward, and a number.
Vhagar. You tested the name in your mouth as you walked home, the flyer clutched in your cold hand. It sounded ancient. Mythological. Exactly the kind of name someone would give a cat who wore eighteen-karat gold on her collar and had professional photographs taken of her.
βYour name is Vhagar,β you told the cat when you got home. She was sprawled across your pillow in a pose of magnificent indolence, one paw draped over her eyes. At the sound of the name, her tail twitched. βThatβs you, isnβt it? Vhagar.β
She lifted her head and looked at you, and for the first time since youβd found her, she let out a proper meow, short and declarative, as if to say finally, youβve figured it out.
You sat down on the edge of your bed. Seven thousand dollars. That was two months of rent. That was the dental work youβd been putting off. That was breathing room, actual breathing room, the kind you hadnβt had since youβd moved to this city with its brutal rents and its casual cruelties and its complete indifference to whether you sank or swam.
But it wasnβt the money that made you pull out your phone. It was the way sheβd been shivering on the concrete. The way someone had loved her enough to buy her that collar and take those photos and offer seven thousand dollars no questions asked, but not enough to put a tag on her. Not enough to think she might ever leave.
You typed the number into your phone before you could talk yourself out of it.
He answered on the second ring.
βYes.β
Not hello. Not who is this. Just yes, flat and dry as old paper, a voice that expected the world to get to the point and not waste his time.
βHi,β you said, suddenly aware that you hadnβt planned what to say. βIβm calling about the cat. The flyer. Vhagar. I think I have her.β
A pause. Just long enough to make you check if the call had dropped.
βProof,β the voice said. βSend me proof.β
βWhat kind of...β
βA video that shows sheβs alive and unharmed and actually in your possession.β
The demand was clipped, almost cold, and you felt a spike of irritation. You were doing him a favor. You could have kept the cat. You could have ignored the flyer entirely. But you swallowed your pride because seven thousand dollars was seven thousand dollars, and youβd already decided.
βDo you have Whatsapp or something with this number?β you asked, βIβll send a video.β
He said yes and hung up without saying goodbye.
βCharming,β you muttered to the cat. Vhagar yawned, showing a pink mouth.
You recorded a thirty-second video of Vhagar on your bed, demonstrating that she was indeed alive and unharmed and being gently scratched behind the ears by someone who was not a cat thief. You sent it to the number. Thirty seconds later, your phone buzzed.
Thatβs her. Where can we meet?
You looked up the name attached to the number, of course. You werenβt stupid. You were about to meet a stranger from the internet to return a cat worth seven thousand dollars, and you wanted to know what you were walking into.
His name was Aemond Targaryen. The social media profile that came up was locked down tight: private, no profile picture, just the name and a cover photo of what looked like a dragon from some fantasy series. You scrolled anyway, finding nothing, until you thought to try LinkedIn.
His LinkedIn profile was not private.
The photo hit you first: a man in his twenties, maybe, with sharp cheekbones and jawlines like cut glass and hair so pale it was almost silver, pulled back from his face. He was wearing a dark suit and looking slightly to the left of the camera with an expression of controlled impatience, like heβd been forced to sit for the photograph and was counting the seconds until he could leave.
Below the photo was a wall of text. Degrees. Certifications. Projects. Internships at companies youβd seen on the news. A masterβs degree. A bachelorβs from some private university in Oldtown. Fluent in four languages. Currently serving as Vice President of Strategic Operations at Targaryen Industries, which a quick search revealed to be a multinational conglomerate dealing in everything from real estate to renewable energy to defense contracting.
Old money. Very, very old money. The kind of money that had its own Wikipedia page and several unflattering investigative journalism pieces.
βYou belong to him?β you asked Vhagar, who had climbed onto your laptop keyboard and was slowly erasing several paragraphs of an email youβd been drafting. βYou belong to a billionaireβs son with a dragon fixation and cheekbones that could cut glass?β
Vhagar purred smugly and stepped on the delete key.
The meeting place was outside a high-rise in city center that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated poor people. All black glass and angular steel, a lobby visible through the ground-floor windows that contained more marble than the average museum. A doorman in a uniform stood at attention by the revolving doors.
Aemond Targaryen was waiting on the sidewalk.
He looked exactly like his LinkedIn photo and nothing like it at all. The photo had captured his bone structure but missed everything else: the way he held himself like a blade, the way his one visible eye tracked movement with unsettling precision, the way the left side of his face bore a long, pale scar that cut through his eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. He was wearing a long black coat that probably cost as much as the catβs reward, and he was looking at the cat carrier in your hands with an expression you couldnβt quite read.
βVhagar,β he said, and his voice was different now, still dry, still clipped, but with something underneath it that you recognized. Youβd made that sound yourself, sometimes, when you came home to find Lady waiting for you on the pillow. Relief, maybe. Or something close to it.
βSheβs fine,β you said, setting the carrier down. βSheβs been eating well. Sleeping a lot. Sheβs veryβ¦opinionated.β
He crouched down, actually crouched, in his thousand-dollar coat on the sidewalk, and opened the carrier door. Vhagar emerged with the slow dignity of a dowager queen descending from her carriage, and when she saw him, she made a sound that was almost a chirp. She headbutted his hand. She allowed him to pick her up, tucking her massive gray body against his chest like sheβd been doing it all her life. Which, you supposed, she had.
βWhere did you find her?β he asked, not looking at you. His attention was entirely on the cat, his long fingers stroking through her fur with a gentleness that seemed at odds with everything else about him.
βOutside my building. She was sleeping on the concrete.β
His jaw tightened. βHow long?β
βAbout three weeks ago.β
He didnβt say anything. His hand stilled on Vhagarβs back. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and your own phone buzzed in your pocket.
βThe reward,β he said. βThank you for returning her.β
You checked your banking app. Seven thousand dollars, transferred and pending.
βRight,β you said. βWell. Take care of her. And maybeβ¦put a tag on her collar next time.β
He looked at you then. Actually looked at you, his single visible eye, the other was covered by a swoop of hair but seemed to be a glass prosthetic, you werenβt sure, fixing on your face with an intensity that made you want to step backward. His eye was violet. A pale, impossible shade of purple that you had assumed was contacts until you were standing three feet away from him and could see the way the light hit it.
βShe has never run away before,β he said, and it sounded almost like an accusation. As if you had somehow lured his ancient cat away from her penthouse and convinced her to live on hot dogs and milk.
βWell,β you said again, because his stare was unnerving, βsheβs home now.β
He didnβt thank you again. He turned and walked into the building, Vhagar draped over his shoulder like a fur stole, the doorman holding the door for him with a murmured βMr. Targaryenβ that you caught on the wind.
You stood on the sidewalk for a moment longer, the December cold seeping through your coat, and then you went home.
You assumed that was the end of it. You had your money, he had his cat, and your worlds had brushed against each other for exactly long enough to complete a transaction. You unfollowed the lost pet groups. You washed Vhagarβs fur off your pillowcases. You tried to ignore the way your apartment felt quieter now, emptier, the absence of her rumbling purr leaving a gap in the dark that you hadnβt expected to miss.
Four days later, your phone buzzed with a message from an unsaved number.
What did you do to my cat?
You stared at the screen. You had not saved his number but you had not deleted the chat.
Sorry?, you typed back.
The response came immediately. Vhagar. She wonβt eat. She refuses her food. What were you feeding her?
You tried to remember. Milk? Boiled sausages? Some tuna. The vet said she was healthy.
The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then your phone started ringing.
βMilk,β Aemond Targaryen said when you answered, his voice flat with barely contained outrage. βYou fed a fifteen-year-old purebred Persian cat milk and boiled sausages?β
βShe liked them,β you said defensively. βShe ate them right up. Whatβs the problem?β
βThe problem,β he said, βis that Vhagarβs normal diet consists of sustainably sourced Beluga caviar, free-range quail eggs, and a fish broth reduction that my familyβs private chef prepares fresh every three days. She has never eaten processed meat in her life. She has certainly never consumed grocery store milk. And now she is sitting in front of her bowl looking at me as if I have personally betrayed her by serving her the same food she has happily eaten for fifteen years.β
You sat down on your bed. βShe ate Beluga caviar? Like, the stuff that costs hundreds of dollars an ounce?β
βThatβs not the point.β
βIt kind of feels like the point.β
He made a sound of pure frustration, not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. βThe point is that sheβs refusing to eat. Sheβs refusing to eat and sheβs refusing to come when I call her and she spent the entire morning glaring at me from the top of her custom-built cat tower, which, I might add, has three separate levels and a water feature.β
You tried to picture Vhagar, your Lady, who had slept on a spare pillow and eaten crusts off your plate, in a climate-controlled cat tower with a water feature. The image wouldnβt resolve.
βHave you triedβ¦playing with her?β you asked.
βShe doesnβt play,β Aemond said, as if youβd suggested she do her own taxes. βI throw her the toy mouse from HermΓ¨s and she demolishes it. Thatβs not playing. Thatβs destruction.β
βWhat about cardboard boxes?β
Silence. Long, profound silence, broken only by the faint sound of Vhagar yowling in the background.
βCardboard boxes,β he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.
βYeah. You know. The things stuff gets shipped in? Cats love them. She went absolutely feral for the box my Amazon order came in. I put an old towel in it and she slept there for three days.β
βYou want me,β Aemond Targaryen said, each word precise and clipped, βto give a member of my family, a cat who has been passed down through three generations, who has her own room in our estate, who has been photographed for Architectural Digest, a cardboard box?β
βI mean, it canβt hurt?β
Another long pause. The background yowling grew louder.
βThis is absurd,β he said, and hung up.
The cardboard box apparently worked, because two days later he messaged you again. Not a call this time, a text, long and oddly formal, like a business proposal that had been written through gritted teeth.
Vhagar has been eating again. The box wasβ¦effective. However, she seems to have developed an attachment to your presence during her time away. She has been restless. The veterinarian suggested she may benefit from continued exposure to you as a source of environmental enrichment, which is a phrase I cannot believe I am typing. I am prepared to offer you a weekly retainer to visit and spend time with her. The compensation would be commensurate with your trouble.
Attached was a number that made your eyes water.
You read the message three times. You thought about the seven thousand dollars already sitting in your savings account. You thought about the way Vhagar had looked at you when you handed her over, that yellow-green stare that had seemed to say this isnβt over. You thought about Aemond Targaryenβs voice on the phone, dry and furious and somehow, despite everything, deeply concerned about a fifteen-year-old cat who missed you.
βThis is insane,β you said to your empty apartment.
But you typed back: When do I start?
The first visit was awkward. Aemondβs apartment, if you could call a space that occupied nearly an entire floor of a high-rise an apartment, was a cathedral of minimalist wealth, all pale wood and pale stone and pale furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. Vhagar greeted you at the door with a yowl that seemed to say finally, youβve arrived, and immediately led you to her custom cat tower, which was indeed three stories tall and featured a tiny chandelier.
βSheβs been waiting by the door since this morning,β Aemond said. He was standing in the doorway of what appeared to be a library, dressed in a dark sweater that did nothing to soften the angles of his face. βI donβt understand why.β
βSheβs a cat,β you said, sitting cross-legged on the heated marble floor while Vhagar climbed into your lap. βTheyβre mysterious.β
βSheβs never sat in anyoneβs lap but mine. And my motherβs. And occasionally my sisterβs, though that ended badly.β
βWhat happened?β
βMy sister is allergic. She found out when Vhagar sat on her face.β
You laughed. You couldnβt help it. Aemond was watching you with an expression that wasnβt quite a smile but wasnβt not one either, a slight softening around his mouth, a tilt to his head that made him look more like a person.
βTea?β he asked, and it sounded almost reluctant, like the offer had escaped without his permission.
βSure,β you said. βTea would be great.β
Every Saturday, you took the train and spent the afternoon in Aemond Targaryenβs penthouse, ostensibly to entertain a cat who spent most of her time ignoring you in favor of her cardboard box. But Aemond was always there, hovering, appearing with cups of tea that grew progressively more elaborate, then plates of food that started as simple snacks and evolved into full meals.
βYou said youβve been eating bread and cheese for dinner,β he said one evening, setting a plate of something that looked like it belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant on the coffee table in front of you. βThatβs not nutritious.β
βIβm aware,β you said, but you ate it anyway, and it was the best thing youβd ever tasted.
βYouβre not a cat person,β you observed, as a calico tried to scale his leg.
βIβm a Vhagar person,β he corrected, gently removing the calico and placing it on the floor. βThereβs a difference.β
βIs there?β
βIβm beginning to think there might be,β he said, and then he turned away before you could ask what he meant.
Winter turned into spring. Your Saturday visits turned into Saturday visits plus occasional Wednesday dinners plus a standing invitation to a Sunday morning walk in a park, which Aemond claimed was for Vhagarβs benefit even though Vhagar never actually walked. He texted you articles about cat behavior and screenshots of Vhagar doing mundane things with captions like She sat in the box again. I donβt understand and The chef wants to know if she can have the sausage recipe.
βThereβs no recipe,β you told him. βYou boil them.β
βI told him that. He didnβt believe me.β
He started asking about your life. Your job. Your family. The things you cared about and the things you were afraid of and the things you wanted but had never let yourself reach for. He listened carefully, his pale eye fixed on your face, his sharp features softening in increments so small you almost didnβt notice them until one day you looked at him and realized you couldnβt remember why youβd ever found him cold.
Vhagar, for her part, seemed entirely unimpressed with the whole arrangement. She spent most of your visits asleep in her cardboard box, a new one now, because Aemond had his assistant procure them weekly, and only occasionally deigned to acknowledge your presence with a slow blink or a rumbling purr.
βShe likes you,β Aemond said one evening, watching the cat knead her claws into an old towel.
βShe tolerates me.β
βNo.β He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on Vhagar. βShe likes you. Sheβs particular. She doesnβt tolerate anyone she doesnβt like. She bit my brother once. Drew blood.β
βWhat did your brother do?β
βBreathed too loudly, I think.β
You laughed, Aemond glanced at you, and the expression on his face was something youβd never seen before, open, almost unguarded, his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile that transformed his severe features into startlingly beautiful.
βIβm glad you found her,β he said quietly. βThe cat. Iβm glad you found her.β
βMe too,β you said, and you werenβt entirely sure you were talking about the cat anymore.
Vhagar yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep, indifferent to everything but the warmth of the room and the comfort of her box.
You learned the layout of his penthouse the way you'd once learned the streets of your neighborhood, by heart, by instinct, by the slow accretion of familiarity that turns the unfamiliar into home.
You learned other things, too. That Aemond took his coffee black but would drink tea if you made it. That he read three books a month and annotated them in a spidery, elegant script. That he had a brother he never mentioned and a sister he mentioned only in passing and a mother who called him every Sunday at precisely eleven in the morning, which he answered without fail even if he was in the middle of a sentence. That his left eye, the one always covered, the one the scar bisected, was a wound he carried with him everywhere, a quiet grief he never spoke about directly but that shaped the way he moved through rooms, always keeping his right side to the door.
You learned about Alys by accident.
It was a Saturday in late March, the kind of day that pretends to be spring but still bites with winter's teeth, and you had arrived at the penthouse to find Aemond already pulling on his coat.
"Something's come up," he said, and his voice had that clipped quality it got when he was trying not to show frustration. "I have to go out of town. I'll be back Monday."
"Okay," you said, hanging your own coat on the hook he'd cleared for you weeks ago. "Do you want me to come back then, or..."
"No." He paused, his hands stilling on his scarf. "I was hoping you could stay with Vhagar. She getsβ¦unsettled when I'm gone too long."
The last time he'd gone out of town, a business trip to Westerlands, three days, he'd called you twice a day with updates on Vhagar's mood and appetite. You hadn't minded. The money was good, and honestly, you'd grown fond of the old cat's cranky companionship.
"Sure," you said. "Where are you going?"
"Riverlands."
You waited for elaboration. None came.
"That'sβ¦specific."
He didn't meet your eyes. "Alys lives there. She doesn't like the city."
The name landed in your chest like a stone hurled. Alys. A woman's name, spoken with a familiarity that suggested it had been in his mouth many times before. You realized, with a strange hollow feeling, that he'd never mentioned her. Not once. In all those afternoons and evenings and Sunday walks, he'd never said a word about a girlfriend waiting for him in some small town hours away.
"I didn't know you were seeing someone," you said, and you were proud of how neutral your voice came out.
"It's complicated." He adjusted his scarf, still not looking at you. "We've been together for a while. She prefers her independence. I preferβ¦" He trailed off, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "It works."
"Right," you said. "Well. Go. Vhagar and I will be fine."
He finally looked at you then, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Thank you," he said, and left.
The penthouse felt different without him. Larger, certainly, all those minimalist rooms spreading out around you like a museum after hours. But also quieter in a way that felt less peaceful and more hollow. Vhagar seemed to sense it too; she followed you from room to room with more persistence than usual, her ragged meow punctuating the silence.
You did what you always did when you were catsitting: you sat on the heated floor with Vhagar in your lap, you watched your shows that Aemond pretended to disdain but always ended up commenting on, you ate from the refrigerator that his private chef kept stocked with things you couldn't pronounce. But your mind kept circling back to the name. Alys. The way he'd said it: flat, contained, like a fact he'd long since stopped examining.
On Sunday morning, the house phone rang at half past eleven. You let it ring. The answering machine beeped. A woman's voice which you assumed belonged to his mother, given the time, came through:
Aemond, I've spoken with the surgeon. He has an opening in April. Answer your phone.
Surgeon. April. Cold settled in your stomach.
When Aemond returned on Monday evening, he looked tired in a way that went beyond travel fatigue. His coat was rumpled, his hair escaping its usual careful restraint, his mouth set in a thin line that softened only slightly when Vhagar waddled over to greet him.
"Good trip?" you asked, gathering your things.
"Fine."
"How's Alys?"
The pause was a beat too long. "Fine."
"She must be something," you said carefully, "to keep you driving hours every time you have a free weekend."
He didn't take the bait. He just bent down to scratch Vhagar's chin, his expression shuttered. "She's very busy. Her practice takes up most of her time."
"Practice?"
"Traditional medicine. Herbalism. Holistic healing." He said it without irony, without skepticism, as if a woman who made her living selling tinctures and salves was the most natural thing in the world for a man with multiple advanced degrees and a vice presidency at a multinational corporation. "She's very skilled."
"I'm sure she is," you said, and left before you could say something you'd regret.
After that, you started noticing things.
The way Aemond's phone would buzz and he'd check it immediately, his expression flickering. The way he'd disappear into his study for hours, his voice a low murmur behind the closed door, emerging with that same tired look he'd worn coming back from Riverlands. The way he never texted Alys, or if he did, she never texted back, because every communication seemed to require a phone call, a ritual, a set-aside block of time he guarded fiercely.
"She doesn't like texting," he explained once, when you'd commented on the absurdity of him scheduling a two-hour call in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. "She finds it impersonal."
You thought about the string of unanswered texts on your own phone: friends from college, coworkers, the guy you'd gone on two dates with last month before he'd ghosted you, and wondered what it would be like to have someone so devoted to you that they'd carve out hours of their day just to hear your voice, while you couldn't be bothered to send a single line of text back.
"She must be very special," you said.
"She is." But he said it the way someone might recite a fact they'd memorized rather than a truth they felt in their bones.
The pieces assembled themselves slowly over weeks. Alys was older than him. Alys had a practice in a small town hours from the city. Alys refused to move, refused to visit, refused to integrate herself into his life in any way that required effort on her part. Alys gave him just enough to keep him coming back: a phone call, a weekend, a jar of something homemade that he'd place on his kitchen counter and stare at with an expression that made your chest ache.
He was too smart for this. That was the thing that got you, the thing that lodged under your ribs like a splinter. Aemond Targaryen, with his degrees and his four languages and his portfolio of accomplishments that would have been impressive for a man twice his age, was being strung along by someone who couldn't even be bothered to answer a text message. And he accepted it. He accepted it like it was all he deserved, like affection was a currency that could only be earned through suffering, like love was something you had to bleed for. You suspected he was taught to fish out flirts and gold diggers easily, but he hadn't been taught to examine his emotinal needs.
You saw it in the way he was with Vhagar, too. The cat tolerated him at best: she allowed his attention, accepted his offerings of caviar and quail eggs, but rarely sought him out the way she sought you. And yet he adored her. He planned his schedule around her meals. He commissioned custom furniture for her comfort. He spoke about her like she was a revered ancestor, which, in his family, she practically was.
And you. You, who had been hired as a catsitter and somehow become something more: a fixture in his home, a recipient of his cooking, his concern and his increasingly frequent glances that lingered just a moment too long. You, who he'd started looking at like you were precious, unexpected, something he hadn't known he was allowed to want.
The pattern was right there, written in the architecture of his life: Aemond Targaryen attached himself to people who barely tolerated him, and he called it love because he didn't know what else to call it.
The call came on a Thursday in late April.
"I need you to take Vhagar," Aemond said, his voice strained in a way you'd never heard before. "For several days. A week, maybe. Can you do that?"
You were at work, hunched over your desk with a spreadsheet blurring in front of your eyes. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I just...I have a procedure tomorrow, and I won't be able to care for her."
"Procedure?" Your stomach dropped. "What kind of procedure?"
A pause. You could hear him breathing, slow and controlled, the way he breathed when he was trying to keep himself together. "My eye. My mother found a surgeon. Another one. He thinks there's a chance."
The word another hit you like a punch. How many surgeries had there been? How many times had he gone under the knife, hoping for something that never came?
"I'll come to pick her up," you asnwered.
When you arrived at the penthouse, the doorman let you up without question, you were on the permanent access list now, a fact that still felt surreal every time you thought about it, and Aemond was waiting at the door.
He looked terrible.
His face was pale. His left eye, the one that was always covered, was visible now, hair finally brushed back. He was holding himself very still, very straight, the posture of someone who had learned long ago to carry pain without showing it.
"Before you say anything," he said, "I'm fine."
"You're having surgery."
"Another surgery. They're all the same." He stepped aside to let you in. "My mother is optimistic. She's always optimistic. The surgeon says there's a thirty percent chance of partial vision restoration, which means there's a seventy percent chance of nothing at all. I've made my peace with it. She hasn't."
You followed him into the living room, where Vhagar was sprawled in her cardboard box, a new one, large and rectangular, with a towel that had been arranged just so. She blinked at you slowly and didn't get up.
"When is it?" you asked.
"Tomorrow morning. Early. I have a car picking me up at five."
"You're going alone?"
The question seemed to confuse him. "Yes. Who else would go with me?"
You thought about Alys, somewhere in Riverlands, mixing her herbs and ignoring her phone. You thought about his mother, who had arranged the surgery but apparently not her schedule to be there for it. You thought about his siblings, who he never spoke about.
"I could go with you," you said, before you could stop yourself.
Surprise flickered across his face. "That's not necessary. You're here for Vhagar."
"Vhagar can come. She's a cat. She'll sleep through the whole thing."
"Vhagar in a hospital waiting room?"
"Fine, not in the waiting room. But I can still go. You shouldn't be alone."
He looked at you for a long moment, his good eye searching your face. "Why?" he asked finally. The question sounded genuine, as if he truly couldn't fathom why anyone would offer him comfort without being asked.
"Because that's what people do," you said. "They show up for each other."
"Ah." He turned away, busying himself with a stack of papers on the kitchen counter. "I appreciate the offer. Truly. But I've been doing this alone for a long time. I know how to handle my own treatment. Take Vhagar. I'll call you when I'm home."
You took Vhagar. You packed her into her carrier, which was, of course, custom-made leather with a monogrammed cushion, and you carried her down to the lobby and out to the street, and you stood there on the sidewalk for a full minute before you turned around and went back inside.
Aemond was still in the kitchen when you walked back in, Vhagar's carrier swinging from your hand. He looked up, his expression shifting from surprise to confusion to what that looked almost like relief before he shut it down.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm staying," you set the carrier down and opened it. Vhagar emerged with an indignant yowl and immediately headed for her cardboard box. "You shouldn't be alone, and I'm not letting you send me home just because you're too stubborn to admit you need help."
"The guest room is made up," he said, his voice was very quiet.
"Good. I'm ordering takeout. What do you want?"
"I have a list of approved restaurants in the drawer."
"Of course you do."
The surgery happened. You didn't go with him, he insisted, and you could tell it was important to him, this one last bastion of self-sufficiency, but you were there when he came back, pale and shaking and trying very hard to pretend he wasn't. The bandage was fresh, the swelling worse, and he walked through the door like a soldier returning from a battle he'd already known he would lose.
"Thirty percent," he said, lowering himself onto the couch carefully. "We'll know in a few weeks."
"The guest room is very nice," you said. "Also I made breakfast."
"You made breakfast?"
"Don't sound so surprised. I can cook some things. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. The basics."
He ate the eggs and the toast. He drank the coffee. Then he fell asleep on the couch, his head tilted back against the cushions, his bandaged eye turned toward the ceiling, and you covered him with a blanket and sat in the armchair across from him and watched the afternoon light move across his face.
Vhagar jumped onto his lap and settled there, a warm gray weight, he didn't wake up.
You stayed longer. Aemond was supposed to be resting, but resting turned out to mean pacing the penthouse at odd hours, staring out the windows, picking at the meals you ordered from his list of approved restaurants because apparently your culinary skills didn't extend past breakfast.
"I can make pasta," you offered on the third day, when he was eyeing a container of takeout Thai with the expression of someone who had eaten too much takeout Thai. "It won't be good pasta, but it'll be pasta."
"I don't trust your definition of pasta."
"It comes from a box. You boil it. You put sauce on it."
"Sauce from a jar?"
"Sauce from a jar," you confirmed.
He looked genuinely pained. "Order from the place on 57th. The one with the green awning. They know my order."
"Of course they do."
That evening, as you were eating pasta that had definitely never seen the inside of a jar, you decided to ask the question that had been sitting in your throat for days.
"Does Alys know you had surgery?"
Aemond's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "I mentioned it."
"You mentioned it."
"We talked last night. She's sending a jar of her salve. For the inflammation." He said it matter-of-factly, as if this were a perfectly normal response to your partner undergoing eye surgery. "She says it's very effective. Arnica, mostly, with some other herbs. She grows them herself."
"She's not coming to visit?"
He set his fork down. "She doesn't like the city. I told you."
"She doesn't like the city enough to visit her boyfriend after surgery?"
"It's not that simple."
"It seems pretty simple from where I'm sitting."
His jaw tightened, the familiar muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Alys isβ¦she's not like other people. She has her own life, her own practice, her own way of doing things. I knew that when we started this. I accepted it."
"What does she accept about you?"
The question landed harder than you'd intended. His good eye fixed on your face, sharp and suddenly very violet, and for a moment you thought he was going to snap at you, tell you to leave, remind you that you were just the catsitter and this was none of your business.
Instead, he muttered, "I don't know."
You ate in silence after that. Vhagar, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, climbed onto the table and tried to stick her face in Aemond's pasta, and he let her.
At three in the morning, you found him in the living room, sitting in the dark with Vhagar in his lap and the lights of the city spread out below him like a carpet of stars. His bandage glowed white in the dimness, he didn't turn when you came in, just kept staring out the window with an expression that made something twist painfully in your chest.
"Can't sleep?" you asked, settling into the armchair beside him.
"The pain medication wears off around two. I'm used to it."
"That's not what I asked."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I keep thinking about what you said. At dinner."
"I said a lot of things at dinner."
"About what she accepts." He turned to look at you, even in the darkness, even with half his face covered in gauze, the intensity of his gaze made it hard to breathe. "I don't think she accepts anything about me. I think she tolerates me. And I've spent so long thinking that was the same thing."
"It's not," you said.
"No. It's not." He looked back out the window. "Vhagar tolerates me. But she chose you. When she ran away, she found you, and she stayed. She doesn't do that for anyone."
"She stayed for the hot dogs."
"She stayed for you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I think I understand why now."
Vhagar purred in his lap. The distance between your chair and the couch felt impossibly vast and impossibly small all at once, a gap that could be crossed in two steps or two years depending on whether either of you had the courage to move.
"She's not coming," Aemond said. "Alys. She's not coming, and I don't think I mind as much as I should."
"How do you feel about it?"
He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, scraped raw, the voice of someone admitting the truth against his will.
"Relieved," he said. "I feel relieved."
You sat in silence, keeping him company in the small hours of the morning until the sky began to pale and Vhagar yawned and stretched and demanded her breakfast.
Part 2: see here
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to this series' taglist.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
summary: They're in love with their sisters; it's a shame their sisters don't feel the same way at all, but when has that ever stopped them?
pairing: Dark!Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Reader, Dark!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader, Dark!Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!Reader, Dark!Viserys III Targaryen x Fem!Reader.
warning: Incest (typical of the canon), sexual content, possessive attitudes, toxic relationships, forced kiss, forced marriage, attempted rape and rape (Viserys), infidelity, physical violence, abuse, mentions of murder, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of children, threats against babies, alcohol.
I've had this in drafts since January 29th of last year, I'm a mess :'b (I wanted to add Aegon II, Maegor, and Aerion but I got lazy)
I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors; English isn't my first language and I'm very tired. Even so, I hope you like it, xoxo
Daemon Targaryen
Daemon and you had always been very close, you were born just a year after him, the small age difference along with the fact that you were both cunning and reckless brought you together a lot, even more than with your brother Viserys.
As you grew up you became closer and spent all the time you could together; you shared all the important moments together, you were each other's first everything, first kiss, first love, you two even lost your virginity together which made a feeling of entitlement and possession grow in your brother's heart.
Daemon even asked Queen Alysanne to marry you to him but she refused claiming that you two would be too much trouble together and instead engaged him to Lady Rhea Royce which infuriated Daemon to the core.
That same night he came to your chambers and asked you two to take your dragons and go together to Essos, but you rejected him telling him that although you loved him deeply it was not romantic, just like Viserys you loved Daemon as a brother even if you two shared intimate moments frequently.
Daemon let out a dry laugh at your words, so you only love him as a brother, huh? Well he's not going to accept that, fuck no. But he'll play it smart as always. He pretends that everything is fine and that he accepts what you said but in his mind he's already creating a plan for you to stay with him whether you like it or not.
When there was only a week left for Daemon to be forced to marry Rhea Royce, he came to your chambers with wine and proposed to toast with it for his last week as a free man; of course you accepted how could you not? You would never refuse to drink good wine and spend time with your handsome brother; As the alcohol took effect in your system you grew bolder and things between you and Daemon heated up pretty quickly.
Before you knew it you were already face down on the mattress with Daemon on top of you both stripped of their clothes as he fucked you from behind with vigor, one of his calloused hands placed firmly on your hip while the other painfully pulled at your white hair so similar to his own, the sound of wet slaps filling the room accompanied by your pitiful moans and Daemon's labored breathing.
βBy the gods! What do you two think you're doing?!β
You turn your head when the door is suddenly opened by two royal guards and your grandmother Alysanne appears accompanied by some maids. The queen looks horrified and the maids cover their mouths in shock. You try to move away from Daemon but he pushes your head down, your cheek pressed into the mattress. He leans forward, still moving his hips, and you feel his hot breath on your ear.
βWhere are you going, sister? Let them see when I put my child inside you. Romantic, don't you think?β
After that, everything happens in a blur: your grandparents' scolding and drinking moon tea. Despite the queen's best attempts to conceal what happened, the rumor spreads like wildfire. You end up having to marry Daemon to maintain your honor and avoid further dishonor. Daemon never stops smiling arrogantly; he thoroughly enjoys the marriage ceremony. He had made the right decision in bribing the maid to summon the queen and spread the rumor among the commoners. Now everything was in place.
Aemond Targaryen
It was no secret to anyone that Aemond had always felt a deep affection for you, his beloved older sister who always defended him from the cruel mockery of Aegon and his nephews; and comforted him when he felt sad for not having a dragon.
He had always been sweet to you, following you closely and going with you everywhere literally glued to your hip, but that didn't bother you, you just found it cute; but everything changed on the tragic night when he lost his eye and claimed Vhagar, the fact increased his confidence and gave him a delicious feeling of power; he was no longer inferior now he was also a dragon rider and not just any dragon, the greatest dragon.
When Aemond grew up he became someone much colder and reserved but his possessiveness with you had only increased to an exorbitant level, his terrifying aura scared away all your possible suitors since he always lurked around you which worried your mother Queen Alicent who disapproved of your brother's behavior.
Your mother, alarmed by Aemond's attitude, decided that the best thing would be to send you to Oldtown where you would be under the care of your maternal home, House Hightower; in addition to that you could spend time with your younger brother Daeron whom you had not seen for years, although you usually send letters from time to time.
When Aemond found out about your mother's plans he felt betrayed and a cold anger ran through him; he decided that it was his time to take charge of the situation, this is his time; it is time to take his destined place as king of the seven kingdoms with you at his side; His plan began during the ambush when he killed Rhaenys and attacked Aegon, leaving him gravely wounded and close to death.
When he returned to the Red Keep he announced the events to the shocked council; as expected they ended up choosing him as the new regent given Aegon's precarious condition; Aemond's first decision was to take you as his wife; your mother and the members of the council did not agree but he stood firm.
βUhm, my duty now as regent is to produce an heir to solidify our claim on the throne since Jaehaerys is dead.β
βEh... yes of course my prince regent... but it would be best if you and the princess married some lady and lord from other important houses... to have more allies in this war and-β
βAnd if we need more alliances Daeron and even Helaena can marry and if that doesn't work, then I will go to Vhagar myself to convince them; but I will not marry someone who would stain the blood of my children.β
Jacaerys Velaryon
Jacaerys couldn't understand why you didn't love him. He'd always thought you two were made for each other, simply perfect together. It broke his heart that you didn't think the same. The worst part was that it wasn't even because he was your brother or because you didn't find him attractive. No. It was because you were in love with another man, a pathetic nobleman from some random house who could never give you a life like the one you were used to.
You were too spoiled and unruly, too fiery. You need someone with dragon blood to tame you and keep you entertained, to keep up with you and make you happy. Furthermore, the man you chose wasn't the most faithful in the kingdom. Jace had seen the "love of your life" staring at her breasts and flirting with every woman who approached him. Every time Jace saw that, he clenched his fists tightly, his nails digging into his palms almost drawing blood, and he resisted the urge to hit him for having the audacity to look at other women when a goddess like you was by his side.
Patience is key. He had never been impulsive or hasty. He had to devise a plan to completely remove this man from your life and your heart, but first he let you spend time with him, let you fall deeply in love, so that his betrayal would enrage you even more, hurt you more, even though he hated seeing you sad or upset, you would run into his arms as soon as you felt that way, and he knew that your pride wouldn't allow you to forgive your "beloved" no matter how much you loved him.
One day, when he overheard them both talking about marriage and children, he knew it was time to act. He couldn't allow you to marry someone like that man, much less have his children. No, no. He went to the trouble of going to the Silk Streets and finding a prostitute to pretend to be a foreign noblewoman and seduce your beloved lover. His master plan unfolded perfectly during one of the banquets. The woman approached your lover and got him drunk. She took him out of the hall and led him to the agreed-upon room. Then he sent a maid to bring you to that room so you could witness him having sex with the woman
Your shock lasted only a second. Handmaids had to restrain you before you furiously approached the source of your anger, hurling all sorts of insults at them and swearing you would throw them both to your dragon to be devoured. They took you to your chambers before you could cause a bigger scene. When he went to see you, he found you crying, cursing your former lover and yourself. Jace couldn't bear to see you like this and came to you, enveloping you in a warm embrace and allowing you to cry on his chest while he gently stroked your hair and spoke to you softly.
βShhh, don't cry, sweet sister. That man doesn't deserve your tears, much less your love and affection... he could never have loved you as you deserve.β
You pull away from him and look at him with teary eyes. He dries your tears with his thumb and leans in, gently kissing your lips. When you don't pull away, he takes it as approval. He puts his hand in your hair and tilts your head to deepen the kiss. His warm tongue explores the wet cavern of your mouth. His other hand travels to the back of your corset. His fingers pull the lace, loosening the knot and the bodice. He breaks the kiss. You both breathe heavily. His swollen lips travel to your neck, leaving wet kisses before moving up to murmur in your ear.
βI promise to make you the happiest woman in the seven kingdoms, you and our future children, just... don't ever push me away again, sweet sister.β
Viserys Targaryen
At first, you didn't mind spending time with your older brother Viserys. As children, he was charming and a good brother to you. But when you were forced to flee King's Landing, far from everything you knew, and with your mother's death, he began to change. He became more resentful, paranoid, and cruel.
As time passed, his hatred for the Lannisters and the Baratheons grew, as did his lust for power and his desire for the throne... and for you. Since you were children, Viserys had made it clear that you were his and that one day he would kill the traitorous pigs who betrayed his family, take the throne, and you would be by his side as his queen and wife, the mother of his children.
Viserys became jealous easily when your attention was given to others other than him. He had struck Daenerys countless times for "stealing" your attention and threatened to strike you as well when you tried to defend her. Even though the three of you had your own rooms in Pentos, he often insisted on sharing your bed. He liked to touch you without permission, though he never went very far thanks to Illyrio, who kept him in check. Although Viserys hated him, he couldn't risk offending his host; it infuriated him that you rejected his "love" and sought Illyrio's protection.
When Daenerys was betrothed to Khal Drogo with the promise of an army, you comforted your frightened younger sister and tried to convince Viserys not to do it, that Dany was just a child and that you would take her place if he wanted someone to marry Drogo. Your words only enraged him, and he slapped you so hard your lip split and you stumbled backward. He gripped your jaw tightly, forcing you to look into his furious eyes, his fingers digging painfully into your cheeks.
βYou want to spread your legs so much for someone that you don't even care about doing it for a savage? If you have such a desire, sister, then I'll do it.β
Your brother grabbed your hair tightly, dragging you to the center of the room and pushing you onto the bed. You tried to escape, but he grabbed your ankle tightly, pulling you to the edge of the bed and roughly positioning himself between your legs. Your silky dress rode up your thighs because of the struggle. He held you tightly with one hand and with the other untied the drawstring of his pants. You swallowed hard when he freed his long, pale, erect member adorned with white hair at the base. That was one of the most painful nights of your life; you could never forget it even if you wanted to.
Shortly after that, your sister married Khal Drogo. You were forced to endure it and stay by your brother's side at all times. Viserys spent his time complaining about the "wildlings" who didn't respect him. You had to share a tent with him, bathe him, and be intimate with him. Even though Dany told you that you could have your own tent, you refused. You didn't want her to know what happened between you and Viserys; it was... shameful. Viserys had threatened to tell everyone if you didn't obey him.
In the end, you revealed the truth when the furious Viserys stormed into Khal Drogo's tent and threatened Dany and her unborn child. Even though your brother was an idiot, you didn't want him to die. When they restrained him, you ended up begging and pleading with them not to kill the father of your child. With Dany's help (thanks to her affection for you), the Khal decided to let Viserys go, but not before a beating. You had to tend to his wounds while he insulted and berated you.
βDamn savages, all of them! When I'm king, I'll have them all beheaded and their heads mounted on pikes for this! And you... how dare you beg another man?! When did I ask for your help?! You're lucky to have my child inside you... otherwise... I'd make you regret it.β
