daeron targaryen x reader; Daeron meets someone in the north who is worth abandoning everything for
(warnings: erotic content, religious issues, paganism)
It was worth sneaking out in the middle of the night. It was worth freezing and shivering. Because the views were absolutely incredible. The middle of the forest, the middle of the night, and he was sitting on a fallen tree, drinking mead, and watching.
Among the trees, around a fire, people were having fun. It was some kind of festival. A northern, pagan festival. Daeron didn't focus on the details people were telling him. Yesterday at Winterfell Castle, people in the inns where he drank along the way. Daeron knew the North was a completely different place. But knowing and seeing were two entirely different things. The Old Gods were something… that simply was. They still worshiped them in the North, Daeron didn't know more. He had no need to investigate. Daeron wasn't overly religious. Until he reached the North. Here, the air was full of something old. Every creak of the trees sounded like words. His dreams and visions… were peaceful.
A festival. People celebrated, dancing around a large bonfire, strolling in smaller groups with torches. Children ran among the adults, their faces smeared with dough, young people danced around the fire to the beat of a drum, and the air smelled of honey.
Daeron couldn't take his eyes off one person in particular. The boy, a young man. He danced between the fire, between the flecks of fire floating in the air. His body seemed to vibrate. Daeron couldn't take his eyes off him. Their gazes caught every now and then. Neither Daeron nor the boy looked away. The boy's eyes were looking straight at him, and each time, a small, teasing, mischievous smile played on his lips. Daeron had the feeling the boy was calling him, wanting him to join him.
"You like the boy, eh? I see you're watching him." The old woman—Helga—sat down next to him with a groan. He'd met her a few hours ago. She's crazy, in a good way; she gave him honey and sweet cakes.
"Am I that obvious?"
Helga laughed loudly. "Boy, you're looking at him like you want to devour him. Why don't you go to him?" She asked more seriously. "It's the North, the Old Gods don't tell us anything about who can be with whom, you know."
Daeron felt his cheeks flush. He wanted to tell her he couldn't because he was a prince. But he stopped himself. He realized something. No one knew. No one recognized him. Who he was. He could… do whatever he wanted.
He stood up, dizzy from the mead, and walked straight toward the fire and the dancing young people. He was there. He was laughing, and Daeron felt drawn to his loud laughter, the sparks of fire reflecting in his eyes. The boy took a few steps back and bumped into him. He turned, and when he saw Daeron, he smiled.
"Will you finally dance with me? I thought you'd never guess."
Daeron just smiled. And the dance began. "What's your name?" Daeron asks, carefully placing his hands on the boy's hips.
"[Name], and yours?"
Daeron doesn't know what to say. "Ron," he finally says. He's lying. His name is so distinctive that [Name] can immediately guess who he is. And Daeron doesn't want that.
He had the freedom he dreamed of, for the first time, in the far north.
The forest wasn't as dark and gloomy as he'd imagined. It's night, but the moon shines brightly in the sky. The snowy white snow still lingering in the woods makes the forest less dark. He can see [Name]'s face clearly, so the rest doesn't matter.
The silence of the forest is shattered by their rapid breathing. The boy's moans sound in the stillness of the night like the thunder of a mighty storm. [Name] moans as Daeron makes love to him under the tree. The boy's legs wrap around his waist, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. Daeron can kiss and nibble his neck.
They have sex. In the middle of the forest, under a pine tree, snow falls on their heads, icy water running down their backs, mixing with hot sweat. [Name] breathes in his ear as Daeron moves inside him, teasing that sweet spot, and the boy's back arches beautifully.
He won't last long, he thinks; and he comes a few minutes later. [Name]'s nails scratch the back of his neck, stifling a loud groan.
"Why did you do that?" He murmurs, leaning his head against [Name's] shoulder. "I wanted to hear you."
He feels [Name]'s body tremble. He laughs. "Nothing's lost. We can go to my place… for the rest of the night."
Daeron has never agreed to anything so quickly.
It turns out that [Name] lives alone near the forest, on the outskirts of a fairly large village, a little over an hour's drive from Winterfell. He tends to chickens, ducks, a few goats and sheep, and a horse – which they're currently riding on. A young mare, bought with the money he earned. I'am nothing special, he tells Daeron as they ride through dark fields and meadows.
Daeron doesn't remember much of that night. He spent it in [Name's] warm, fur-lined bed, drawing from him the most beautiful moans he's ever heard. He feels like he's in another life. As if Prince Daeron didn't exist. There's only Daeron, Ron, and he's with [Name].
In the morning, he has to leave, but he returns. He sees [Name], spends his days helping [Name]. At night, he sleeps. The nightmares are there, but they've never been so… faint. As if his soul has finally found peace. They make love, tenderly and gently, only to do it quickly and hard the next night. Daeron, with a strange, empty feeling, has no memory of what it was like to live in a castle.
The thought of returning is painful. His family's sojourn in the north is inevitably coming to an end. Preparations are slowly being made to return to King's Landing and Summerhall. He can feel his heart beating frantically as he thinks about returning.
The sun is setting, the day is already gray. The last rays of sunlight have long since disappeared, and it's growing colder. Daeron sits by the henhouse, on a wooden bench, tossing grain to the chickens and ducks. He watches a colorful rooster and a few new hens fight for wheat. Beyond the fence, a mare lazily nibbles hay. Slowly, everything is getting ready for bed.
In two days, they will leave Winterfell. In two days, he will leave [Name] and perhaps never return. He feels a hole in his heart.
"You don't look well… Is something troubling you?" [Name] sits down beside him. "You can tell me, maybe it will make you feel better. Maybe I can even help."
Daeron sighs softly. "I'm just thinking… What should I do?"
"What do you mean?"
"I came to the North, for a while… but I don't know if I want to go back south."
He falls silent, thinking about what he's said. Does he want to go back? To the judgmental glances, to the nightmares, the disappointment in his father's eyes. Being a prince.
"Can't you stay? If you don't want to go back, then stay," [Name] finally says. His voice is a whisper. Daeron can barely hear him. His heart beats harder, like a bell in a tower. [Name]'s hand finds his, and the boy clenches his fingers.
"What? How can I… I have… nothing."
[Name] clenches his fingers. He clasps their hands together. "Just stay with me. If you want to stay in the North, then… stay with me. I… like you."
Daeron feels his breath catch in his lungs. He slowly turns his head. [Name] looks at him, eyes wide. Daeron knows, feels, that I like you, but that might not be quite what the boy wanted to say. But… he sees what's left unsaid. Wide eyes. Red lip from biting. A longing gaze, full of hope.
For years, Daeron had wondered if the letter he'd left his father would be enough. He felt nothing as he watched the royal procession from the forest. His father with a blank expression. His uncle and cousin, smiling, chatting. Aerion with an angry expression… As if Daeron had never existed in their lives. Only Maekar's hands clenched on the reins, that was the only sign.
He didn't have the courage to tell his father. Even years later, he hadn't changed his mind. The letter had been the best option. He left it. He'd written the truth. He'd fallen in love. He'd stay. He'd live… somewhere in the north. He hadn't lied, he simply hadn't told the whole truth.
Sometimes while working, he wondered if he'd ever see his father and brothers again. He never regretted it either.
Perhaps his father found his choice incomprehensible. Maekar would never understand. How he could have chosen the life he wanted over being a prince. How he could have chosen a simple cottage over a castle.
And as Daeron watched [Name] all these years, no matter what he did. Carrying water from the well, chopping sticks and wood for the fireplace, gathering fruit from their small orchard… whatever he did, Daeron never regretted it.
This text was NOT created using AI.Therefore, the text may contain linguistic, grammatical and typographical errors. English is not my first language. If you notice anything in the text, please let me know :)
my hc is that when Maekar was 9, the royal barber gave him the fuckass bob-bowl cut when he asked for bangs like Baelor’s (because he really idolized his big brother and wanted to be like him soooo bad). Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough hair to style and he didn’t have the same texture as Baelor, causing the disaster.
It goes on year after year. Asks for the hawt Dornish blowout, gets stuck with the fucking bowl. Part of the anger and aggression comes from the bowl.
When his betrothal is announced, he asks to be done up before meeting Dyanna for the first time. Bowl.
He wants to die. He wants to jump out the window, Tommen-style. He wants to cut off the royal barber’s hands.
It’s probably Dyanna who gives him a proper haircut once they’re married.
A/N- omg I can’t believe we’re done. This has definitely been a ride and I’m so thankful that you guys stuck with me. Thank you and I appreciate and love every single one of you!!
Warning- Spoilers, some fluff, talks of death and grief, dealing with depression, eye color is described as amethyst (that’s all though!) Age gap with Lyonel.
Pairing- Daeron Targaryen x Targaryen!Fem-reader, Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!Fem-reader
(Let me know if you want to be tagged)
————
*DAWN. AEREA*
Snow. It was snowing. It's been twelve long years, and she still remembers the dance of the snowflakes as they fell from the white clouded sky that early morning.
It had started snowing early and suddenly that morning, before the sun even rose, but the cold air that snuck through the windows woke her up and presented her with snow.
A fascinating sight to a three-year-old girl who had never once seen snow but only heard about it until that day. The day after her mother's coronation. And it was that awe. That innocent fascination that forbade her from thinking of the falling snow in the middle of the summer as anything but a bad thing.
Summer snows are common in the North, but never so far south, so it should’ve been a sign, but she was only a naive child who had lived life completely cluelessly until that very day. The day her mother went missing.
Usually before breaking fast her day began with greeting her parents and then breaking fast together. Afterwards, she was taken from one lesson to another to keep her busy and learning what a three-year-old can comprehend, but that day she was barred in her chambers to suffer in a dreadful boredom that no amount of begging could save her from. She tried begging for her mother and grandfather, but she was met with, “We have to stay inside today. We’re forbidden from going out.”.
The sun never came out that day, she remembers so it was impossible for a child like herself to tell how much time had passed. All she knew was the constant prayer the caretaker kept whispering under her breath. One was for the snow to stop which was ridiculous for her to comprehend, it was snowing! It should’ve brought the caretaker joy just like it brought Aerea joy, but she prayed for it to go away. It’s a bad omen, she remembers the caretaker saying.
She never questioned why, she was too upset to question her, but she said it and in the end, she was right.
The snow clouds had reached the Reach, the land where most of the food came from, and burned the crops, leading to a food shortage later that year. The snow also killed some livestock because it kept falling and the south was unprepared and unaccustomed. It was as if they were being punished. Or at least that's what was said and she never thought of it as silly as she got older because she agreed, maybe they were being punished for never accepting…
Well, whatever it was, the snow sent the realm into a chaos that lasted for a couple of years and changed something interchangeable too.
The once vibrant colors that painted the earth grew duller since the day the snow fell and the summers grew shorter, so again she thought it was punishment.
Or at least, a part of her did because if she accepted that it was punishment then it would be like accepting that…you were gone. Not just from Westeros, but from this plane, and she doesn't want to believe that you're dead, that you were killed for simply being a woman. It’s easier to believe that you left. You took what happened to you that night as an advantage and left. There was no body after all.
People dug and dug in the snow and all they found was blood on the stone ground where you should have fallen.
Of course, Aerea doesn't remember seeing that. She was not allowed to, but she had heard it and later it was her grandfather, Maekar who told her that he tried. He tried with everyone else to look for you, but you were not to be found anywhere in the grounds of the Red Keep or in King's Landing. It’s like you disappeared into thin air from the balcony where they had found your crown, leaving nothing but memories and chaos. Pain and grief. Confusion and wander. No legacy.
They never wanted to remember you as legendary for being Queen. They mocked you for being Queen for a day, but it died off quickly because they never wanted to remember that a woman had ruled them, if even for a day.
Thus, you live only in the hearts and minds of those that you touched, but then again, those will never be eternal. You’ll be erased completely one day. Everything you were will be erased and it will be like you never existed. One day, but not now, and you especially weren’t forgotten then.
Amongst her confusion about your whereabouts, there was also fear. Not for your life, but for her father, Daeron. She remembers the day of your funeral clearly too. She was cursed with having something within her awaken and making aware, so she remembers standing between Aegon and Maekar, watching the same crowd that had been there for your coronation surround the empty wooden pyre. After all, what could it hold when your body was nowhere to be found?
Maybe that’s why she wasn’t sad that day or the days that followed because there was no one to burn. The council and the high lords had pronounced you dead after a couple of weeks of searching for you and coming out empty-handed. It was easier to claim that so everyone can move on and not get stuck on a long exhausting search. Some people were probably also eager to claim that you had died so they could put a “real ruler” on the throne, but had they forgotten about those whose lives they affected by claiming such a travesty?
Her life had yet to be touched, but what about Daeron?
She remembers seeing him those weeks that all the guards from the castle, and all the lords and their men were searching for you; he was hopeful and helpful, eager to go here and there. He searched places that his father never knew existed and places you liked to visit before you became heir. He was like she had never seen him before.
However, then came the day they stopped searching. No matter how loud he yelled to continue the search, no matter how angry he got, they didn't want to search anymore so you were declared and he was gone.
Aerea had even thought that he had left with you, that’s how long he was gone for, but then the day of the funeral came, and just before they could light the empty pyre he came stumbling in with a bottle in his hand, his clothes wrinkled and stained, his hair unkempt, and fuzz on his face.
The girl of three had been so happy to see him that she left her grandfather's side blissfully, hoping for the comfort he would give her when you were there, but when she hugged his leg it was like she didn’t even exist. He walked past her and then collapsed on the empty pyre as if he wanted to be a part of it.
That’s when her fear set in; when she saw him weeping and trying to climb the wooden pyre like a crazed man. Thus she returned to her grandfather's side and held onto him tightly, gaining the comfort she never got from her father, and feeling protected by his presence when her father started yelling.
“How dare you?!” He shouted as he stumbled off the pyre and snapped around, spilling his wine everywhere. “How dare you move on?! The pyre is empty!”
“Daeron,” Maekar barked as a warning. “Get over here.”
“No!” Daeron snapped and pointed the bottle at him. “How dare you too! We didn’t find her! She can still be out there but all of you are eager to declare her dead and for what? Huh?!” He asked the crowd as he turned to look at everyone. “To put some man who prefers sleeping with books over his own wife? How hypocritical! So I say how dare you! She’s still out there!”
Aerea remembers her heart starting to pound at his nonsense so she did the only thing that felt right and hid behind her grandfather.
“Daeron,” Maekar hissed before he pulled himself away and left the girl to Aegon to hold and hide behind, causing her to barely catch what was transcending. There were bits and pieces until her father was being pulled away by Makaer.
After that, Daeron disappeared for another long while so she was left missing him and you, hoping that someone would come to make her feel better, but you never came to brighten up her room and he…she found him eventually.
He was asleep in his chambers with one of your gowns spread beside him on the bed. It didn’t replace your warmth or your comforting presence, but she still climbed on the bed and lay on the other side to be engulfed with your scent. That's why Daeron was sleeping next to it because when she closed her eyes it was almost like you were there. Almost.
“No I know…” his slurred voice was faint at first as she regained her consciousness after she had fallen asleep.
However, no matter how clear everything became, he didn’t make sense.
“…forgive me. Please. I know your worth now, I won’t forget it anymore.”
“Papa?” She asked hoarsely as she rose up, but he didn’t seem to hear her or if he did he ignored her. He was sitting on the edge of the bed facing the open window and talking to…the chilly wind.
“I love you. Please…” he trailed off and slowly raised his arms to embrace that same cold air, causing the girl to scoot off the bed and walk towards him with fear.
“Papa?” She called again, and finally his tired eyes faced her and his arms came down.
“Your mother is here,” he claimed, but when she looked around there was no one there. She was four then and knew in her mind that something was wrong with him so she just left him alone and with Aegon still there she sought his company and felt much safer with him and the giant he called Ser Dunk.
If only he had stayed she had thought. He didn’t though. He left before Prince Aerys’ coronation and left the little girl to comfort herself when her father claimed he saw you. Which was often and always in front of an open window.
He would say how much he missed you and talk as if nothing was amiss. It was strange and terrifying to a four-year-old so she would leave him to his insanity. After a while, she stopped seeking his company altogether and went to her grandfather, the last person she had left to her, and luckily for her, he had taken it as his responsibility to raise her at Summerhall.
The only hope she had for her father was when he was told that he would remarry. Aerea was older then so she understood much more than a three and four-year-old could. Thus, she understood the travesty it was when guards said they pulled her father down from a balcony just seconds before he could jump.
He never tried to jump again after that and much to his protest, he begrudgingly married Lady Keira.
Aerea doesn't know if he stopped talking to you then. She pretended he didn’t exist when she found out he wanted to jump and leave her without a second thought. He never sought her out either. Was it because she looked like you? Amongst many others, Lord Lyonel says she did.
When Prince Maekar became King, the Lord Baratheon was so in awe of the princess that she feared that the old man was going to ask her to marry him. He didn't and she thanked the gods for that, but he did say that she looked like you.
Did he say that because it’s true or because his mind was clouded by his “feelings” towards you?
Now, Aerea can’t say she believes the rumor that started the day of your coronation when they saw how closely you danced with Lord Baratheon, but people have never let it go and he never made it easy either.
The day they burned your empty funeral pyre he was one of the last ones to leave and unlike everyone else, he laid a Lilly of the Valley amongst the roses that rested by you, so that only fueled the rumors of an affair between him and you while to others it confirmed that what they thought was true beyond a doubt.
Aerea doesn't believe them though. They’re just rumors made by bored people who live off drama, or rumors made by stupid people who say your affair was the reason you died. It was punishment for letting another man in your bed they would say.
She doesn't believe that for a minute because then they’d be punished for doing the same thing and the world would be crawling with fewer imbeciles, but it’s full of them.
A rumor that the young princess did question though was that Lord Lyonel did something to you that made you disappear. Yes, people thought that because the night of your coronation people saw you and him leave the great hall together.
It’s a ridiculous theory to her now, but she had believed it for a moment just like she believed, for a moment, that Daeron, and Maekar also had something to do with your disappearance. After all, they said that they both went after you that night too.
However, if Daeron was at fault he wouldn’t talk to the breeze in his drunken state and say that it was you. And Maekar…wouldn’t be weighed down by more grief.
The shroud of grief lay heavily over him and left him colder each time, so no, he had nothing to do with your disappearance. Just like Daeron and Lyonel didn’t either.
If only Daeron were useful enough to dream it up and know, but he couldn’t even do that. Maekar says it’s his grief, he lost a wife too and even though he was not as broken as Daeron was, he understands that grief, but what grief makes you abandon your daughter for your father and second wife to raise?
That's why to Aerea he’s simply Daeron. Not father, just Daeron. Maekar was more her father to her.
Then again he was almost too frightened to tell her things her parents were supposed to tell her.
“Aerea, I need to speak with you,” Maekar commanded more than he suggested and she knew that well. He had a hand in raising her more closely than he did his own children. Was it because he saw his dead loved ones within her dark eyes? Was it pity? Or was he trying to be like Baelor would be if he were here in his shoes? Because he knew well that his big brother would have immediately taken charge of his sweet daughter's only remaining child had he been here for your death.
So was that it?
Maybe it was all of the above. Whatever it was he felt it was his responsibility to talk to Aerea now like you would’ve, or like he would’ve.
“As you know you are your mother's only remaining child, and with that comes the responsibility of being heir…if that’s what you want,” he gets straight to the point, not knowing that you and Baelor would’ve warmed her up to the topic.
“I know I have not been teaching you and that fault is mine to bear, but if you want, I will make you my heir,” he says and looks to the quiet girl in search of a response, but she gives none. Her dark eyes are set ahead lost in thought.
Had she been one of his sons he would use a sharper tongue to get them to focus, but to be that way with her has never been his instinct, so he continued, knowing that a part of her attention was with him.
“I know the title and responsibility may not be appealing. It will be far from it given that you are—”
“Stop,” she suddenly blurts and finally drifts her attention to him. “I don’t want to hear it. Not from you.”
Maekar looks at her with slight shock before his face contorts. “Excuse me young lady, how dare you?”
“No,” she spats with her eyes glowering like embers. “How dare you?” She sounds just like her father did that day of the funeral, anguished by grief. “How dare you tell me the very words she’s supposed to be here to tell me herself. Or him?!”
Maekar’s own annoyance fades and pity takes hold of him as he looks in the eyes of a heartbroken daughter who cannot yet accept the truth and never mourned the father who once loved her.
“And you think I feel right telling you the dangers you’ll face becoming heir simply because you are a woman? I agree it should be your mother. She suffered through it all while your father watched her and stood by her side through it all. But,” he enunciates to make it clear to her and so she can accept the truth.
“They’re both dead. They cannot rise from the ashes and tell you that themselves.”
Aerea swallows thickly and her thick and dark eyebrows furrow deeper before she grimaces. “He’s dead, but she is not. Why do you always insist on it? And before you try to correct me, I know what I’m saying. I remember the empty pyre you burnt. I remember all of you coming out empty-handed in your search, so I am right to believe what I do and so I say how dare you tell me what she’s supposed to tell me?”
Maekar looks at her perplexed as he’s left speechless. A rare occurrence for him, he knows as does she, but what can he say in return that will make her understand and not get her angrier?
What words of comfort would Baelor tell her? How would he make her accept a truth that would make her hurt less?
Why can't he be here to talk to her? He thinks to himself. He was much better at this.
“Aerea,” he breathes out, pushing aside his frustration and cupping her shoulder. “I know I do not understand the pain your mother went through. I was with her all the time and I could never understand, but I do know what I’m saying, and if you let me I can tell you.”
Aerea’s eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t look like she’s wavering with the decision that reflects in her tormented eyes. “Well, you can save your breath. I don’t want it. They hated my mother and drove her to run away. I don’t want to always look at the faces of hatred and be doomed to repeat my mother's fate.”
“Aerea,” Maekar tries to comfort her and make her think about her decision, but she’s unwavering.
“Please don’t make me. I…am content as I am. I am content with being the wife of some lord who lives miles away from home. I am content with being remembered that way. I don’t want to live what she did, so please don’t make me.”
How could he hear the pain in her voice and force her to become something she despises?
“If that’s what you want then it is okay,” he assures her, making her let out a deep and shaky breath. “I know your mother would say the same thing.”
Beneath her denial, those words reassured her decision and let her stop wondering if she was somehow disrespecting your memory by choosing not to be heir.
“Come, you have thankfully saved me from a long conversation,” he says, making her laugh before she follows at his side.
Once she would have followed behind him like a shadow. She did it so frequently that she was known as Maekar’s little shadow, but now she’s Maekar’s sweet companion. The bliss to his anger. The calm to his agitation. The sun to his moon. The sweet to his sour and may the realm rue the day she is lost to him.
That’s why no one dares to do her any wrong or else they’ll have to face his wrath, and his wrath is a terrifying thing to behold even for an older man.
Do they fear her the same way if harm were done to him? No, but she fears for her own well-being when his day comes to take his last breath.
Daeron died and some part of her was saddened, but it passed quickly due to his lack of presence in her life after your death, but Maekar will be a different tale.
How will she deal with it? She wonders. She relied on him for so much, loved him dearly, and cherished him like she cherished her own life. His words were what she lived by…
Well except when it came to you.
His beliefs didn’t matter when it came to you because she chooses to believe. She’s been told it will drive her mad to live by her belief, but how can she not hold out hope? How can she believe that the greatest tragedy happened to you simply for your sex? Something so incredibly insignificant that it shouldn't have ever defined you.
How could she choose to believe that the lord and ladies who made up this realm were never able to accept you, believe in you, or love you like they love the ruling men who do much less and much worse than you ever did.
Of course, she can never say for herself if you were truly good. She knows only what is told to her, she doesn’t remember life with you as much as she wants to, but Maekar always said that you bore the sun. You were forgiving and sweet and too kind for your own good, so much so that even harming the tiniest of earth's creatures was a great sin to you.
You held so much goodness in every single smile, he said and she chooses to believe that which is why she can’t possibly believe that you were killed. She’s never going to believe that, just like she’s never going to forget you as much as the realm insists on erasing every single trace of you as if it were a great shame being ruled by a woman.
You were the Queen. You were kind. You were her mother, and you’re alive.
She can actually picture you living your life so clearly, and when she dreams sometimes she dreams of the life you’re having far away from all the hate, all the disrespect, and all the pressure.
You live somewhere warm where it also rains a lot so the land around you can be green and lush. You live in a manse amongst the trees where the sounds of nature are what wake you up and what lull you to sleep. You don’t live isolated, but you don’t live by a city either out of fear of being discovered by the people of this realm. You live near a town that you often visit to talk with the townsfolk and get warm fluffy bread. You enjoy the music that plays in their taverns and dance alone or with a brave man who grew the nerve to ask.
After all, Ser Duncan says that you seemed to enjoy dancing from that night you were both in Lord Baratheon's tent. Aerea doesn’t know if it’s a fact, but she likes to think that you enjoy it so she imagines you dancing until you’re out of breath and blanketed by a thin sheet of sweat.
When the night is done and you’re too exhausted to return home you stay at an inn in the town. The owner knows you well so he gives it to you at a discounted price. The catch is that you can’t say that you get such special treatment.
By morning your breakfast is ready and it’s always the same thing you order because the owner doesn’t forget.
You’re never forgotten in that town. They know the other name you live by now, and know what days you’re likely to come and when you’re going to stay home. They know when you’re feeling blue and when you’re feeling particularly gleeful.
They respect you and your wisdom, and respect the secrecy of your past although they know that you are far more than a common-born girl. Your eyes, those amethyst eyes she remembers like the back of her hand are part of the giveaway, but it’s also in the way you speak so properly, the fancy way you carry yourself, the money that never lacks, the gentle way you are with children, and the sorrow you carry and have carried since you got there.
That all tells them pieces of a story that no one will ever put together. Not even the nice and handsome man you met one day when you were adventurous and traveled out to the city.
Yes, in the life Aerea pictures of you, she also sees a very tall and handsome man with a soft dark brown complexion and with dark and warm eyes that melt your heart at first glance.
He was nothing like Daeron was. He isn’t a drunk who leaves for days and comes back dirty and poor. He’s not picture perfect either, he has his past that left a clue in a long scar across his face. He carries his grievances, but you don't judge him for it. You bond over the complicated past and find yourselves tethered together by your similarities and differences. So much so that he, like you, are each other's last love. Neither of you can imagine being with anyone else and you’re both content with that just like you’re content with the secrets you keep locked away, leaving little mysteries to each other that neither of you touch. You’re respectful that way and he is too and it makes Aerea happy that you could find someone so goodhearted and kind. Someone who understands and doesn’t judge.
You deserve it just as much as you deserve that peaceful life, freedom, and a home somewhere so far away and beautiful that you’ll never get tired of painting it. Even if it is far away from her, even if you’ll never meet again, and even though she can never etch your face to memory.
You’ll always be a faceless figure in her mind that she knows she loves and will always miss, but not grieve and say goodbye to. Not until she knows that you’re old and wrinkled and lived a good life because she has to believe that you’re alive and happy.
You’re not forgotten in an unmarked grave. You are alive. You’re not the breeze that brushes over her face. You're not the ache sitting heavy over her heart. You’re not the black and silver dragonfly that lands on her hand. You got away. You’re happy and thriving.
You’re alive and Aerea will always live by that. She will live by that belief no matter what anyone says or believes.
Guys… Cerenna in aktosk au where she literally marries THREE princes of Dragonstone and never becomes queen… Cerenna “Thrice Thwarted” if you will.
Famed beauty Cerenna marries Baelor Breakspear at 18 (Jena didn’t survive the birth of Matarys and Baelor was heartbroken for decades before moving on) but after two years he dies at Ashford and she’s left with nothing— only her widow’s jointure from Baelor and the dreams of being queen… sigh…
So then she marries Valarr and they REALLY get along… they’ve been in love for a long time but Cerenna was his stepmother… so it couldn’t really happen… she even gets pregnant and manages to carry it longer than three months!!! But then Valarr dies in the Spring Sickness epidemic and Cerenna is widowed and heartbroken. She prays and prays and prays for a son… for if she couldn’t be queen, she could at least be the king’s mother… but it’s a girl she names Vaella, after her husband.
Then she manages to sink her hooks into poor Daeron the Drunken. He’s totally in love with her but she can’t bring herself to give a single fuck. So he starts cheating after a while (can’t really keep it in his pants when he can actually get it up, that one)… but they manage to have two more daughters Cerenna names Rhaena and Viserra (Daeron wanted to name Rhaena after his mother instead, but she said no). This marriage lasts A WHILE. But Daeron still catches that pox and dies… so Cerenna gives up and flees to Casterly Rock before Maekar can demand his granddaughters remain with him.
She tries to betrothe Viserra to Duncan the Small, but Egg doesn’t really fuck with Targaryen incest of ANY DEGREE, so it doesn’t work. She does marry Rhaena to Lord Tyrell (which one that one is) and Vaella to Edwyle Stark (Ned’s grandfather)… but Viserra stays with her and eventually ends up marrying some nephew of Cerenna’s named Tytos just to stay close to mama, but he has two elder brothers ahead of him in the line of succession so it’s not like he could become the Lord of Casterly Rock right…
a/n: I need to do a whole masterpost for this at some point but here, lmk your thoughts.
description - a marriage is arranged between the daynes of starfall and house targaryen to strengthen the bond between dorne and westeros. marrying a widow was daunting enough for luciya as this widow was heir to the throne.
Luciya had no idea what to expect. The Targaryens wanted a Dornish bride for the widowed crown prince. Why she was chosen, she never knew. The Crown had sought her hand, an offering of loyalty and protection in flesh and blood, to promote trust between the Dornish and the rest of Westeros.
But she did her duty to her house, to Dorne. She was to wed the man they called Breakspear.
She knew of the crown prince, of course. She was sheltered in Starfall when he led Dornishmen and Westerosi men together in battle. The Daynes had suffered a crisis at Redgrass field. Her father and one uncle had died on the day and soon after.
“You will be Queen one day.” Her lady grandmother, Elia Dayne, Lady of Starfall mused as they walked. through the gardens. She was ageing, her once dark hair now streaked grey, and lines in her sun-kissed skin told stories of a woman who had seen much. A woman who had lost sons and babies. But she was still formidable, still ruled and would do until she drew her last breath.
“Not one day soon, I hope,” Luciya replied. Was this to be the last time her curls would be worn free outside? To wear a dress of silk and show her shoulders without risking scandal?
Elia chuckled, taking her hand, “We never know what the future holds. We may only be ready for it. You are a Dayne, you are of Dorne. Always remember that.” She told her.
Luciya nodded, “I know my duty, grandmother. I shall not fail you or my house.”
“Oh, I know you will you not.”
The journey to King's Landing felt so long and yet not long enough.
When Luciya stepped off the boat, she looked to the sky, the same blue yet not the same sky in Dorne. There were more clouds, not grey but floating as though gathered for her to reflect her mood.
The air thrummed with life. So many voices, languages mingled with one another in a constant current, merchants shouting their wares, wheels grinding against stone, the distant cry of gulls above Blackwater Bay.
It was colder than Dorne, not freezing but she asked for a velvet cloak to wear as she stepped onto dry land. Her legs shook as she was escorted into her carriage, not just because of the chill in the air.
Luciya was slightly disappointed when the Queen's ladies and not Prince Baelor greeted her. Lady Cerenna Lannister, one of Queen Myriah’s ladies. The sister to the Lord Paramount in the Westerlands, Luciya recalled from her lessons. She was close to the Queen, influential at court.
“Welcome to King's Landing. You shall be escorted to your chambers to freshen up before being taken to the Queen.” Cerenna told her.
“Thank you.” Luciya replied, looking up around her. Targaryen red banners lined nearly every wall. Armoured guards were everywhere. She supposed it was meant to keep everyone safe and yet she had the sense that her fate was sealed. She could not run to the harbor.
Her chambers were in Maegor’s Holdfast, and she wondered if these chambers had once belonged to her predecessor. But the rooms had been decorated for a lady of her station - the large bed was covered in colourful cushions, a deep purple silk blanket atop the warmer bed sheets. Lavender and sandalwood incense had been burned, reminding her of home briefly.
“Of course you shall be moved after you are wed,” One of the septas explained as Luciya was undressed for a steaming bath in the connecting washroom, “Your lord husband is the Hand of the King.”
Luciya nodded to herself, grateful to be behind a screen. She wrapped a robe around herself as the maids readied the water in a copper tub, adding oils and dried rose petals.
“I can bathe myself.” Luciya said, gently taking the sponge from one of the maids, “Perhaps lay out some of my dresses?”
The maids nodded and left her alone, the room quiet and Luciya exhaled.
She needed a moment alone.
In the steaming water, scented with jasmine - no doubt due to instructions sent by her grandmother, Luciya sat still and looked around her new rooms. They were darker than her rooms in Starfall, felt smaller. Or was that because the sun did not shine as brightly here?
“I can do this.” Luciya murdered to herself, beginning to scrub the dirt from her skin.
She had to be quick, sure that they were already whispering about her dismissal. After scrubbing and rinsing, she called the maids back inside.
They had unpacked one trunk of dresses. She had been given new ones, some in the Dornish style, some in the Westerosi style, in sunset crimsons, red and purples.
She chose a deep purple gown, simple with sheer silk sleeves long sleeves accented with silver at the waist and elbows. She chose her mother's amethyst ring and a simple silver ring to wear on her right hand. Her curls were braided, pinned back, fastened with silver flowers.
She took a deep breath as she was taken to the royal gardens. At the hear of the garden, surrounded by her ladies in the gardens, sat Myriah Martell on a chair.
Myriah, even aged, was still beautiful. Her greyed hair was the biggest sign of ageing but her eyes were sharp. She wore a pale orange veil, secured by a gold tiara, no doubt an assertion that she was a Queen and Martell. Regal in every sense.
“Your Grace.” Luciya curtised.
“Rise and come closer.”
Luciya stood and did so, taking slow steps towards the Queen. She felt all the eyes of her ladies on her.
Myriah took her hands, surprising Luciya, who had been prepared for indifference at best. Her touch was warm and maternal, her lovely dark eyes searching Luciya’s face.
“Your lady mother was a cousin to a cousin and a Martell,” Myriah stated.
“Yes, your Grace,” Luciya replied.
“You have that in face. But you are a Dayne, that is clear. Especially in the eyes.” Myriah gently placed her fingers under her chin and lifted her head, inspecting, “Yes, very Dayne. Beautiful.”
She ordered a chair to be brought for Lucyia, and they all sat down once more, listening to Lady Tyrell playing the harpsichord.
Wine was brought, honeyed Dornish red and food - grapes, red and green, blood red strawberries and cuts of cured meat spiced with black pepper, hazelnuts, sweet cakes of all descriptions, stuffed dates. Clearly, there has been an influence in cuisine by the Martell Queen, which brings some comfort to Luciya. Not much but some.
She slowly chews a honey cake, unable to stomach more and sips wine.
“You find this place colder than Dorne.” Myriah stared, “I did too, at first.”
“Certainly. But it is beautiful.” Luciya said after swallowing. The cake sits heavy in her stomach. She had a feeling the Queen was not only speaking of the weather.
"You will miss many things about home, as any young woman does. It can be frightful to leave all you know. But it is a heavy burden that my son carries.” Myriah continued, “And he requires a wife to carry that burden with him.”
Luciya met the Queen's gaze, still maternal, but there was a firmness in her gaze that reminded her that she was the Queen looking at a woman who would one day replace her.
“The Lady Jena was dear to us all.” Lady Aelinor Penrose commented sharply. She was the wife to Aerys, the second son whom she had been told was more maester than prince.
Luciya nodded silently, solemn. It was a reminder of her place. She was a replacement, an ill fitting piece brought in.
“Well, I look forward to knowing all of you more.” Luciya said evenly.
She was dismissed, taken to her rooms. She throws up the cake and wine in a chamber pot and lies down on her bed.
She was to carry herself as a future Crown Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. And yet, she was already exhausted. Slightly afraid. And she was yet to meet her husband.
Luciya did not remember when she had fallen asleep, exhausted by the travel and the day before. When she awoke, in her new bed, wrapped in all her blankets, she heard the distant bells signalling the beginning of the day.
As she sat up, her maids and Lady Cerenna entered the room, curtseying, “Good morning, my lady.” they all greeted in some way.
“Good morning.” Luciya replied, confused. So, this was not what she was used to. Maids and ladies knocked in Starfall but here, she had no privacy. There was a careful eye on her at all time, by nobility and servant alike.
So Luciya took it in stride, smiling thankfully as they all fussed about her. Lady Cerenna chose her dress today, a deep pink, nearly red gown with few visible embellishments save for the gold chain on her waist.
It was suffocating but Luciya smiled as she looked back at the older lady in her mirror.
She was taken to the Tower of the Hand. It was rather beautiful in its way. The private audience chamber was decorated with Targaryen symbolism, the banners on the wall, large bookshelves with scrolls large books and tomes.
The windows looked toward Blackwater Bay and the Narrow Sea beyond. It was a beautiful view and Luciya wondered if the crown prince took the time to look outside. It was rather lovely. Clarifying. There was so much out there, beyond the shimmering sea.
On the large desk, a large book was open. The writing, she knew, was High Valariyian. It was a beautiful script and though she did not know what the book said, she traced the writing, fascinated.
“I hope you do not mind me calling you here.”
Luciya looked up, startled, at the sound of a smooth male voice.
There he stood. Baelor Targaryen. He did not have the paleness, that otherworldly look that most Targaryens did. His hair was dark, thick and soft-looking even at a distance, streaked faintly with silver. His eyes were mismatched in colour, one purple blue, one brown.
She, of course noticed his entire outfit was black and red, his hand of the king pin clipped to his shoulder, almost like the talons of a dragon on his shoulder.
“My apolgies. I was only curious, Your Grace.” Luciya hurriedly said moving away. She stood in front of the desk and Baelor moved around it and placed a scroll on the shelf.
“That is quite alright.” Baelor said gently, “Do you have a fondness for reading?”
“I do. My cousin Arron always says an entire battle could happen around me and I would not notice for my head were in a book.” She chuckled, “That is not to say I do not notice other things but…” She twisted the ring on her pointer finger.
“You enjoy reading and learning so very much.” Baelor added, as he leaned against his desk, hands clasped, “Forgive me, I wished to get you upon arrival yesterday, but there were matters of state to attend to.”
Luciya shook her head, “That is quite all right. The Queen and her ladies were very hospitable.”
Baelor nodded, pleased, she thinks. She cannot tell. He had the face of a man who was always thinking. A handsome face, but a hard one to read nonetheless.
“I, ah, wanted to meet you. Properly. Away from the court.” Baelor continued, "I persuaded the King that it would be a better idea."
Luciya nodded slowly and silently, unsure of what to think of that. An act of consideration or intimidation? She was not sure yet.
There was a knock at the door and in walked a servant with a tray of tea which they set up at the deep red chairs, a table in between them. He thanked the servant as dismissal and he indicated a seat for Luciya to sit, which she did.
He poured her tea rather than call for a servant. It was a spiced blend, something she had grown up sipping. Luciya thanked him as he gave her the cup of tea.
“It must feel lonely, being away from your home.” Baelor said, sitting down.
She shrugged slightly, hoping she was not so easy to read, “It is what I was prepared for. Many young women are.”
“Indeed. Still, I wish for you to feel at home here.” Baelor said, “This marriage, whilst an arrangment, I hope can be an honest one."
Luciya nodded, rather surprised by him. She had expected coldness, slight resentment perhaps from a widow. She swallowed her tea.
"Thank you, Your Grace." Luciya eventually said, "I, too, would wish for honesty and perhaps a partnership." She offered a small smile, "I know I cannot replace the affection for your late wife, whose loss must still pain you."
Baelor said nothing, twisting a ring on his right hand, watching her.
“I do not wish to be a mere placeholder. I cannot replace the affection you had for your wife, the mother of your sons. But I wish to be respected, that is all. Considered.” Luciya continued.
Baelor nodded, “You have my respect. And my consideration will come better as we learn from each other.”
Luciya measured him, the sincerity in those beautifully mismatched eyes. “Thank you, your Grace.”
“You were not expecting to me to agree with you,” Baelor observed, tilting his head slightly.
“I do not know what I expected, truly.”
“Yet you spoke anyway.”
“I like to try to set terms before entering into any agreement.”
Baelor smiles slightly, “We have that in common. And please, call me Baelor.” He insisted.
“Yes, your gr- Baelor,” Luciya quickly corrected herself, testing his name on her tongue. It suited him, "You may call me Luciya too."
"It is a beautiful name. It suits you well." Baelor stated as a matter of fact, and she felt butterflies in her stomach. She wanted to kill those butterflies.
Luciya placed her cup down on the table and stood, as did Baelor, "Thank you for this."
Baelor nodded, "Do not thank me, it is the least I could do. You shall be my wife." Gently, he took her right hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
The butterflies in Luciya's stomach rose from the dead and she did not stop them this time.
LOL fleabottom valyrian slang calling someone valonqar is like 'son'ing someone . any cool old man is kekepa. Muna instead of auntie.
There are like a million weird flea bottom urban legends dunk has heard that are actually valyrian folk tales/mythology.
seven who are one/fourteen flames syncretism where now like the warrior is caraxes but also sometimes a woman because he is vhagar?
Its officially blasphemy and occasional begging brothers will come to flea bottom to try and preach the truth and have shit and trash thrown at them. any old soldier from kl will swear he saw her descend from the heavens as fighting broke out
