You do not blame the faults of their foremothers, for they were subjected to prejudice and soul-crushing torment by their forefathers. And for their forefathers you do not weep. You seek to change the damage done to this family—curse from the gods or not. No coin will be flipped. You have it now.
If you knew the consequences of that, then perhaps you would have changed course. Stopped before you started. Never have stepped foot within the palace. But, alas, the gods have a cruel way of punishing you for your well-intended hubris.
Alicent and Rhaenyra, bless their injured souls, cling to you like molasses on the bark of a tree. They drink in your presence like Arbor red. And get just as intoxicated from it. You keep them together, soothe their woes, and tame the growing division inside the family.
It's exhausting. You don't get paid nearly enough. But bringing comfort to the scared children hidden inside every one of them brings you a nearly indescribable joy. They care for you in their odd way. A bit obsessive, perhaps. That is to be expected.
They are so cute with their queerness.
Aegon and Aemond vie for your attention like quarreling dragons. They shove each other and bicker. They undermine the other's authority. All for your love.
Aegon lays in your lap and sobs about his troubles. You tamp his hair down, tamping down his promiscuous habits. He visits whores less often. He's more attentive to his responsibilities. And he, honest to the gods, smiles. A genuine smile. It nearly made you burst into tears the first time you saw it.
Aemond is less demanding, more broody. He is used to being under Aegon's shadow. The child who listens, acts right, and never asks for anything more than he gets. He prefers reading with and/or to you. He stalks you, as if you can't tell. (You always assume you are being followed or watched at one time or another. It's the nature of the job.) By far his favorite pastime is you tending to him in such a tender manner, almost motherly.
Brush his hair. Help him choose his clothes. Compliment his face and coo at how pretty he is.
"A missing eye is nothing of shame. You lived through it. You survived. And you have Vhagar. That proves how strong you are. But even without her, you are worthy. You have worth, more than any gold or gem."
To him you are worth more than his own life. His sword is coated in so much blood he can hardly see the metallic shine. Avenging you from people's grievances. It's the one time where Aegon and he agree. Protect you. Love you. Fight each other about you.
All Helaena asks is to have a modicum of your attention. Your praise. Your approval. You don't see her as some strange, otherworldly cook. You see her as her. You allow her to talk about her special interest, bugs. You don't shame her for stimming or getting overstimulated. You make sure the cooks get her food right every time.
You are truly a godsend. And she does her best to keep you with her at all times. Manipulation, coercion, blackmailing. Those are such vile words. Love is the true word. The only word that describes why and what she does for you.
You, undoubtedly, are the steadfast parental figure Baela and Rhaena have been searching for. Cast out into the seas of life with a ship but no crew, they had not the faintest clue of where to sail. You are their crew, their second mate, their maester. They hang onto your every word as if it is a divine prophecy destined to be true.
You learn how to take care of their hair, similar to Aemond. You show them what little you know about the world. You are their anchor to normalcy. They can brave their storms while you are around. Be themselves. Not nobles or Targaryens, and all the baggage that comes with that.
You do it with Jacaerys and Lucerys. Bastards or not, they are worthy of love and respect. They'll always be Targaryens to you. It runs through their veins. You can tell. As they have the same overprotective and slightly frightening tendencies that the rest of their family has. You watch them spar. You learn the language of their ancestors along with them. You take care of their scrapes and mend their clothes.
Hi omg, I love your dragon!hybrid Targaryen stories. I was just wondering if you could do one for Aegon? Or like include him in one of the hcs and like explore the idea of them being like jealous?
How Dragon!Hybrid Targaryens deal with their jealousy.
Hey anon! I'm glad you like those stories; they're very dear to me, too! Thank you so much for your ask! I’m not super into Aegon as a whole character, but I find that there’s a way to integrate him into the story.
And your jealousy idea would be exciting, especially with Dragon!Hybrids.
I used those who (I think) would be most prompt in being jealous in the first place and explained why the others don’t feel jealous, per se. (Everyone except Laenor and Laena.)
Warnings: 16+ for Aegon (obviously), description of gaslighting (Daemon), jealousy (somewhat mild but still).
Original Masterlist
Dragon!Hybrid Masterlist
Aegon: His jealousy comes from a deep insecurity and the feeling of not being enough. And I don’t think he deals with his jealousy very well. Either he enters fits of anger or cries about it, then fucks you mercilessly, because that’s basically all he knows to do.
Brutal movements, hips hitting hips, deep warmth inside your body, his hand holding yours over your head, his lips leaving marks on your skin. Desperation in his movements, pleas for your love.
“Please, please don’t leave me.” Between groans and moans and sighs, Aegon cannot keep his voice down.
Anger and despair and loss. All the things he feels when he watches you interact with everyone else that’s not him. He lets his free hand run free from your neck to your hips, leaving bluish marks for remembrance of him in the morning.
“You’re mine.” Snarled into your neck, as he tugs your hair, make your back arch so as to meet his frantic pace. Drunk mumbling about enemies taking you away and teary comments for his mother never to know about you.
You’re his secret, his peace.
Aemond: Aemond would kill a bitch. Not cut, kill. His jealousy comes from his lack of actual appreciation and possessions. He’s scared that somebody better could take you away from him.
“Aemond, there is no need to draw your sword…” You tried to softly reason with him, hands grasping at his, trying to hold said sword in place. Aemond’s face is cold and closed off, his eye strained on the injuring party, who stands a good amount of space away from the both of you.
“Pray tell, Qelos, why I shouldn’t?” He humours you, his tone freezing, back straight as an arrow. He never lowered his gaze from his now mortal enemy. The other party shivers, and you can’t help but look their way for a second. A mistake, and you feel Aemond take a step forward.
“Enough, husband,” you hiss, looking to his face, eyes going from his own purple iris to his eyepatch. “You cannot fight all those who spent time with me. Lord Maxwayl only wished to offer his congratulations.” You tell him in a low tone, hands still grasping around his on the hilt of his sword.
There’s no fear in your gaze, only anxiety. A diplomatic miscommunication of this size wouldn’t be a good thing for the Greens. And Aemond knows this. He lowered his gaze to meet yours, and finally, his shoulders relaxed, and he smirked.
“Very well. Thank you, good lord, for your words; we are very happy.” He acknowledged the fearing lord with a predatory smile. Promises of violence are still present in his face, a warning for the next time he touches what is his.
Baela: Baela is well-educated and balanced. She’s not prompted to be jealous. Why would she? Her name and position are very advantageous. She’s had a very good education in many fields of study. Her Rider would be crazy to even consider another option.
And she would come and get you anytime. 👀
Daemon: He’s not jealous; you’re jealous. Will not fight with you about it. What do you mean you think he did something to the squire that helped you two days ago? Oh, you mean the one who saw your ankles by accident? Nope. He definitely didn’t do anything to him.
“I promise, Byka Azantys. I have done nothing to your help.” His smirk makes your blood boil. You know, know that somehow he’s done something, organised the disappearance of your favourite little squire. A promising little boy with stars in his eyes.
“I don’t believe you.” You argue, crossing your arms over your chest, taking a step to put distance between the two of you. His smirk grows bigger, and your teeth clench with a white-hot anger.
“I can’t make you change your mind, but my words are true. Now come, enough of this childish dispute; I’ve missed you terribly.” He takes a step closer to you, his hands taking their place on your hips, thumbs running against the material of your clothes, as if to soothe you. And you let him.
A small purring noise escaped his throat as he tugged you closer to his chest. He dipped his neck to kiss yours. You knew it was to change your mind and you didn’t fight him. You didn’t really want to know what he did to that squire after all.
Helaena: Helaena is not jealous. She’s just happy to have someone that listens to her, that makes her feel safe. In her mind, your relationship is not one to be jealous of; you’re her rock, her peace, and her shelter.
Jacaerys: He’s jealous of the time you spend with others. He’s very protective of your time together and will blatantly refuse to accommodate others when they want to invade his peace.
“Leave.” He grumbled from his position, face nuzzled in your chest, not even considering for a second that your naked bodies intermingled might be embarrassing for some parties in this discussion.
“Your presence is requested at a council meeting.” Rhaenyra’s voice float’s through your chambers, and if you want to liquify and disappear in the bedding, Jace could not care any less. His wings flutter into existence, covering your body and his as he raises his head to glare at his mother.
“We’ve just left a council meeting three hours ago.” He counters, curly hair unkempt and messy from your previous activities. You blink, and the smoke you thought was escaping his mouth is gone, but the smell of sulfur still lingers around you. His mother tries to reason with him, calling out his name, not unlike a plea.
“Jace…”
But he shakes his head, resting it against your chest once more, eyes closing. “It’s late, and I made a promise to stay here tonight, Mother.” His tone is without appeal, and Rhaenyra glances at you before nodding.
“Very well, but you must come to the council tomorrow.” She warns before closing the door behind her. Jace only grunts his response, kissing the skin that’s closest to his lips.
Rhaena: She’s not jealous; she’s disappointed. Her lack of capacity to shift makes her feel a little less than her sister and stepbrothers/uncles/cousins. But she is more one to talk about her feelings than make a scene, take her anger out on you, or gaslight you about it.
The silence in her chambers is broken only by the crackling of the fire, which was alighted for your comfort. The both of you are currently occupied with books, a usual occupation for the nights you spent together. But Rhaena cannot find the concentration she needs to read even a single page of her book.
“Do you love me?” She asks unprompted, breaking the silence like one would break a wall of ice, her heart suddenly thumping with worry that she just did something awful. You put your book down, gazing up, surprised, as you look in her direction.
“Of course I do. Why do you ask?” Now it’s your turn to ask, leaning to catch her hand with yours. It’s colder than hers, and she worries about the temperature of the room for a moment before answering you.
“It’s just… didn’t your family send other proposals for your hands?”
That was your private letter. And Rhaena is not one to read private letters, but it was open, there, for her to see all of the little words written on the page. You sigh.
“Of course, but that’s usual. I’ve already sent my answer. I will not give you up, my love.” You smile at her, running a thumb over her hand gently. She nods.
“But you could’ve chosen anybody else.” It’s your turn to nod.
“Yes, and I chose you.”
Rhaenyra: Rhaenyra is not jealous. She’s possessive and territorial, but that comes with the dragon spirits. (I spoke about it here, and here).
Request: Baela and a dragonseed male fall in love with she is a ward on Driftmark and are in a secret relationship, even while she is betrothed to Jacaerys. During the Sowing of the Seeds, Y/N tells Baela that he wants to attempt to claim a dragon, specifically Vermithor, to help Rhaenyra in the war. Baela is understandably worried, but concedes. She watches along with Rhaenyra and Jacaerys as the Seeding takes place. Vermithor is claimed.
Sown in Fire
- Summary: You decide to answer the fire in your blood when the Sowing comes. For yourself. And for her.
The winds on Driftmark smelled of brine and old bones, of salt-stung spray and sea-washed stone, and the morning sky hung low and gray as gulls shrieked above the battlements. You found her in the gardens—though there were no flowers here, only the rustling leaves of a lone tree transplanted long ago, its roots buried in foreign soil. Baela stood beneath it, her silver-blonde braid lashing in the wind, her riding leathers half-laced, her gloves clutched at her side. She looked like a dragon in waiting—young and fierce and impatient—and when her eyes caught yours, dark as midnight and steady as iron, your breath caught like it always did.
“Y/N,” she greeted you quietly, voice barely rising above the sound of the waves crashing far below the cliffs. Her tone carried the kind of fondness that came from shared childhoods, shared secrets, stolen kisses behind driftwood doors and the warmth of her mouth on yours in moonlit stables. She looked like she knew you were coming. “You’re brooding again.”
You gave a half-smile and stepped closer, boots crunching on gravel and moss. “I’m thinking,” you said, eyes lingering on her face—storm-washed and flushed from morning training, a faint bruise blooming along her jaw where Ser Vaemond had landed a glancing blow with the training sword.
“You’re always thinking,” she murmured, then stepped toward you, brushing her hand along your arm. Her fingers curled into your sleeve. “Say it.”
You hesitated. The words felt like steel being forged in your chest—hot, heavy, and unrelenting. You had rehearsed them a hundred times, lying awake in the narrow bunk that served you on Driftmark, dreaming of flame and wings and glory. Dreaming of being more than a bastard. More than a shadow. More than her secret.
“I want to try for Vermithor,” you said at last, voice low and steady. “I’m going to claim him.”
Silence. Only the wind replied, threading through the weirwood leaves like whispering ghosts.
Baela’s brows pulled together sharply, and her grip on your arm tightened. “Vermithor,” she repeated, voice edged with disbelief. “The Bronze Fury? That beast is older than our grandsires. He hasn’t been ridden since King Jaehaerys.”
“I know,” you said. “That’s why I need to try.”
She pulled away then, pacing a few steps like she was trying to walk the fury out of her. “And what happens if he kills you?” she asked, her voice rising. “He burned the last man who came near him. Y/N, he’s—he’s not some hatchling or unclaimed yearling skulking in the Dragonmont. He’s Vermithor. He was a king’s dragon.”
You followed her, voice softer, quieter, the way you always spoke when you needed her to listen. “That’s exactly why I have to try. The war is coming, Baela. It’s already begun. Rhaenyra needs riders—strong riders. Not boys with cradle-names who think dragons are pets. She needs power. Fire. I can give her that.”
“You’ll give her your corpse,” Baela snapped, turning back to face you, eyes shining now—not with fury, but fear. “Why does it always have to be you? Why are you always the one running into danger like the gods gave you armor for skin?”
You looked at her, really looked—at the way her lip trembled despite how hard she tried to sneer, at the way her fists clenched at her sides. “Because I’m tired of hiding,” you said, voice catching. “Of pretending I don’t care about this fight. About you. About your step-mother’s claim. I’m not a lord’s son, Baela. I was born in a fishing village, a bastard of some hedge knight who never came back. No name. No legacy. But I have dragon’s blood. I can feel it, burning in my bones. Let me prove it.”
She stepped closer again, chest rising and falling fast, and when she reached for you this time, it was with both hands, clutching the front of your tunic like she wanted to shake the madness out of you. “We already live on borrowed time,” she whispered. “Every day we steal from the world—every night you climb into my bed and hold me like you won’t let go. And now you want to throw your life at a sleeping monster because you want to matter more?”
You leaned into her touch, forehead pressing against hers. “No. I want to fight beside you. I want to have a chance to stand at your side when the sky burns and the realm trembles. They will never let us be what we are, Baela. Not with you promised to Jace. Not with me being who I am. But if I ride Vermithor—if I ride him—they’ll have to see me.”
Her breath hitched, and you felt it—the way her resolve buckled beneath her love for you. Her lips brushed yours, once, soft and trembling. “And if he kills you?” she whispered. “What will I do then, Y/N? What’s left for me if you die?”
You cupped her cheek, brushing your thumb over the bruise on her jaw. “Then at least you’ll know I died trying to be more—for you, for Rhaenyra, for all of us. I won’t hide anymore. I can’t.”
She stared at you for a long, shattering moment. And then she kissed you again, harder this time, teeth scraping, breath ragged. A kiss like a storm. A kiss like goodbye.
“Then go,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to yours. “But if you come back on dragonback, Y/N… gods help me, I’ll never let you go again.”
The air at Dragonmont was thick with smoke and the bitter tang of blood. Ash drifted like snow across the blackened stones, settling in the folds of cloaks and the creases of armor. The sun had not yet risen, but firelight danced along the mountain’s jagged face, casting flickering shadows of men and dragons. It was the day of the Sowing, the day the realm would see who was worthy of flame and flight. One by one, dragonseeds had stepped forward—bastards of Targaryens and Velaryons, lowborns with silver hair or violet eyes, hopefuls with songs in their hearts and death waiting behind a dragon’s teeth.
You stood at the edge of the crowd, breath coiling in the cold air, watching as chaos unfolded before you.
“Another dead,” someone muttered near Rhaenyra, whose expression was carved from stone as the broken body of a young girl was dragged from the cratered clearing. Her name had been Aelinor, a stablehand’s daughter with pale eyes and trembling hands. She hadn’t screamed long.
Baela stood just behind Rhaenyra, her eyes burning as she watched the proceedings with a clenched jaw and a fire in her chest that no one else could see. Her hands were balled into fists beneath her riding cloak, and her gaze kept flickering to the western edge of the field—where you stood alone.
Jacaerys leaned in toward his betrothed, brow creased. “They’re not ready,” he muttered to Baela. “These people… they don’t understand the danger. We’ll burn through them faster than we’ll get riders.”
“And yet it was your idea to call the Seeds,” Baela replied coolly, though her voice was low. “Your mother agreed with you. The dragons are restless. They want riders. The war demands them.”
“She agreed out of desperation, not wisdom.” Jace turned his attention back to the clearing, where a boy no older than twelve was hesitantly approaching a silver she-dragon, who hissed low and predatory. “We need fighters. Not fools.”
Baela’s eyes found you again across the field.
You were watching Vermithor.
The Bronze Fury crouched at the edge of the scorched plain, massive and still as a mountain, his burnished scales glinting in the dim firelight. Steam hissed from his nostrils, curling like ghosts around his head, and his molten eyes swept over the dragonseeds with ancient, cruel awareness. Three men had already tried him. Two were dead—one reduced to charred bones, the other torn in half before the flame came. The third ran screaming into the caves, never to return.
But you had not yet moved. Not until now.
Baela’s heart stopped in her chest when you stepped forward.
Rhaenyra stiffened. “Who is that?”
Baela’s mouth opened—and closed again. “One of the Velaryon men, I believe. From Driftmark.” Her voice came out smooth, practiced. She did not meet Jace’s eyes.
Jacaerys tilted his head. “He looks familiar…”
You walked slowly, purposefully, every step heavy with heat and memory. The world dimmed around you, narrowed into the rhythmic thrum of your heartbeat and the enormous bulk of the dragon before you. Vermithor shifted, smoke rolling from between his teeth, a deep growl rumbling through his massive frame like the cracking of the world itself.
You did not bow.
You did not speak.
Instead, you stopped before him, close enough to smell the ash clinging to his hide, and locked eyes with the Bronze Fury.
He moved.
The crowd gasped as Vermithor reared, wings flaring like bronze sails, his roar echoing like thunder over the Dragonmont. The ground shook beneath your feet, but you held your ground. The blast of fire never came.
Instead, the dragon lowered his head.
Baela’s breath caught. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared.
Rhaenyra rose from her seat in stunned silence.
Even Jace could only whisper, “By the gods…”
Your hand reached out, trembling now—less with fear, more with awe—and pressed to the warm, scaled brow of the beast before you. The heat singed your palm, but you did not pull back. Vermithor's eyes narrowed, and the deep rumble in his chest shifted from menace to something older, deeper—recognition.
He knew you.
And in that moment, the bond was made.
The cheering didn’t come at once. For long heartbeats, the crowd was stunned, silenced by the sight of one of the oldest, most feared dragons of the realm bowing to a nameless dragonseed. But then it came—a roar of voices rising like fire, like storm winds, as you mounted the Bronze Fury’s saddle, and Vermithor unfurled his wings in full.
Baela could not look away. You turned your head just enough to find her through the chaos, through the celebration. And when your eyes locked with hers, something unspoken passed between you.
You kept your promise.
I’ll never let you go.
Her heart thundered. Her hands trembled. But her eyes—those stayed fixed on you.
And in that moment, as Vermithor lifted into the sky in a maelstrom of wings and flame, Baela Targaryen knew something that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.
rain blasts against your face — this high in the sky, it feels like hundreds of glass pellets pelting against your soft, vulnerable skin. why is there no sort of helmet for this, you wonder. you’d seen daemon wear one on dragonback before, but that was going into battle. more protective gear for dragonback should be standard, but if the targaryens truly are closer to gods, then perhaps they don’t need it. but you do.
you press your head into baela’s shoulder, her silver hair blowing back into your face. you’re certain that she says something, but you can’t hear it over the wind howling in your ears. your head spins, ears popping over and over as the air thickens. you’re descending, flying downwards fast, barreling towards the ground. that feels like forever, as the ground rushes towards you. the rain is so heavy that moondancer struggles with her landing, wings stuttering as she fights for balance against the wind.
there's a crashing, tree branches swatting your face, scraping soft skin, as the three of you fumble down through the cast of trees. moondancer skids to a stop, kicking up dirt and mud behind her taloned feet. but the rain has stopped, or at least you’re covered by the cast of trees. it plops down lazily now, slipping between thick layers of leaves.
baela slides off the back of moondancer, taking your hands to help you down in kind.
“i’m drenched,” you sigh, trying to brush water off your riding gear. you look up at her, the water dripping from the end of her braid, running down her cheeks. “you’re drenched.” you reach out, wiping the damp from under her eyes and the curve of her jaw.
she sighs, letting you fuss over her while she looks around for some semblance of where you are. “i believe us to be somewhere in the riverlands,” she mumbles, assessing the trees. “that accounts for the rain, and the foliage is indicative of swamplands.”
with a little smile, you adjust her leather lapel, “it’s very impressive that you know that.”
baela smiles, bright despite the rainwater soaking her skin and hair. “you flatter, my lady,” she replies, linking her arm with yours. “i reckon that the rain has abated — let us leave moondancer here and assess our surroundings.”
the two of you make for the treeline, moondancer stretching her large wings as she relaxes into the damp earth, hot steam blowing from her nostrils. you trek for a while, arms interlocked.
“everything looks the same,” you say, dejected. “there's nothing, just wetlands.”
baela squeezes your arm, “if we don’t find something soon, we’ll turn back and ride a while longer. we cannot stay lost forever.”
your foot meets a mushy patch of unsettlingly soft grass, and the world turns sharply on its axis. she can’t help you as you tumble to the ground.
“seven hells!” baela gasps, trying to catch some part of you. her fingers lock around your arm — not enough to stop your haphazard descent, but giving her leverage to pull you back upwards. mud has sloshed across the front of your gown; you both stand shocked, staring at the mud staining the fabric.
“i think there are clothes in the saddle bag,” baela says practically. she’s very good at knowing what to do. she guides you back towards the little alcove of trees, both of you more diligent of holes in the ground and where you place your feet. she digs in moondancer’s bag as you strip your muddy gown, unlacing the back and tugging until it slips to the damp ground. your chemise is safe, undirtied, though a little thin — the damp air makes you shiver, turning to baela with your arms wrapped around yourself.
“this is all that i brought,” she says sheepishly, holding up a dress. it's dark blue, ugly little cloth roses stitched along the waistline, messy embroidery along both sleeves.
you laugh aloud, gawking at the gown. “that?” you ask incredulously, “you kept that?”
you had made it for her, goaded by your septa to complete a sewing project. it had taken months, and then it hadn’t fit you. the septa deemed it an appropriate gift, and you had told baela to throw it away.
you sigh, taking the gown from her. “were you planning to wear this?” you ask, trying to work the fabric over your head without dampening it on the ground. the skirt is too long, rainwater seeps into it already.
baela shrugs, “i’ve worn it before. i don’t think that its quite so bad as you imagine.” she reaches for your hand again, guiding you to follow her through the other side of the trees into a clearing. “there is something over this direction. i believe its raventree hall.”
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
𖦹 please don't feed my writing to any ai chatbot as source material. i will find you
SUMMARY: “princess (name) velaryon was betrothed to her brother, prince jacaerys, but rumours say that she preferred a different sort of fruit to the one offered by men…”
REQUESTED: yes/no
PAIRING: baela targaryen x fem!velaryon reader
AUTHOR’S NOTES: i haven’t seen a baela x reader, it’s actually criminal. she’s so pretty <3. the reader is a velaryon by law but is actually a bastard (you guys can choose who the reader’s father is, like if the reader’s dad is ser criston, daemon, ser harwin or anyone else). sorry if my description of a woc isn’t that good, it’s my first time writing for baela.
WARNINGS: homophobia, incest (sip size), mentions of arranged marriage, cousin incest, typical westerosi shenanigans, forbidden love, baela being a sweetheart, kissing, discussions of infertility etc
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
YOUR FINGERS RAN ACROSS THE INITIAL CARVED INTO THE STONE OF THE RED KEEP’S WALL. B + (Your Initial), outlined by a heart. You smiled at it. It’d been there for six years, untouched by any other forces. This was the first time in six years that you’d stepped foot in the Red Keep.
Of course, the reason marking your family’s return to the Red Keep was not one of joy. Vaemond Velaryon was protesting your younger brother Lucerys’ claim to the Driftwood Throne.
You played along for your family but you knew that he had no right to inherit Driftmark. Nor did you and Jacaerys have any right to one day inherit the Iron Throne. You were bastards. Despite your mother firmly denying it, you knew. Everyone knew.
Jacaerys approached you and smiled. You smiled back. You loved Jace, he was your older brother, by a year. You both knew that you would one day marry each other, but you couldn’t help but feeling no romantic feelings for him.
It’d always been this way. Whenever the discussion of marriage came up, you always felt this…distaste for it. Your mother said it was normal to feel like that. But, you never fawned over Lords and their sons like most of the young maidens in Westeros.
You, on the other hand, fawned silently over other young maidens your age. Including one Baela Targaryen. Your cousin. And, technically, your stepsister. You’d been in love with Baela for six years since you’d comforted her at her mother’s funeral.
Baela was the most beautiful maiden to you. With her white curls, her lilac eyes, her chocolate-coloured skin, her full lips. Gods, you could describe her for hours. You’d communicated back and forth for years, writing a seemingly endless horde of letters back and forth. You planned to ride through the clouds on dragon back, with her on Moondancer and you on Vyrax.
“Can you believe that we are back?” Jace asked you, pulling you from your trance-like daydream, “Back in the Red Keep?”.
You shrugged. “No. No,” you shortly answered, moving your hair back slightly, “It is…strange. I mean, we are in the place of our births…”.
Jace smiled softly at you, squeezing your hand. “Everyone is looking at us,” Luke said, breaking the conversation between you two. You thanked the Gods.
Your older brother turned to comfort your younger brother with a smile. “Ignore them,” Jace said, “You will inherit Driftmark when the Sea Snake passes”.
Luke silenced him with a look. “You know very well of the true nature of my birth,” Luke hissed, his tone quietened, “Of your’s, (Name)’s and Joffrey’s. We have no right to any of this,”.
(Name) glanced at her younger brother, adjusting her pale blue cloak that hung across her shoulders. “We mustn’t speak of such things here,” (Name) instructed softly, “We mustn’t…”.
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
YOU FOUND YOURSELF STANDING UNDER THE WEIRWOOD TREE AFTER THE ORDEAL IN THE COURTYARD. You always liked the Weirwood Tree with its purple-red coloured leaves that fell in the autumn and the face that resided on the tree. It was a source of solace and comfort in your childhood.
You didn’t feel at home in the Red Keep. Nor on Dragonstone. Sure, you loved your family. You loved them dearly and held them close to your heart. But you felt like a complete outlander in your own home. Like you didn’t belong. You stuck out like a sore thumb between your three brothers.
You tried to actively avoid the factions in the Red Keep. The Blacks and the Greens. You wore your father Laenor’s colours, blue and silver. Laenor Velaryon may not have sired you, but you loved him dearly and viewed him as your father. He felt the same about you.
You knew that he was not truly dead. He was alive. In the Free Cities, with his lover Ser Qarl. You were happy that he lived a life of freedom, away from the conflict of Westeros, and you desired the same.
You’d also communicated with your distant great-aunt, Saera Targaryen, and talked about going to her make-shift kingdom on Voltanis. It seemed perfect when you wanted to escape.
“(Name)?” A sugar-sweet voice called. You turned around, eyes widening and your heartbeat quickening. In a darker blue dress, with her hair flowing down her chest in silver curls, was her. Your Baela. Your sweet Baela, “You may not recognise me…but I am-”.
“Baela,” you immediately answered, tears beginning to burn in your eyes, and a rare happy smile pricking up on your features, matching her own smile, her beautiful smile, “I would recognise you anyway, cousin. It has been too long!”.
You balled your skirts into your fists and skipped over to Baela and embracing her into a hug. Her hand petted your hair, as you held her so tight, holding her close. “I have missed you wholeheartedly,” you smiled, as the hug broke.
You stood in the garden with Baela in your arms, just enough apart to see each other’s faces. “I have been adamantly looking for you,” Baela confessed, “Ever since I arrived with my Grandmother. I was hoping we could reunite and catch up on all the things we missed”.
You smiled at her, a toothless smile but a smile nonetheless. “I would love nothing more,” you honestly responded. You both broke away from the hug, holding each other’s hands, as you walked over to the Weirwood Tree.
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HOURS DRIFTED BY IN AN INSTANT AND YOU AND BAELA LAUGHED AND TALKED UNDERNEATH THE WEIRWOOD TREE. The sun was just beginning to set, casting a mixed glow of orange, pink, purple and yellow across the sky.
“This is nice,” you confessed, resting your head on Baela’s shoulder, “It seems like with all the horrid conflict between the Blacks and the Greens just disappears on a lovely evening such as this,”.
Baela hummed in agreement. You loved sitting out here with her that evening. So did she. You moved your head off her shoulder, to look her in the eyes. “I agree,” Baela responded, “It seems the world is at peace under this tree. Would you not wish to be free of the conflict between your mother and Queen Alicent? To escape anywhere, to be free? To fly across the Narrow City and live in Essos, the Free Cities, Volantis and see the ruins of Old Valyria?”.
You turned to look at Baela, smiling softly. “I’d love nothing more,” you sighed, “But I have expectations. Many of them. I have to marry Jacaerys. And bare him children. And become Queen when my mother passes. But I do not wish for that life. I wish for the life you just told me of,”.
Suddenly, catching you off-guard, Baela leaned in and kissed you. On the lips. Your eyes widened before kissing her back, cupping her cheek. You both pulled away at the same time, grinning and panting. “I think I like you,” you smiled, “More than I should, Baela,”.
“That is amusing,” Baela responded, smiling at you and glancing at your through her eyelashes, “I think I like you more than I should too, (Name),”.
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
THE LATER EVENING BROUGHT A FAMILY DINNER THAT WAS TEEMING WITH CHAOS AND INSULTS. Rhaenyra was growing worried when you hadn’t shown up for supper or the hearing for Luke’s claim to the Driftwood Throne.
She paced around her chambers, also learning that Baela was absent from both the hearing and supper. Nobody had seen the two of you anywhere. There was a brief knock at the doors of her chambers, with Rhaenyra beckoning whoever knocked inside.
Jace stormed into his mother’s chambers, following by Luke. “Boys?” Rhaenyra questioned, her eyebrows furrowed, “Whatever is the matter? Have either of you seen your sister of Baela? They have been missing since the mid-morrow,”.
Jace handed Rhaenyra a piece of parchment. “(Name) is gone,” Jace answered in a clipped tone, “Her chambers have been ransacked, as have Baela’s. Apparently, she is in love with Baela and has ran away with her so they can be together without judgement,”.
Rhaenyra’s eyes scanned the letter, tears welling in her eyes, as she looked at the black letters written in her daughter’s hand across the parchment paper, disbelief weighing in her heart.
My Dearest Family,
I apologise for how this letter may sound, but I this is how I depart from you all. I felt like I was living a lie in the Red Keep and on Dragonstone, so I have fled from King’s Landing with Baela. Please do not come and look for us. We want this. I must confess that I am truly in love with Baela and I always have been. I have no romantic feelings for Jace and have only ever loved him as a sister should love her brother, platonically. I cannot be Queen, nor will I subject myself to a life that I do not wish to live. I apologise for any strife my departure may have caused, but know that I truly mean it when I say that I am sorry beyond measure. Please, I beg that you let me live my life away from the conflict of the Blacks and the Greens and this dance of dragons, with my beloved Baela. I am safe and I am alright, do not worry about that. If I might have stayed, I would have been living a lie and denying to myself that I wanted a life as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and being a mother. I could never be a Queen and I can never be a mother, truthfully. I am barren, according to the Maesters so I can never have children or become pregnant. I am sorry that I lied and I hope one day we may reunite.
All my love, (Name).
Rhaenyra was shocked, to say the least. She felt terrible knowing that her daughter lived like that for years without her knowing. “Should we send for troops to find her?” Jace asked.
Rhaenyra shook her head. “No,” she denied, shaking off the idea, “No. We shall let your sister live in peace, the life she desires. She is happy now,”.
