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Abortion | Plan C | Miscarriage Resources , Disrupt Rape Culture , Trauma Responses
Pairing : Lyonel Baratheon x You (Lady Sandstorm) x Ser Duncan the Tall
Word Count : 4,315
WARNINGS : smut, violence, ethical non-monogamy, maybe bisexual m/m/f action, No use of Y/N,
After the tournament at Ashford Meadow, Lyonel returns to Storm's End with a hedge knight and a bald boy.
Author's Notes Masterlist
Chapter One
The Day After the Trial of Seven
The morning air at Ashford Meadow was crisp, smelling of trampled grass and the fading smoke of a hundred campfires. The grand pavilions were already beginning to collapse as lords and knights prepared their departures. Around Dunk & Lyonel, the remnants of the Trial of Seven still lingered in the atmosphere, the tension, the shock. Most of all, it was the heavy silence that followed the fall of Baelor “Breakspear” Targaryen. The Hammer. Gone. The only person who seemed to be absolutely heartbroken over his death was Dunk.
Lyonel sat next to Ser Duncan and leaned back, enjoying the shade of the tree. “Been a wonderful tournament.” Lyonel said, his voice carrying a hint of the lingering adrenaline from the previous day's chaos. “Shame it’s all over. Home is, uh… Ah, it’s brutally dull.” After a pause he continued. “There is one ray of light in the darkness…” Lyonel glanced toward his companion with a tentative, hopeful expression. “Hey. You could come with me. Yeah, we’ll hunt and hawk and… sail. Make merry. I’ll sharpen that iron of yours so you don’t make such a grand fool of yourself next time.” He chuckled, “Have you ever been to Tarth?”
The maester interrupted, “The– the man is dying, my lord.”
“Huh? What?”
“His wounds, they have mortified. It– it’s beyond my abilities.”
“Oh, the Others fucking geld me. An itchy arsehole is beyond your abilities, my friend! Begone, witch! Fuck off with you.”
“Yes, my lord. At once.”
“Cunt. It’s fine. You’re fine. He’s a terrible maester.” He pat him on the shoulder. “Look. Come with me to Storm’s End, meet the Sandstorm, and I will love you like a brother.” He stood, walked away, and started pissing. “And if not… Well, fuck you, I’ll hate you like a brother.”
“It’s a fine offer, Lyonel. But all I do is bring pain and suffering to those around me.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. Leave that to the puppeteers. You’ve done the realm a kindness. You’ll see that one day. The only good dragon is a dead dragon.”
“Fucking gods! Baelor fought for me. He gave his fucking life. Can you speak of him with a little respect, please?”
“Fuck that. And Fuck you! I fought for you. I– Hardyng, Beesbury, the fucking apple boy, we fought for you. Your prince fought for you against men sworn to protect him. He risked nothing! …And the gods don’t favour a fraud.”
“Then why have they favoured me?”
Understanding completely what Duncan meant, that he was never officially knighted, Lyonel looked him up and down. “This is not favour. This… This is mockery.” He sighed, “There’s a war coming. We could be a force, you and I.” He leaned over Dunk, placing his hand on Dunk’s shoulder. “Come with me and meet the Sandstorm. She’ll wipe that pathetic look off your face. You’ll consider it?”
Dunk gave a slight nod.
“Good! Caravan departs after the roast.”
The air of Shipbreaker Bay clung to everything, heavy and damp, as the massive gates of Storm's End groaned open. Lyonel Baratheon led the way, his presence filling the courtyard. He rode with unrestrained energy, glancing back at his companions with a wide grin. Beside him, Ser Duncan the Tall looked like a giant among men, though he carried himself with an awkwardness. His squire, a small boy with a shaved head, kept pace with a curious intensity, looking up at the battlements.
The heavy doors to the keep swung open and the roar of a feast hits Dunk, Egg, and Lyonel like a physical blow. Music blares, laughter echoes off the rafters, and the scent of roasted boar and strongwine fills the air. It's a full-blown affair, as though the host had simply forgotten that the guest of honor had ever departed.
Lyonel halted in the threshold. He listened at the revelry with a look of profound betrayal, his brow furrowing as he surveyed the entrance as though you would be bounding forward at any moment. He'd given his blessing for the festivities to continue in his absence, certainly, but the sheer scale of the party almost felt like a personal affront.
They all walked closer to the Hall to find the party going as though Lyonel had never left. Sure, Lyonel takes his own party wherever he goes. Sure, he said to do as you wish while he was away, as usual. But this was a bigger celebration than he’d had in over three moons. Your nameday wasn’t for another two moons. Had he forgotten some Lord’s nameday or event happening?
The questions quickly melted away at the sound of your voice. “It’s time for another round!” You yelled for everyone to hear, followed by cheers.
All three of them quickly strode into the hall full of people, food, wine, music, and loud boisterous conversations. "By the Seven," Lyonel laughed. “I’ve been gone a fortnight and she does this without me. She must have invited the entirety of the Stormlands.”
From the crowd of people, a voice from Lord Estermont ringed through the loud noise, “Lead us in a song, Lady Sandstorm!”
“Aye, a song!” Lord Durrandon called out.
Lord Tarth added, “Make it a good one!”
You were about as good a singer as Lyonel, but they had insisted. So you started…
“There's one pet I like to pet
And every evening we get set
I stroke it every chance I get”
Everyone called back:
“It's my girl's pussy!”
You:
“Seldom plays and never purrs
And I love the thoughts it stirs
But I don't mind because it's hers”
Dunk, Egg, and Lyonel walked further into the Hall to a loud callback of “My girl's pussy!” Dunk saw you standing on a table, near-naked (to his eyes), wearing what seemed to be a pink metal helm adorned with antlers decorated with silver steel that extended down into the helm. And leading a room of (mostly) men in a raucous callback song.
Lyonel chuckled proudly. “I taught her everything she knows.”
Dunk shifted awkwardly beside him, his towering height making him look like a bewildered mountain in the middle of the chaos. He glanced at Egg, who was already eyeing a platter of lemon cakes with interest.
You:
“Often it goes out at night
Returns at break of dawn
No matter what the weather's like
It's always nice and warm”
Lyonel’s brow furrowed. “Except the words to this song.”
You got off the table and picked up a cup, then took a drink of wine.
You:
“It's never dirty, always clean
In giving thrills, never mean
But it's the best I've ever seen”
Everyone:
“It's my girl's pussy!”
“Seven Hells.” Dunk couldn’t believe he was hearing such filth from a Lady’s mouth.
You:
“I bring tid-bits that it loves
We spoon like two turtle-doves
I take care to remove my gloves”
Everyone:
“When stroking my girl's pussy!” Everyone lifted their cups in cheers.
You saw Lyonel and froze, a smile spread wide on your face. “LYONEL!” You removed your helm and placed it on one of the lady’s heads. You ran to him, as the feast continued around you, and greeted him with a kiss on his cheek. “I didn’t think you would be back until the morrow.”
“Good weather made the traveling fast. Did we interrupt something?”
“I apologise. You probably want to rest after your journey.”
“Not at all, Shadowcat.”
That’s when you noticed the big man and the little boy. You smiled at Duncan then Egg, “Well met.” You offered a new, measured look to the towering knight, your expression was unreadable. There was a certain irony in the pairing of the two men with you, the boisterous Lord of Storm's End and a man who looks as though he'd rather blend into the grey stone of the walls.
Lyonel stood next to you and presented you to Duncan. “Dunk, this is Lady Sandstorm.” His voice boomed with pride. He gestured to you with a flourish. "A Sand. A bit of Dornish fire in the heart of the Stormlands. Lady Sandstorm, meet Ser Duncan the Tall.”
Duncan shifted his weight, looking slightly overwhelmed by the sheer volume of Lyonel's introduction. He offers a small respectful bow, his blue eyes searching yours with curiosity. “M’lady, San—Ss—Sandstorm.”
“No need for that. I am not a lady, but they call me ‘lady’ all the same.”
Duncan blinked, looking at you with a nervous expression. He gave a clumsy but sincere nod of his head. “I’m Ser Duncan the Tall, but you can call me Dunk. This is Egg.”
Egg peered out from behind Duncan's cloak, his big, blue eyes scanning you inquisitively. He stepped forward, his head tilted as he examined you. He seemed less interested in the formalities and more fascinated by the mention of Dorne. "Are you truly from the south?" He asked. "Do you have a sword? A curved blade? Or perhaps a spear?"
Lyonel let out a thunderous laugh. "Hah! Straight to the point, this one."
There is a refined quality to your bearing, the legacy of House Dayne, even if the name Sand marked you as a bastard.
You looked down at the boy, and offered a smile to Egg. The kind that suggested you've dealt with inquisitive children before. "I am indeed from the south, child." You replied. "As for the weapons... A woman in my position learns to be versatile."
Lyonel beamed, clearly enjoying the exchange. He reached out and gave Dunk a pat on the back, nearly sending the tall man stumbling. "Versatile!” He yelled. “That's a word for her. The Sandstorm is as sharp as any blade I've got in the armory, and twice as dangerous if you cross her."
Duncan looked between you and the Lord of Storm's End. He seemed struck by your poise.
"My apologies for the lad's bluntness," he said, glancing at Egg with a mixture of affection and exhaustion. "He has a habit of asking the things most people think but are too polite to say."
Egg ignored the reprimand, his gaze still locked on you. "You're a Sand. You must know the secrets of the desert. Do you know how to track a shadowcat?”
You let out a soft laugh at Egg's eagerness, the sound carrying a warmth that drew a glance from Lyonel. You leaned in slightly, your eyes danced with amusement. "Tracking shadowcats is a specialty of the mountains. As for the curved blades... The south has its ways of fighting. Though, I find a well-placed word often cuts deeper than any steel."
Lyonel reached out, his large hand finding the small of your back in an intimate gesture that spoke of a long-established comfort. He pulled you closer to his side, his presence a warm, steady weight.
Duncan caught the gesture between you and Lyonel, his expression remaining humble. However, there was a flicker of something, perhaps a quiet curiosity, as he looked at you.
He seemed to recognize the genuine affection in the way Lyonel held you, and he stepped back to give you space, his movements careful.
You smiled at Egg, “Would you like something to drink or eat? You may help yourselves.” Egg took that invitation and eagerly left to see what was available, having not eaten since five hours previous to their arrival.
Lyonel leaned close to you. “Have they been behaving?”
“The ones I invite always behave.”
“I am obligated to invite everyone for a feast, not just those who bow to you.” He added sarcastically. “But truly, have they behaved?”
You offered a small, knowing smile, glancing around at the chaos of the hall. "They've been perfectly behaved, my Stag." You reply. "Though I suspect ‘behaving' is a relative term when there's an open cask of Dornish strongwine and a feast of this magnitude."
Lyonel beamed, clearly pleased by the answer, and clapped a hand onto your shoulder with enough force to make most people stumble. "That's the spirit! A feast that behaves is a feast that's failed!"
Dunk looks between you and the Storm Lord, his expression a mixture of relief and lingering nervousness.
The music started getting livelier. You turned to Dunk, “Do you like to dance?”
“Yes.”
You took that as an open invitation, and pulled him towards the dancing bodies. “I will warn you, my dancing is no better than my singing.” The dancing was similar to Lyonel’s parties in his pavilion at Ashford. It was nothing like the stiff, measured movements of line dancing most courts do.
Once you and Dunk were tired, you both sat and enjoyed the food and wine. Egg & Lyonel quickly joined you at the table. Egg had a plate full of lemon cakes. Your eyes scanned the room with the practiced ease of someone used to the complicated social waters of a noble court, even if your own place in such circles is marked by the name 'Sand'.
Lyonel watched as Egg left to get more cakes with a fond chuckle, but as he turned back to you, the loud bravado of the ‘Laughing Storm' softened. He shifted closer, his shoulder brushed yours in a way that was far too intimate for the eyes of the court, yet perfectly natural for the two of you. The scent of leather and strongwine clung to him. For a moment, his gaze lingered on your lips with a heavy, familiar heat. "Let the boy have his cakes," Lyonel murmured, meant for your ears alone. "I've had quite enough of the road, and I find I'm far more interested in the company I've returned to."
Beside you, Dunk caught the shift in energy. He looked between you and Lyonel, a flicker of longing, perhaps. His mind wandered to Tanselle Too Tall. He quickly looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.
Suddenly, Egg appeared again with more food, still buzzing with energy. “I still want to know about the curved blades," he insisted, looking up at you. "Do they really slice through leather as easily as the songs say?"
"I might show you a few tricks, if you're a quick study." You tease Egg.
The boy's eyes widened, practically sparking with excitement. He looked as though he might jump out of his boots right there in the hall amongst the guests. "I'm the quickest study in the Seven Kingdoms!" He declared.
Dunk huffed. "He's a handful, Lady Sandstorm. I fear he'll have you teaching him the art of war before the sun sets."
Lyonel's arm tightened around your shoulders, pulling you into him. "Let the lad learn. A bit of
Dornish cunning will do him good. It'll save him from having to rely solely on Dunk's substantial size to get out of trouble."
The four of you crowded around the table was a strange sight to any onlooker: the Laughing Storm, a hedge knight, a Dornish bastard, and a bald child.
You and Lyonel made it to his chambers. The door clicked as it swung shut behind you. You paused for a moment and reopened the door. “Goodnight, little ones.” You bent over and gave scratches to all four animals that had been following you. Then you closed the door again, leaving two cats and two dogs in the hall. They didn’t linger and went to your chambers instead, where their beds stayed.
You reached up, winding your fingers into Lyonel’s hair to pull him down into a hungry kiss. He met you with an equal fervor, his mouth claiming yours with a possessiveness that tasted of wine and desire. You broke away just an inch, your breaths mixing. “I missed you,” he whispered.
“Missed you, too.” You nibbled at his neck, which he exposed to you further.
Lyonel let out a growl. "You're a menace, my lady.” He rumbled, his voice thick with heat. "Did you not see that look the hedge knight’s eyes? I've seen that look on knights before. It's the look of someone who's just found a new curiosity." He tilted his head, a mischievousness returning to his brown eyes. "Our dear Ser Duncan seems quite taken with the Sandstorm.” He twirled a strand of your hair around his fingers. “I can't blame him. I've been taken with you for years.”
“You both have good taste.” A playful glint entered your eyes. You decided to tease him with the truth, leaning closer until your breath brushed his ear. "Don't tell me you're jealous, Lord Lyonel Baratheon. You've invited others into our bed before.” You bit his earlobe.
Lyonel froze for a heartbeat, the mention of your open history sending a visible spark through him, thinking of the men and women you’ve shared. He threw his head back and let out a roar of laughter. He pulled you firmly against his chest, his large hand splaying across your back. "Jealous?" He asked, his voice dropping into a low, rumble. "My love, I'm a Baratheon. We're far too proud to be jealous of a man who looks like he's perpetually worried he's offending someone." He looked at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration, though the mischief remained. "I find the idea of the tall knight stumbling over his words in your presence entirely too amusing. It's like watching a lion try to act like a bat." Lyonel shifted his weight, as he considered the possibility of a new addition to your dynamic. "Though, if he does not want to be in your bed, and he continues to look at you like you're a miracle from the Seven Heavens, I might have to start charging him for the view.”
You leaned in and pressed your lips to his, lingering and soft. When you pulled back just enough to speak, your voice was a playful murmur. "Maybe he could make an interesting addition." You kissed him again, deeper, letting your hand slide up to the nape of his neck. "But I'd like to get to know him first. Right now, I just want you." Your hands moved with purpose, sliding down to the laces of his breeches. You worked them loose with a deftness that earned a sharp intake of breath from the Storm Lord. As the fabric loosened, you looked up at him, your eyes shimmering. “Show me how much you missed me.”
Lyonel groaned, his composure finally snapping. He hooked his arms under your thighs. He hoisted you up against the stone wall with a powerful surge of strength. You wrapped your legs around his waist. He pressed his stiff cock firmly against you, the hard heat of him making it clear exactly how much he missed you. "Gods, I've wanted this since the moment I saw you tonight.” His mouth found the sensitive skin of your neck. He bit softly, a claim that sent a shiver racing down your spine. "I'm going to make you forget every other man in this castle for the night.”
You pushed gently against his chest, making him part from you. He looked at you, a question in his dark eyes, breath uneven. You unwrapped your legs from his waist and he let you down. You turned your bodies until his back was against the wall. “I want to taste you.” You dropped to your knees and pulled his loosened breeches down.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hand finding the back of your head.
You took him into your mouth, your lips stretching around his girth. He tasted faintly musky, the scent of his skin after a long day. You started slow, bobbing your head, letting your tongue trace the ridge of his cock.
His fingers tangled in your hair, just grounding himself. “Like that,” he murmured, voice rough. “Yes. Like that, my love.”
You hummed around him and he bucked his hips instinctively, a low groan rumbling from his chest. You took him deeper, feeling him hit the back of your throat. You relaxed your jaw, letting him feel the wet heat. Spit coated his shaft, making every slide easier, wetter, messier. His breathing grew ragged, his hips beginning to move in a rhythm of their own. He was already so close. You could feel it in the way his thighs trembled, the way his grip tightened in your hair. But you pulled away just before he could crest, leaving him hard and aching, his cock glistening. He looked down at you, confused, and desperate.
“My turn,” you whispered. You stood, guiding him to the edge of the bed. You lay back on the cool sheets, spreading your legs.
He didn’t need a second invitation. He crawled between your thighs, his mouth already descending. The first touch of his tongue on your clit made you gasp. He didn’t tease, not tonight. He licked you open with long, flat strokes, savoring your taste. Then he focused on that tight bundle of nerves, circling and flicking until your hips rolled against his face. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open for him.
“Yes,” you breathed. Your fingers tangled in his curly black hair, greying with time and age.
He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks through your core. He sucked your clit gently, then harder, making you nearly squeal. His tongue added to the sucking sensation, making you squirm underneath his worship. He was relentless, driven by the same hunger you’d shown him minutes before.
Your breath came in short, sharp gasps as the pleasure built, coiling in your belly like a spring. “Yes, Lyonel.”
He buried his face deeper, his nose pressed against your mound, his tongue and lips working you over.
Your legs began to shake, your toes curling into the sheets. “Don’t stop,” you begged. “Don’t stop.” Your voice and moans were getting higher.
He didn’t stop. His mouth fastened onto you, sucking and licking in a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of your heart. The tension finally snapped and you cried out, your hips bucking against his face. Waves of pleasure rolled through you. He lapped you through it, gentling his touch until you slumped onto the mattress, trembling.
He crawled up beside you, his lips wet with your slick, a satisfied smirk on his mouth.
You pulled him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. You smiled, “Do you still want to fuck me? Because I really want you inside of me.”
He squared his hips with yours, your legs were still open from his feasting. His cock pressed against your entrance, slick with your wetness. He paused just long enough to meet your eyes. You nodded, a single breathless ‘yes’. He pushed inside. A low groan tore from his throat as he filled you, inch by inch, stretching you open. Your head fell back, hitting the bed. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. He was big and the feeling of that first penetration, the heat and the pressure, the way your body clenched around him, made you dizzy.
He didn’t move at first, just held himself buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck,” he breathed. His eyes met yours. “You feel so good.” Then he started to move. Slow, deep thrusts at first. He pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, letting you feel every ridge and every inch. The rhythm was steady and deliberate. A torturous pace that had you whimpering. He kissed you then, open-mouthed and messy, swallowing your sounds as his hips started picking up speed. The bed groaned with each thrust, the steady slap of skin against skin filling the chamber. You clung to him, your legs locked around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back. While you only meant to let go of him briefly, you loosened your legs and he took the opportunity to lift them up, pressing your knees to your chest.
The position was your favourite. It felt like he was so deep inside you. “Fuck yes, Lyonel! My Stag.”
He drove into you harder, angling his hips, and suddenly the head of his cock struck that perfect spot deep inside you. You cried out. “Right there.” You were pleading with him again not to stop.
He fucked you into the bed, each thrust hitting that same spot, sending jolts of pleasure up your spine. Your walls fluttered around him. He groaned. His pace grew frantic, his breathing ragged. “Close,” he warned.
“Not yet. Keep going. Don’t stop.”
He fucked into you with renewed force.
You clenched around him, your own orgasm building like a wave about to crash. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes. Then the coil snapped. “Fuck!” Your body spasmed under him, as his pace almost faltered.
His thrusts grew sloppy and desperate. “Fuck, my love. You look so beautiful falling apart.” He drove into you one last time. His body going rigid as he reached his peak, hot and thick, pulsing inside you. He released your legs, making sure you weren’t sore. Then he buried his face in your neck, giving you gentle kisses and trying to memorise your scent. “Mmm.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your legs were shaky, your heart pounding. He stayed inside you, softening. His breath was warm against your skin. Finally, he pulled out, and you felt his seed trickle down into the sheets.
He saw it and caught your eye, a tired, satisfied smile curving his lips. “That was exactly what I needed,” he said.
You laughed, still breathless. “Me too.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead. After both of you cleaned up, he pulled you into his bed, and urged you to get under the furs. You happily jumped under the furs with him and he held you as you both fell asleep.
Pairing : You (AFAB) x Lyonel Baratheon, You x Dunk
Word Count : 3,830
WARNINGS : No use of Y/N, smut , violence, ethical non-monogamy, slow burn, all the types of smut I can write, etc.
Lady Sandstorm Masterlist
Chapter Two
Your mind drifted to the guest wing. You wondered if Ser Duncan and Egg had woken, and whether the ‘tricks’ you promised the child still held a place in your morning.
You slipped out of the warmth of the furs, and put on one of your robes and made your way back to your chamber. You dressed with efficiency, choosing attire that balanced comfort with the poise expected of a woman of your station. Your pets, two cats and two dogs, were asleep in their beds until you opened the door to leave. They always followed you around when someone new was in the castle.
You left the bedroom and made your way toward the breakfast hall, animals in tow. As you entered the hall, you noticed Egg was already seated. Dunk was standing close to where you stopped, staring at the table. He looked a bit overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of the spread. Egg was vibrating in his seat, staring intently at a plate of honey cakes. The smallest dog, Fox Storm, wandered off, sniffing the air.
“There she is!" Lyonel beamed, as he made his way to you. "The light of my life.” He kissed your cheek, then he saw the two cats and only one dog trailing behind you. The larger dog, Karuna stopped next to you. Lyonel looked at you playfully, one brow lifted, “Did allow that mongrel in your bed while I was away?”
You slapped his arm playfully. “Stop.”
“As long as she kept you safe while I was gone.” He brought attention to the missing dog. “Where is my son?”
You tilted your head toward the small dog, already standing next to Lyonel. “Fox must have sensed you coming.” Lyonel picked him up and carried him away without dismissing himself. He sat down at the table and began loading his plate.
You shook your head at Ser Duncan with a smile. “He calls my girl a mongrel, then calls that one his son. He even has a surname.” You turned to where Lyonel was sitting, “The jest is on you, they all slept with me!” You turned back to Ser Duncan. “My bed is big.” You caught what you said and a hot flush passed through your cheeks. “I mean, it— it gets lonely s— sometimes.” Gods did you just make it worse? You worried your bottom lip through your teeth, trying to think of something else to say as you realised Ser Duncan hadn’t seemed to notice. “Do you like animals, Ser Duncan?”
His face lit up. “Oh, yeah.”
“These are my cats. The calico is Naijiah, she’s… Opinionated. The orange tabby is Aeryth, he’s playful.” You petted the dog. “And this is Karuna. She’s useless for anything other than companionship.”
“Sometimes that’s all you need.” He kneeled down and pet each one of them as he spoke to them in a friendly way that made you melt. He made a comment about the distinct markings on the calico cat, she had yellow eyes. The long-coated orange cat, had green eyes. He also noticed the black and white dog, had two different coloured eyes, one blue and one gold. After the cats were introduced, they fucked off, as cats do. Apparently, Ser Duncan passed their test. Karuna, on the other hand, stayed by your side. You took your seat at the table, followed by Dunk.
Egg looked at you, his eyes widening. "I was just telling Dunk that we should go see the armory after we eat.“
"Egg, if you finish your cakes, I'll show you my blades later.”
Dunk let out a huffed laugh as Egg began stuffing his face, his expression brightening. "You're far too patient with him, Lady Sandstorm. He's like a pup with a new bone."
"He's got a hunger," Lyonel interjected, pouring wine into his goblet.
Once the meal was over, Egg immediately brought up the blades. “Are the blades really as sharp as the ones the sailors talk about?”
“Sharper.” You winked.
“Why are they curved?”
“It's about the flow of the fight," you explained.
Egg tilted his head, trying to visualize the concept. "The flow? Like water?"
"Precisely," you reply.
Lyonel laughed, leaning back in his chair. "See? I told you. I just hit things until they stop moving. The Sandstorm treats a fight like a dance."
Dunk watched the interaction, a thoughtful smile touching his lips. He seems captivated by the way you handled the boy's curiosity, his gaze lingered on you with a mixture of admiration and a quiet, simmering melancholy. "I've seen the curved blades of the Free Cities." Dunk said softly. "They're formidable, but I've always found the balance of a straight sword more honest."
Egg looked up at Dunk, then back to you. "Is a curved blade considered dishonest, then?"
Lyonel snorted, shaking his head. "Now you've gone and confused the boy, Dunk.” He looked at Egg. “A blade is as honest as the man wielding it." He turned to you with mischievous eyes. "Shall we let the boy have his wish, Sandstorm? I'm half-inclined to see if he can even lift one of your toys without falling over, but I have reports from the castellan to review, so I'll leave the 'education' of the boy to you, Shadowcat.” He gave your hand a squeeze.
"Would you like to see them, Ser Duncan?" You asked, your gaze shifted from the boy to the knight.
Dunk blinked, seemingly caught off guard by the invitation. He looked at you, then glanced at Lyonel, as if checking to see if such a request was permitted.
Lyonel simply grinned, waving a hand dismissively. "By all means. I've seen her handiwork in the yard. It's a sight to behold. You'd be a fool to decline, Dunk."
Dunk cleared his throat, a slight flush creeping up his neck. "I... I would be honored, Lady Sandstorm. I've spent most of my time with the standard issue of knights. I'm curious to see how the Dornish forge their steel."
Everyone rose from the table as Lyonel carried his dog to the solar, where reports awaited him.
"Follow me, then." You said, offering a small nod as you turned toward the exit of the hall.
You led them into your private quarters, a space that reflected a blend of Stormlands comfort and Dornish flair, mixed with gowns, tunics, breeches, and trinkets from around the known world. Vibrant silks from the south were draped over dark wooden furniture. You moved towards a large chest of dark polished wood. You lifted the lid to reveal a velvet-lined interior. Nestled within were several blades. Some were short and wicked, and others were longer and elegantly sweeping. Another wasn’t curved at all, but it was a twised blade, small enough to fit in your hand and long enough to kill someone. All of the steel shimmered with an iridescent quality.
Egg leaned in so close he nearly tipped over. "They're beautiful."
Ser Duncan stepped forward, his eyes narrowed as he studied the curvature of the primary blade. "The edge is incredibly fine." He observed. "I've never seen steel worked this way. Is it a secret of the Daynes?”
"A bit." You explained, your fingers grazed the cool steel of the primary blade. "It's forged to slice, not just to hack. A straight blade is a hammer of steel. It relies on force and impact, but a curved edge allows the blade to glide across the target."
"It's a dangerous way to fight.” Dunk observed softly. "Relies on precision. One slip and you've left yourself open to a heavy strike."
"That's where the flow comes in.” You replied, glancing up at him.
The knight looked at you. For a moment, the sadness in his eyes is replaced by a genuine, scholarly interest. He seemed fascinated by the contrast of your refined poise and the lethal nature of the tools you keep. "I've always fought the way I was taught." Dunk admitted, a touch of humility in his voice. "Strong and direct. I imagine the world looks very different when you're fighting with a blade like that."
“Would you like to feel the weight of it, Ser Duncan?" you asked, lifting the blade from its velvet cradle.
Dunk hesitated, his eyes flickering toward you with a look of genuine uncertainty. He seemed mindful of the boundaries, the gap between a knight and a lady, and the intimacy of handling a warrior's personal steel. "I... If you're certain." He murmured.
You held the weapon out, hilt first.
As Dunk reached for it, the difference in your scales became strikingly apparent. His hand was massive, his fingers were thick and calloused from years of gripping a heavy longsword. Yet he took the blade with a surprising, delicate touch. He lifted it to test the balance with a slow, rhythmic flick of his wrist. A look of surprise crossed his face. "It's light. Almost like it's not there at all. I'm used to steel that feels like a lead bar in the hand."
Egg’s eyes darted back and forth between the knight and the blade. "Does it feel like it could cut the wind?"
Dunk gave the boy a distracted smile, but his focus remained on the sword. He looked at you, his expression softening. "It's a weapon for someone who moves with grace. I can see why you call it a dance."
"Egg, do you want to try holding it?" You asked, glancing at the boy.
"Yes. Please."
Dunk carefully handed the blade over to the boy, though he kept a firm grip on Egg's wrist for a moment to ensure the child had a secure hold. The sword was far too long for the boy. The tip dipped toward the rug, but Egg held it with a reverence. He lifted it slowly, his small arms straining slightly.
Dunk’s gaze shifted from the boy to you. There was a warmth in his eyes, a quiet appreciation for the kindness you're showing his squire. "Careful there, Egg," Dunk warned gently, though he remained relaxed. "A blade that light is easy to forget you're holding until something is already cut."
Egg ignored the warning, staring at his reflection in the iridescent steel. "Do you think I could learn to use it like you, my lady?”
"Perhaps, once you've mastered your basic forms." You replied, your voice carrying a hint of a teasing smile.
Egg let out a dramatic sigh, his shoulders slumping as he looked down at the blade. "But the forms are so slow. I want to learn the flow!"
Dunk reached down and took the sword back from the boy. He returned the weapon to the velvet lining of the chest with a careful, deliberate motion. “The slow part is what keeps you alive, Egg." Dunk said, his tone firm but kind. "She's right. You can't dance if you can't stand. You'll have to be patient."
The room felt smaller now. The air thick with the quiet intimacy of the shared moment. Dunk seemed to be weighing his words, his expression shifting from the mentor role back to the man who is still grappling with a heavy heart. "I appreciate you showing us these," he adds softly. "It's refreshing. To see something so lethal treated with such grace."
"You're very welcome. I hope the Stormlands treat you kindly.”
Dunk looked at you, and for a heartbeat the distance between you seemed to shrink. There was a flicker of something in his blue eyes, a mixture of gratitude and newfound curiosity about the woman who commands lethal steel with such ease. He bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect that felt more personal than a mere formality. "I think they already are, m’lady.”
Egg, sensing the shift in energy, tugged on the sleeve of Dunk's tunic. "Can we go now? I want to practice my forms.”
"I fear I've created a monster. He'll be demanding a curved blade by noon."
"I’ll hold him to the dirt," Dunk quipped. He guided Egg toward the door, but paused at the threshold. "We'll be in the courtyard if you feel like joining us.”
With a final, lingering look, Dunk led the energetic child out of your quarters, their voices faded as they headed toward the training grounds.
You lingered for a while in the silence of your room, the image of Dunk's humble presence still fresh in your mind, before you decided to seek out Lyonel a few hours later.
The walk to the solar was shorter, the hallways were bustling with the midday energy of the keep. You found the Lord of Storm's End exactly where he said he would be, though he looked far less like a man reviewing reports and more like a man fighting a losing battle with a stack of parchment.
Lyonel was slumped in his heavy oak chair, one hand rubbed his forehead while the other held a quill that looked far too small for his fingers. A few scrolls were haphazardly rolled across the table, and a half-empty flagon of ale sat close to a wax seal. He looked up as you entered, his face instantly brightening. A grin spread across his bearded features, and he tossed the quill aside with a sigh of relief. "Thank the gods." He gestured for you to come closer. "I've spent the last hour reading a report from the castellan about the state of the granaries. It's a miracle I haven't fallen asleep and drowned in my ink." He reached out, catching your hand and pulling you toward him with that familiar, effortless strength.
"Tell me something interesting, Shadowcat. Did the boy try to swing one of your swords? Did Dunk look like he wanted to bolt for the gates the moment you mentioned 'the flow'?"
"Dunk was a gentleman." You replied, leaning into Lyonel's touch. "He's far more disciplined than the boy."
Lyonel gave your hand a playful squeeze. "Most men that big are as subtle as a landslide." He let out a sigh, his gaze drifting back to the mountain of parchment on his desk. The frustration returned to his voice. "I can appreciate the discipline. I could use some of it myself. Or better yet, I could use a reason to set this entire desk on fire and declare a holiday."
“Take a break.” You leaned in and kissed him.
Lyonel let out a low sound, his composure gone. He captured your waist with both arms, lifting you with a sudden burst of strength to set you on top of the heavy wood table. Parchment scrolls scattered like fallen leaves, and the flagon of ale rattled precariously, but he remains focused only on you.
“The granaries can rot for all I care.” He growled, his voice thick with desire. He crowded into your space. His chest pressed against you, the heat of his body radiating through his tunic. He looked at you, his brown eyes dark and hungry. "You've always known exactly how to distract me, my love. It's a dangerous talent." His hands pushed your skirts up, and slid up your thighs. His touch was firm and possessive, pulling you flush against him as he searched your eyes for the same hunger he felt.
He claimed your mouth again. His kiss was far more urgent, tasting of simmering heat. He swept the remaining scrolls off the table with one forceful arm, clearing a space for you. His hands were everywhere, tracing the curve of your waist, gripping your hips, pulling you so close that there was no air left between your bodies. He broke the kiss to trail his lips down your jawline. His beard scratched pleasantly against your skin. “I've missed you every second you were out of this room." He mumbled against your neck, his voice a rough vibration. "And I've missed you while you were talking to that towering hedge knight." He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark with a hunger that always made you feel like the only woman in the world. He started to untie the laces of your bodice with fingers that were surprisingly steady for a man so clearly wound tight. "Tell me," he breathed. His lips were brushing against yours. "Do I still have your full attention, my lady?"
"More than you know." You whispered.
Lyonel let out a low, triumphant sound, his eyes darkening as he pulled you flush against him. He managed to free your breasts from the constraints of your bodice. His hands were large and warm as they cupped you, squeezing with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent with a deep, hungry draw of air. "Gods, you're beautiful." He growled, his voice a rough vibration against your skin. He shifted, his thigh sliding between yours to create a friction that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.
The cold wood of the table pressed into your back, was a sharp contrast to the softness of his touch and the heat of his body.
Lyonel's kisses moved from your neck to your collarbone. You arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him. He pulled back for a second. "I can feel your heart racing, my love. It's drumming against me." His hand slid down, tracing the line of your hip before dipping lower, his fingers finding the wet heat of you through the fabric of your dampened smallclothes. You rolled your hips as his fingers found their mark. He let out a jagged breath, the sound of a man who had reached his limit. His expression was a mix of raw hunger and fierce devotion. "You're trying to kill me, my love. Truly."
He pulled your smallclothes off and with efficient movement, he fumbled with the fastenings of his own breeches. He remained focused on your face. His gaze was intense as he readied himself. He positioned himself between your thighs, the heat of his skin searing against yours. He entered you in one slow, deep thrust that filled you completely. He closed his eyes, his forehead leaned against yours. His breath came out heavy. He remained still for a moment, savoring the tight, welcoming heat of you. "Gods," he groaned. His voice was a guttural rumble in his chest. "I could spend a lifetime right here."
He began to move. His pace was steady and powerful. The heavy table creaked beneath you. Each thrust echoed against the solar walls.
You wrapped your legs around Lyonel's waist. The sudden shift in leverage forced a ragged gasp from his throat. His muscles tightened beneath your touch. He gripped your hips with intensity. His fingers dug into your skin to hold you steady as he found a more aggressive rhythm.
“Yes, Lyonel.”
Each thrust was a thunderous collision, rattling the few remaining items on the table that hadn't already been swept to the floor. "Gods.” He groaned. His voice was a raw sound of surrender. He buried his face in your shoulder, his hot breath searing your skin. He pulled back and your eyes locked. "I can't... I can't think when you look at me like that."
“Don’t think.”
He accelerated, his movements becoming frantic and powerful. He was driven by a hunger that had only grown since he woke in the morning. The world narrowed down to the sound of his labored breathing and grunts, and the overwhelming heat where your bodies met.
Lyonel let out a shaking moan. His body tensed as he neared his peak. He pulled back for one last, deep surge. His eyes locked onto yours with a fierce fire.
"I love you, my Storm." You whispered against the heat of his skin.
The words hit him with more force than any blow in a sparring ring. A raw sound escaped him. He buried his face in your neck. His grip tightened on your hips as he delivered several final, powerful thrusts that left you both trembling.
He collapsed against you. His heavy frame pinned you to the table as he found his release. His breath comes in ragged, shuddering gasps. His heart hammered a wild rhythm against your chest. For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sound in the solar being the distant roll of thunder and the synchronized heaving of your lungs.
Slowly, Lyonel lifted his head and kissed you. He looked at you with eyes that were soft and glazed with afterglow. He looked at you with the intensity of love that borders on worship. He pressed a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead. "And I love you, Sandstorm." He rumbled. "More than the Stormlands. More than my own pride. More than anything."
He shifted slightly, though he made no move to actually let you go. He looked down at the wreckage of his desk. There were scattered reports and the spilled ale. A tired smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
"Stay with me a while longer." You mumbled, tightening your hold on him.
Lyonel let out a contented sigh and sunk his weight back into you.
He ignored the scattered papers and the precarious tilt of the table. He rested his cheek against your shoulder, his breathing slowly returning to a steady rhythm. The frantic energy of the morning settled into something warmer and more languid. The kind of peace that only exists in the quiet aftermath of passion. His hand traced lazy circles on your hip.
The curious eyes of Ser Duncan felt miles away, reduced to mere whispers against the strength of the man holding you.
Lyonel eventually lifted his head. His eyes searching yours with a playful light. "Though if I stay too long, my castellan might actually stage a coup just to get me to sign a single piece of parchment." He gave you a small, affectionate squeeze. "Are you hungry? Or perhaps you'd prefer to sneak back to the bedroom before the world remembers we exist?"
"I'm starving." You admitted. “Let's find something to eat."
"A woman of appetites. I love that about you, my love." He helped you off the table, though he lingers for a moment. His hands rested on your hips as he surveyed the wreckage of his solar. With a shrug of his shoulders. He seemed to decide that the scattered reports were a problem for ‘Future Lyonel'. "Right then. I believe there's a platter of cold meats and some fresh bread in the pantry." He guided you toward the door. "And if we're lucky, the cook has some of those spiced pears I like.”
You and your partner, Myro Smoak, have secrets you should take to your graves, but you're desperate. However, a war is brewing and you get caught in the middle of it. Your lifelong bond with Myro is tested when you fall in love with Aemond. You discover the truth of Valyrian magic & dragons and try to save both through research and friends in low places.
Pairing : You (AFAB) x Aemond Targaryen
Word Count : 3,225
WARNINGS : No use of Y/N, smut , violence, ethical non-monogamy, slow burn, all the types of smut I can write,
Savages Masterlist
A knock at the door rouses you before you're ready to wake. ‘M'lady.’ A servant's voice. ‘Queen Alicent requests your presence at breakfast. In the solar.’
You step fully into the room and take the offered seat, settling into the cushioned chair across from the Queen.
"Thank you for coming so promptly," she says, reaching for the teapot. "I know you've only just arrived. The city must feel overwhelming. I wanted to speak with you privately," she continues. "Before the council descends on you with its questions. My husband is taken with you. Your gifts, the promise of what you might offer.” She pauses, her brown eyes meeting yours. "I am more pragmatic. I want to know what you truly seek here. Not the pretty speeches for the hall, but the truth." She tilts her head. "What do you want from Westeros, My Lady?”
"I want what any envoy wants," you say, setting the cup down untasted. "A pact that benefits both our peoples. Your dragons are powerful, but they're dwindling. My people command the seas, but we're vulnerable from the sky." You lean forward slightly. "I want an exchange. Knowledge for knowledge. Strength for strength.”
"And if the crown is...divided on what strength looks like?"
"Then I'll speak to whichever head of the dragon will hear me.”
She studies you a long moment, then nods, as if confirming something to herself. "Very well. You'll address the small council this afternoon. My father will want to interrogate your proposals. Prepare yourself.” She rises, signaling the audience is over.
Later, you find Myro in your chambers, boots propped on the windowsill, staring out at the bay. "So? What did the Queen want?”
"To size me up." You close the door behind you. "Small council meets this afternoon. We need to decide what we're actually offering them." You buy yourself a moment to arrange your thoughts. You pace to the window. "All of it," you say, swallowing. “Military alliance. The rest of our ships can blockade any port in the Seven Kingdoms. Our warriors are trained from childhood for sea and land combat. There are fewer of us, but they won't find better in Essos or here.”
Myro raises an eyebrow. "And what do we ask in return?”
"Dragon knowledge," you say, turning from the window. “If we must fight, we ask for dragons. Or at least some eggs, if we’re successful.” Sit sit down at a desk and start writing. “We need to know the old bloodlines, the bonding rituals, the commands, the language, the songs that call them. Our people have forgotten what the merlings taught the Valyrians about dragons. The Targaryens have the living beasts, but they've also forgotten how to begin and strengthen the bond, how the dragons choose, how to hatch more eggs. I don’t think it has to do with the blood. I think it’s whoever holds the knowledge.”
"And trade routes." Myro leans forward, changing the direction slightly. "You want to offer them a path to our shores.”
Your gaze meets his skeptical one. "And a path to theirs. Open waters between our lands. No tariffs, no restrictions. Ships free to sail both directions. If our people need protection from the sky, we give them as many reasons as possible to want us alive.”
Myro studies you for a long breath. Then he smiles. "You've been thinking about this since we left the Stepstones.”
"Since before that. Since we first heard of the Targaryens in Yi Ti two years ago.” A beat. "The council meets this afternoon. I need to know what you want people to say when they remember your name."
"That they remember I stood beside you.”
When you stand and turn back, Myro's expression has softened. He holds your gaze for a long moment, then rises from the window ledge, crossing to stand before you. His hands land on your hips, and your arms settle around his neck. "You're asking what I want," he says quietly. "Not what our people need. Not what the council wants to hear. What I want.”
You nod, “I don’t want to go in there and tell them everything, only to later find out that you disagree. I don’t want to make this decision alone.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. The gesture is familiar. A habit of years spent reading each other's silences. "I want to go home," he says. "When this is done. When we've mapped their politics and their dragons and their petty feuds. I want to sail west with you beside me and never look back at these foreign lands and its giant snakes. I want to retire and live by the sea with you and try to have children again.”
You give him a cheeky smile. “In fairness, we never stopped.”
He kisses you, then his hand drops to his side. "But I also want you to have this.”
You look at him, confused.
“You’ve been here days and even I can feel something there. With him. It’s like lighting.” He pauses, thinking. “Whatever this is… The prince's attention, the Queen's wariness, the game you've already started playing." He tilts his head. "You're better at it than you admit. I've seen you charm warlords and assassins in the same breath. You'll do fine at their council." He steps toward you again. "So tell them everything. Military alliance, trade routes, dragon secrets. Lay it all out and see which pieces they bite." A sharp grin. "And if they try to cage us, the merfolk won’t be happy. We’ll sink their ships and burn their harbor on the way out."
"And if they don't bite?”
The question cuts through the bravado. Myro's grin fades slowly. "Then we've learned something valuable." He picks up his sheathed belt knife from the table, straps it on with practiced ease. "We know they're not interested in peace. We know they'd rather hoard their dragons than share their knowledge. And we know exactly how far their hospitality extends.” He meets your eyes. "Either way, we leave this city with information. Maps. Alliances we've already made with the Stepstones." He pauses. "And a prince who's shown more interest in you than is strictly political. That's a card we can play, if we need to. I hear his interest in you is unusual for him. He is temperamental and unforgiving. He doesn’t have any friends. Most people are scared of him.”
"Aemond."
"Aemond." Myro shrugs. "You look past the bravado and see a man. He's not the heir.” He reminds you. You were originally supposed to approach Rhaenyra, but doing so without seeing the king would be disrespectful. Then Myro suggested one of you seduce Aegon. The idea of you seducing Prince Aegon was laughable now. “But Aemond rides the largest dragon in the world, and he's got more ambition than his brother ever will. If the Greens make a play for the throne, he'll be their sword.”
You consider that. The image of Aemond standing alone against Vhagar. His voice low and serious. "He asked me to hear him out," you say. "When the tide turns.”
"And will you?”
The question is simple. It deserves an honest answer. "I said I would.”
Myro nods slowly. "Then we've got our contingency. Make your offer to the council. If they take it, we negotiate. If they don't..." He heads for the door. "We've got other options."
He pauses and looks back. "Either way, I'll be there. Watching.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
The council chamber won't fill for another hour. The small council door is unguarded. You push it open. The room is empty. Long table, high-backed chairs, a map of Westeros. Windows look out over the city. You cross to the window.
They arrive piecemeal. First, Grand Maester Orwyle. He nods at you, curious but guarded, then busies himself with papers.
Then Lord Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships. Golden-haired. He glances at you, offers a smile, and says nothing.
Ser Criston Cole enters next. His eyes find you immediately, scan you head to toe, and dismiss you just as fast. He takes his place beside the empty Hand's seat.
Jasper Wylde is next, then Queen Alicent.
Otto Hightower comes last, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. He pauses at the head of the table, studying you with the patient assessment of a man who has spent decades reading people. “My Lady. Early.”
"Lord Hand." You incline your head. "I wanted to see the room before it filled
with voices.”
A flicker of something crosses his face before he settles into his chair. "Wise. Many don't. They enter blind, and the chamber eats them alive." He folds his hands on the table. "Shall we begin?” He gestures to the seat across from him.
"Alive is better than blind. Thank you for the advice.” You take the seat, your hands visible on the table's surface.
Otto watches you with the patience of a man who has spent a long time waiting for others to reveal themselves. “You've had a few days to rest and observe. What impressions have you formed of King's Landing?”
The question is bait. He’s testing your diplomacy, your discretion, and your willingness to speak truth or flattery. "It's a city of whispers and sharp edges.
I feel at home.”
"Then you'll find the Red Keep familiar territory. We specialize in both. The Stepstones," Otto continues. "Our Master of Ships tells me you made port there before arriving here. You dealt with the Triarchy.”
"I dealt with Sharako Lohar, yes." You keep your voice even. "We came to an understanding. The Stepstones are useful for ships that need to pass without interference.”
Tyland Lannister leans forward. "And what understanding was that, exactly?"
"That my ships pass freely. That their ships leave mine alone. That we share information." You meet his gaze. "I didn't promise them the throne, Lord Lannister. Just safe passage.”
The table absorbs that. Otto's fingers drum once against the table. ”You speak of trade routes and safe passage as if you've already mapped them." Otto's eyes are sharp. "Tell me, My Lady, what does the west have that Westeros lacks?”
He's not asking for a list of goods. He’s asking you to reveal your hand.
"Resources you've never seen. Metals, spices, creatures and other lands beyond your maps.”
"And you've come to trade these wonders?"
"I've come to offer first access. My people have dealt with Essosi merchants for years. They take our goods east, mark them up threefold, and sell them back to Westerosi lords who never know the origin. I'm offering to cut out the middlemen.”
Tyland speaks before Otto can. "And what do you want in return?”
The question lands exactly where you wanted it. "Three things.” You say. “One, open ports for my ships in every major harbour of the Seven Kingdoms. Two, a formal military alliance. Your dragons guard our skies, our larger fleet can guard your shores.” You interlace your fingers over the table. “Third, access to your dragonlore. The old texts, the breeding records, the songs, the language.” You pause. "We have knowledge too. Knowledge your maesters have never found, about the bond between dragon and rider. About the deep magic that first bound them to dragonrider bloodlines."
The library in the Red Keep is larger than you expected. You run your fingers along the spines of books as you walk. Histories. Lineages. Scrolls. Maps. A whole section devoted to the Conquest, the reigns that followed, the dragons that shaped them. You pull a heavy volume titled The Dragons of House Targaryen: A Breeding Record and carry it to a reading table. Diagrams of eggs, descriptions of hatchlings, notes on temperament and colouring. The entries are clinical, written by maesters who observed but never bonded. They describe Vhagar as “ill-tempered” Meraxes is noted for her “unusual attachment to Rhaenys.” Nothing about how the bond forms. Nothing about what makes a dragon choose.
You turn another page and find a marginal note in a different hand. Valyrian. You only know enough to get by in Astapor. Astaporian Valyrian is a little different. ‘The bond is not in the blood. It is in the willingness to burn together.’ You read it a few more times before you close the breeding record. The hand that wrote it knew something the maesters didn't. You want to find more of that hand.
You rise and move deeper into the stacks, scanning shelves for anything written in High Valyrian. Most of the library's contents are in the Common Tongue. Near the back you find a section of older texts. The titles in faded script you can barely read. You pull a volume titled Perzys se Embar Hen (‘Flame of the Sea’). The pages are brittle, the ink barely legible. You open it carefully.
It's a collection of dragon songs. Verses meant to be sung during bonding rituals, descriptions of the old ways from before the Doom. The handwriting in the margins matches the marginal note from the breeding record. You're so absorbed in the first verse that you don't hear the footsteps until they're nearly on top of you.
"Found something?”
You look up. Prince Aemond is at the end of the aisle. You hold the thin volume out toward him, the cracked leather spine catching the dim light. "You speak High Valyrian. Would you read this for me?”
Aemond's eye drops to the book, then back to your face. He steps closer. He takes the volume carefully, handling it as if it might crumble in his hands. "Perzys se Embar Hen," he reads aloud. The syllables rolling off his tongue with an ease that comes from childhood fluency and many hours of practice. "Flame of the Sea." He flips a few pages, scanning. "This is a collection of bonding songs. Before the Doom. I've seen references to it, but never the text itself.” His finger traces a line of faded script. "This one is meant to be sung while the egg warms. It calls the dragon forth. Asks it to rise and remember the fire that birthed it.” He looks up at you. "Where did you find this?”
"Tucked between histories.” You pause. “There are a notes in the breeding record. Same handwriting as the notes in this. Someone wrote…” You try to remember. “A bond isn't in the blood, but a… Willingness to burn together.” You walk to the table and hand him the breeding record.
Aemond opens the book. “Hmm. This is Rhaenys Targaryen’s. She annotated it. Added her own observations in the margins." A pause. "She understands dragons better than any maester.” He holds the book out to you. "Keep it. She'd rather it be read by someone who asks questions than gather dust on a shelf."
You close your fingers around the worn leather, the weight of Rhaenys Targaryen's knowledge settling into your palms. "Thank you," you say.
Aemond inclines his head. "Read it tonight. Tomorrow, the council will want more than promises.” He turns and disappears into the stacks, leaving you alone with the book.
The small council chamber is fuller than before. Myro stands at your side as you unroll your maps across the table. Coastlines Westerosi eyes have never seen, mountain passes, river routes, the proud spires of Urthval sketched in ink.
Otto leans forward, studying them.
You tap the map. "We control the straits. Any fleet that tries to approach uninvited meets our merfolk before they reach the harbor.”
Aegon mutters from his end of the table. "Still talking about merlings."
You let Aegon's words evaporate, unanswered, and slide your finger along the map's western edge. "Urthval commands access to three separate sea routes. The north is treacherous, but passable in summer. The southern route cuts past the burning islands." You trace both paths. "We control the central passage. Any fleet that wants to reach the interior of Casameris must answer to our harbormasters.”
Otto is cataloging every detail for later use. "And these burning islands?”
"Volcanic activity. The islands are uninhabited. But the sea around them is rich with strange life that glow in the dark, shells that can be ground into powder for medicines." You glance up. "Our merfolk gather them."
Aegon mutters something under his breath that sounds like "merlings again.”
Tyland Lannister leans forward, tapping a cluster of islands near the southern passage. "What's this? There's no label.”
“Those aren’t mapped. They shift with seasons, tides, and currents.”
“Shift?"
"They move. Or appear to. One year, the islands on the map will be visble, Then the same time the next year they're submerged. Only the merfolk can predict where they will be next. We find precious gems there. Ammolite, black opal, and red beryl.” You meet his gaze. "Only our navigators know how to track them. It's one of the things I'm offering to share.”
Silence settles around the table.
Otto breaks the quiet. "You've given us much to consider, My Lady. Your maps are... enlightening.” The words are diplomatic. The undercurrent is not. He's learned nothing he didn't expect, and he's weighing how much of what you've shown is truth versus theater.
You glance at Myro, lifting your chin. "Anything to add?”
He steps forward. His hand lands on the map, fingers spanning the distance between the eastern coast Casameris and the western coast of Westeros. "Just one thing." He looks up, scanning the faces around the table. Tyland’s sharp interest, Aegon's bored sneer. "You're looking at our homeland like it's a prize to be won. Like we're peddling secrets for coin and favor." His thumb traces the coastline. "We're offering alliance. That means we fight beside you, not for you. Our fleet answers to us. Our warriors answer to us. And if the day comes when blades are drawn, we won't be standing behind your lines. We’ll be in the thick of it.” He offers a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "Thought you should know before you decide if we're worth the trouble."
Tyland Lannister laughs. "At least you're honest about it.”
Otto's expression remains unreadable. "Noted, Lord Smoak." The title is deliberate. "We'll take your honesty into consideration.”
Aegon pushes back from the table, cup in hand. "If we're done with the show, I have matters to attend to.”
Otto clears his throat. “My Lady. We'll reconvene this evening with our response. In the meantime, the Keep is yours. Rest. Explore. We'll find you when we’re ready."
Aegon is first out, cup still in hand.
Otto lingers a moment, exchanging a low word with Alicent before following.
