#daemon targaryen

[marydarkblacknoir]

Ok but why this wasn’t included? I’m angry AF!!!!!!

[marydarkblacknoir]

Drakari pykiros

Tīkummo jemiros

Yn lantyz bartossa

Saelot vāedis

Hen ñuhā elēnī:

Perzyssy vestretis

Se gēlȳn irūdaks

Ānogrose

Perzyro udrȳssi

Ezīmptos laehossi

Hārossa letagon

Aōt vāedan

Hae mērot gierūli:

Se hāros bartossi

Prūmȳsa sōvīli

Gevī dāerī

Fire breather

Winged leader

But two heads

To a third sing

From my voice:

The fires have spoken

And the price has been paid

With blood magic

With words of flame

With clear eyes

To bind the three

To you I sing

As one we gather

And with three heads

We shall fly as we were destined

Beautifully, freely

[subtlecards]

if you had told me in s1 that Daemon Targaryen would become one of my favorite characters in s3 I would have never believed you.

a grown ass man starting to realize of "oh... maybe war and violence and murder and neglecting my children can be bad..." is INSANE.

idc if people think it's out of character or too quick, I'm so down for this character arc and (imo) it's clearly not at a conclusion yet. the last episode showed him recognize for the first time the destruction and pain that comes with war and violence. like i dont think we're going to go into season 4 (or ever) with Daemon a dad of the year pacifist.

[pineappleglazedham]

Daemon Targaryen laughing at Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon Season 3, Episode 2)

[itsoutrageouss]

filthy - daemon targaryen

(sequel to selfish, but can be read as a standalone)

pairing: daemon targaryen x fem!master of coins!reader

summary: you plan on stringing daemon along, seeing how much you can leave him wanting you, but unexpectedly he’s called to the stepstones and out of your grasp. When coming back to the red keep after a gruelling war, he’s done playing games with you, and would rather just take what he wants.

words: 4.8k

warnings: smut (mdni), brat tamer!daemon, mentions of blood, rough sex, hair pulling, light slapping, power play, sassy!reader

notes: this starts off with daemon and reader having a soft, cute moment but trust the filth wil come.

The following days you expect to have some good, old fun. The crown is luckily finding itself in peaceful days that prospect peaceful nights. The smallfolk seem satisfied, the realm seems unbothered by more havoc than the kind that never leaves Westeros. Bloodshed, violence, poverty and power will never not cling to the realm like pesticide, linger in every crescent and press itself flat between layers of beauty and happiness.

Still you were quick to be optimistic, finding your guidance and presence weren’t much needed the following morrow, frivolous matters trudging the day along within protective castle walls.

Daemon hadn’t slept all too well, tossing and turning in a bed that now seemed too big and cold for his sole presence; where the space used to satisfy him a vague shadow of you seemed to haunt corners of his periphery, like it had always existed there when in fact he’d never seen you beside him like this. A funny trick, that was, making him miss a thing that had never been in his grasp.

It both irked and tempted him, the following day. He liked seducing you, liked casting you knowing glances or brushing skin against yours to watch you flutter and stutter when you were otherwise collected and unwavering. It made him feel special but in return he wanted. The feeling wasn’t unfamiliar to his body, the craving for something wether it be gold or blood or sex, but he was used to just taking it. No matter if the path to his desire had accumulated an army of difficulties and obstacles to plow through, or wether he had to merely reach for it, did not make much difference. He’d take it either way, preferably with haste and precision. His sword could cut through enemies, his tongue spearing negotiations and threats like a bards tale. And he was certain his charm would worm its way under any skirts but you proved it much more difficult than he had anticipated. He knew you wanted him, that was never a question in his mind but you weren’t busy to get it because you knew it would come.

That wasn’t the way daemon went about things. He was too familiar with the knowledge that every day could be his last in his realm, people falling like pawns in an agitating chess game around him, names forgotten, names worshipped, they all went the same way.

And fuck him if he dies before he gets his hands on you.

He sees you in the garden, his stride slowing to a halt and suddenly he forgets where he’s going, feet moving towards you, quiet on the grass that bows to him. There you are, one booted foot pressing against the rough bark of a tree, specks flying like ashes around you as your hand wraps halfway around the closest branch. How is it that he always finds you in amusing propositions, and never at work? It makes his eyes crinkle already as his hands clasp in front of him, watching the lace back of your corset tighten and loosen in tandem with your strained movements. Your foot slips against the tree, sole scratching down the length of it and with a gasp your hand goes too, the soft skin tearing as the ground rushes to meet your back. The gasp rings through the air before what meets you is far less harsh and cruel than solid dirt.

He grunts as he catches you, his knees steady. There’s no give of his solid body as he clutches you close, bridal style in his arms. Your eyes are wide, watching the raise of his brows as the feat slowly ebbs from your features, a sight that causes a stubborn tug of his lips.

“Why is it I never see you doing something you’re supposed to. Are you using my brothers good will of having you at his table to dally around in trees now?” He muses, not putting you down.

Your jaw ticks, heart galloping away with something else than the fear previously possessing you. “There’s no good will in my position. It’s earned, I’ll have you know” you say tightly, something tight and trembling co existing in your voice.

“Is it now?” He asks rhetorically, because he knows it is and he respects it. There’s a tilt to his head as he lets his eyes slowly lower to the ride and fall of your chest, still heavy with effort. The swell of your breasts press against the stiff front of your bodice. It makes his stomach tighten and he lets it.

“You are perverted.” It comes out without malice and he drags his eyes back up to yours unwillingly at the statement, his grin widening. Another great weapons of his was silence. He could sit comfortably in it with a gaze so sly people would cower before it. It looked right through you, like he’d figured out your innermost confessions and had them whispered in his ear that very moment.

“Put me down.” It’s as slow and calculated as you can be and his fingers flex against you, otherwise unmoving.

“What were you trying to do?” He asks and squints up against the tree where sun filters through the branches in halo’s of sun.

“That’ll be none of your business if you don’t put me down, Daemon” you say and he relents, lowering you. Immediately you are brushing off your skirts, lips parting in a huff.

Unexpectedly, the sight tugs at something inside of him. Your hair has fallen from its braid, and it’s sticking to the wet pet of your lower lip that’s perfectly rosy like your cheeks, like the skin of your collar. He remembers that you are someone’s daughter. A kind woman, a young woman. You could be anywhere within the realm. You could have a babe on your arm and your very own trees. Yet you are here, sat at the kings table, subject to the whims of every lust for coin there is within this place. It is your hand, you have dealt it to yourself and with it one could imagine it was easy to lose a sense of fun.

Yet here you were, climbing trees and getting drunk, rosy cheeked and messy but delicate and kind and he wonders how you still have it in you: he’s watched a thousand faces sour and wither the second they’re knees buckle to greed and submission. Not you. You chose the difficulties, the dilemmas in favor of a peaceful life on a hill somewhere.

And now he’d been silent in a different manner, the unintentional one that was rare. His gaze was observing and softened and you were pliable under it, finding it almost more unsettling than when he looked like he could eat you alive.

“I wanted a fruit” you said, nowhere near composed no matter how much your hands smoothed over your messy parts. His eyes undid you with every clash.

The confession was quiet, matching the way in with his head had dimmed down to something earnest that didn’t play at any game.

“Turn around.” He said. You blinked at him but eventually did so, trusting him. His hands wrapped around the smallest part of your waist and lifted. Your feet dangled over the ground as your arms reached up, fingers sliding against a peach until they took hold, breaking the fuzzy skin. You tugged, and he watched a line of juice trace itself down your forearm as he lowered you.

He didn’t want to think about how this would look if anyone passed. So he didn’t. You turned to face him, rolling the peach in your hand. Then you lifted it to his lips. His eyes narrowed, like he was now the one trying to figure you out. But it was playful, and after a hesitant second he parted his lips and bit down. It trickled down his chin, eyes hooded. Your breath was unsteady as you retracted your hand slowly. Then a guard called for Daemon. He wiped his chin, eyes unrelenting before he was on his way, leaving you breathless like last time.

-

He never came back. The sky turned midnight blue, the orange dissipating, swallowed by dark. That cycle repeated itself, three more nights where the sun and the moon stood guard. And you knew he was somewhere under the same sky, your own time occupied with council meetings. War in the stepstones- Daemon had taken it upon himself to eradicate the foe, his nervous system nearly aching for bloodshed, for darksister to glide through flesh.

It made you slightly uneasy, though you didn’t like to admit it. A restlessness befell you, foot circling in the air under the table, eyes distant when eating, choosing to stay in your room rather than talk to Elinda. It was embarrassing you thought; looking at yourself in the mirror and watching the set of your own face all due to him, the crease of worry tattooed between your brows. Your way of slowing down things around you had escaped your grasp, now you were slowly crawling closer to the dark knowing that time was of the essence, especially when you prowled around the royals of the realm. He could never come back, for all you knew, and then you’d wasted your time with glances and stubbornness in favour of what you both actually wanted. Cause that’s all it was, a purely physical desire. Right?

After several gruelling days, there is news of daemons return. In fact you think it’s been a whole week now. You yourself had been sent off to negotiate with other houses, immersed in your own duties.

Daemons armour feels too tight as he enters the red keep, still intact. Mostly. The blood is creased on his pale skin that’s marred with fresh scars. He pulls on his collar, helmet under the arm. And he currently has only one goal as his aching feet carry him, the sound swallowed by brick walls. The maids and guards seem tenfold around him now; Viserys wants to see him, the grand maester is ready to attend his wounds, it all flies by his ears and he doesn’t spare a soul as much as a half hearted glance. Eventually they fall back, giving up their efforts because they’ve learned not to ask for his attention more than twice. He will not relent.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you’re finally alone in your chambers after a carriage ride that offered nothing more than an aching back and restless legs. You were drowsy, the curtains drawn early as the sun slowly bid itself goodnight.

Barely do you take off your cloak before the door opens again, heavy and slow in contrast to the rapid footsteps it clears a way for. You heels dig into the ground as you stare at him. He looks like an animal, white hair tousled and darkened by mud, face streaked with blood. His armour is magnificent you think, eyes roving over the black of it, the intricate details carefully crafted to grace him through war. His shoulders are broad, sturdy chest heaving dangerously.

A duality clashes in his eyes; you’re his next prey but his salvation too. His brow both lowers and arches, flickering indecisively for a second. It’s the first glance, the intuitive reaction to being behind safe walls before he slowly prowls towards you, letting the helmet drop with a loud clatter to the floor. It makes you twitch, but your feet sink into the ground, heart lurching higher and higher and fingers digging into your gowns.

"You're back" it's already strained, your throat barely letting the words escape you. It's unasking and unrelenting, the way his gaze holds yours like a spear in a wall. The second your lashes flutter in failure, unable to sturdy your eyes, his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth twice and you obey in less than a heartbeat, locked back on him. A slow smile drags on his lips, a satisfied gleam. You shiver.

"So are you," he says with surprising effortless strength to his voice. The sound has nothing to carry over but it seems even the preexisting silence cowers to him. His head cocks, studying every minuscule movement of your excited body. Still his chest heaves, slow but powerful as his fingers flex at his sides. He's close enough that you can smell him now, a whirlwind of sweat, blood, skin and warmth. You lick over your bottom lip and he catches the movement with a dip of his gaze, savouring the sight of it somewhere in his mind.

"D'you need something, my prince?" you say, empowered by the adrenaline making your knees tremble. Anyone who'd stood target to his full attention must know this feeling, others in a less pleasurable manner than others you were sure.

He flashes his teeth at the commentary, his own tongue swiping over a canine before his eyes narrow. "I think you know exactly what I need. Do you really think that you can string me along in your little game?" his voice pitches with mockery, but not the cruel kind. It's a weak shrug you give him in return, hand smoothing down your skirt to try and find composure in the threads.

"I don't know what you're-"

His hand lifts, the rough pads of his fingers cusping around your cheeks. It's not quick or harsh to scare you, but its firm and efficient at washing away whatever smart remark you'd fling his way. Instead a stutter of breath met him. "I want to fuck you. I want you to scream my name while I give you my cock, loud enough for the whole castle to hear. And I just won a fucking war, so dont snake your way around me anymore, you slippery little thing. Take what you want" he says, efficiently putting an end to this drag of cat and mouse. He was known to be impatient, and you'd kept him on the line for longer than he wanted to admit.

It's sick satisfaction that creeps up your spine and settles heavy in your chest. You got your admittance, you got his honesty and you cup it in the palm of your hand. It moves down the ridges of his armour, and he hates that he can't feel it yet, that it isn't his skin but the hard protective layers you're caressing. A slow, sensual undressing would be nice under different circumstances but he doesn't have the time. unbuckling the ungiving shapes around him, shedding the scales. Finally your hands rest on pale, scarred skin. "So desperate," you mumble and he snakes a hand up your neck to tug at your hair once.

"Behave." It's one word from somewhere low in his chest and your thighs twitch, surely soaking under your dress. The tug forces your chin back, lips parted as you blink at him. He gets off on it, the look in your eyes, his own lips parted to mock yours. His hand stays firm around your locks as the other snakes down and disappears under your gown. He gasps purposefully as he tugs your underwear to the side and lets his fingers just barely brush over you. "Oh you poor thing. Trying to be smart when you're making a mess for me already?" he says, the faux sympathy dripping off his tongue and lingering in his creased brows. Your tongue is thick in your mouth, grasping into all corners of your mind for a good way to extinguish his ego but he's shedding light on all your desires and there's nowhere to hide.

His fingers press more firmly against you, ring and index sliding between your swollen, wet folds to run over you slowly. You jolt the second they press to your clit and watch him smile as he does it again.

"As if you aren't just as-"

Two of his fingers press into you, slow enough that you open up for him but he makes sure they're all the way in, hooking against you as his palm presses flat on your clit. Once again it's efficient to silence you, the sharp tingle of having him inside of you making it hard to stay standing. "I don't want to hear more from you, not unless it's to tell me how good i'm making you feel. You're not very good at listening, are you?" he says as he drives his fingers out, then in again in a harsh thrust that slaps against your skin deliciously. The moan rips from your throat, hands grabbing onto any part of him they can, tight to stabilise yourself. He hums before letting his hand slip from you. It makes your jaw clench but you bite your tongue, for now at least.

His fingers glisten when he holds them up. The same hand presses against your chest, guiding you backwards until your very own bed hits the back of your shins. Purposefully he glides the wet of you down the top of your breast, between them before he tugs your forwards and clashes your mouth to his. It's with sharp inhales and exhales, teeth and tongue. For a so coordinated man, he moves his lips messy against yours. But it's all thoughtful, for you don't even notice your dress slipping down the skin of your shoulders until goosebumps returns you to the present. He pulls back and looks down, sucking on his teeth as he shamelessly cups both your tits. "Such a pretty woman" he mumbles all while his neck dips and his lips continue their eagerness over the supple curve of your breast, sucking a nipple into his mouth and letting his teeth scrape the skin with precision that makes your back arch sharply into him.

He lays you down with a string of your moans going straight to his already straining cock, biting down on the apex of your shoulder and throat. The feel of his mouth on you is so overwhelming you can hardly form a thought already. Then your hands are pushing on his shoulders, a leg hooking around his hips to flip you around but his own hand comes down on your stomach and presses you flat into the mattress. He tsk's, mouth hovering over yours with an unimpressed look in his eyes.

"Such a brat. I should've figured." his hand glides down from your stomach to cup your cunt, the warmth making him shiver. "Let's hope i can fuck it right out of you" his fingers slide into your warmth again, his lips brushing yours and swallowing the stuttering moan it causes. This time he isn't slow, the wet slap of his palm against your clit filling up the chamber until you drown in it.

Your head tilts back into the pillows, back arching off the sheets as his name tears itself from your throat. It coils in your stomach. "S'good" you pant. The arch of your back is his gateway to snake an arm under you and draw you up against his own chest with ease, muscles flexing. You cant get closer than this unless.. "More," you demand and he curls his fingers, over and over until your thighs clamp over his wrist. It serves you a light smack to the thigh and a huff of disapproval "You wont get more if you dont open your legs for me."

They fall apart, inviting him in. It's when he sees your stomach tighten that he pulls his fingers out again, leaving you aching and on the cusp. The frustration of is nearly overpowers your lust, makes you want to cry and scream. "No-"

"You think i'd let you have it just like that? After making me run to you like a lost puppy?" he says, thinking of how he's beelined for your doors before anyone else's. He hasn't even given a status report to a guard, let alone the king, about the victory. It swells you with pride as your hand pushes down on the last pieve of clothes hiding him from you.

"You're neglecting your duties so i can put my hand around your cock like this?" This time he lets you run your mouth, lets your hand wrap around him with a hiss. You writhe under him and he takes a beat to admire the sight before your hand purposefully tightens and speeds up. Its a rough sound that escapes him as his forehead falls to the crook of your neck and his hips thrust forwards into your hand on instinct.

"You really are a lost puppy, hm?" it's the last bravado from you, and maybe it's all to illicit this exact response but he doesn't have time to think of it as he grabs your wrist and pins your hand firmly next to your head.

"Do remember who you're talking to" he says, voice lower than it was before. He guides himself between your folds, sliding up and down before letting the wet mess drag down over his cock with a swipe of his palm, sheet already stained underneath you. "So fucking wet you should be ashamed" he drawls before he's pushing in with a little ah-ah to interrupt the intake of breath you deliver. And it's all you can deliver as he fills you up, stretching you around him until his cock is so impossibly deep in you it's a struggle for air. And he presses your wrist into the mattress harder to steady his own pleasure because you're squeezing him rhythmically in a way he's longed for. It's even better than what he imagined, fisting his cock with a knuckle between his teeth to perverted images of you, to the swell of your breast and the part of your lips.

He can't help but rut into you, fast and hard, barely pulling back before he's all the way in you again. His free hand settles between your breasts and keeps you down, his back dipping over you like an animal as he pants against your ear. "Keep talking your filth, hm? Keep telling me off, if that's whats making you so tight and wet for me," he says with a strain of pleasure. He's playing with you, urging you to talk when he's rendering you speechless with every hard smack of his hips, every sharp press of his tip against your walls. You jolt against the mattress now, hair sprawled over the pillow and your cheek as he takes what he wants. At some point his lips are on your throat, then on your breasts as he groans against them, makes them glisten with his own spit before he's lifting himself off of you. Your eyes go wide, about to protest before he's flipping you to your stomach.

"Need to get deeper," he heaves before he's sliding into you again, one hand fisting in your hair while the other settles just above the curve of your ass to simultaneously press you down and pull himself closer, as far as he could go. His head tips to the ceiling with a rough moan that echoes through your body deliciously, toes curling as your hands reach backwards to paw at his thighs and hips.

"Daemon," it's a plea and a prayer, a testament to how fucking good it feels. He grunts, tugging your head back, your throat bared and strained as your moans find the empty air above. The bed creaks as he thrusts into you, unrelenting. It's what he's needed, it's the last of the battle adrenaline that gets fucked into your warm pussy. "Use me," you beg despite yourself, feeling your brain go fuzzy with the force of it all, tongue loosening. He manages a smile between the grit of his teeth, pulling your head back as he leans down to your ear. "Knew you were a filthy girl" he says with heavy satisfaction before he lets your head drop as you writhe in the sheets.

Instead his fingers dig into the soft of your thigh, then your ass and you keen at this feeling of him everywhere, his scent, his lips, his cock.

"M' gonna-" you tear into the sheets with your hands, twisting them and he pulls you back by the hips until his hand can snake under them and he draws messy circles on your puffy clit. His thighs, his hand, his cock is slick with you and the sight of it makes his hips stutter a fraction as he pulls you back on him hard enough to earn a staggering sound from you thats surely peaking the ears of the guards outside. Good, he thinks, as he does it again and again, making your back arch meanly as he draws your hips against his, cramming into your tight cunt.

"Oh I feel you, pretty girl. Coooome on" he urges, the sound breathy. You're mumbling into the sheets, a mix of his name and thank you and im so close before it's all a string of broken off moans as you shiver, muscles locking up and seizing him so tight he might fucking faint. It's all he can do not to cum right there as he holds you down, talks you through your orgasm.

It doesn't take you long to get up, and his brow barely gets to furrow before you're pushing him to his back, and this time he lets you. Your hair is sticking to your slick skin, your chest heaving and hands unsteady as you scoot down, taking him in hand. He hisses, looks down surprised enough that he doesn't move, lets you do what you want. He's so hard and throbbing, so close and sensitive that he's rendered submissive enough to let you seize him. It's when you look up at him with eyes teary from pleasure before wrapping your lips around the head of his cock that he loses it. He can't look away despite how much his eyes want to close, forces their hooded gaze on you, jaw slack as he strokes hair from your face before holding it loosely in his grasp. You pull off with a pop before taking the whole length of him into your mouth, down your throat as far as you can. You taste yourself and it's more perverted than you've ever been. It's a borderline whimper that escapes him, hand flexing in your hair as you grow just as merciless as he was to you, bopping your head and hollowing your cheeks while your spit mingles with your juices and makes for a wet slap of your hand that aids your movements around him. He's throbbing, your tongue gliding up the length of him and it's what undoes his entire being, hips twitching up as his hand trembles in your hair. A string of curses and moans and your name falling mindlessly from his lips as his eyes roll back.

He barely registers when you lay next to him, instinctually scooping and arm around you to keep you close while he calms down, while his skin cools. He's forgotten that fresh wounds still show, that blood has dried down on his face. But you kiss his shoulder, then his jaw and he lets his eyes flutter closed, lets his shoulders settle for the first time in days. "I have things to do" he mutters but it lacks will and effort. You huff out a soft laugh, nose nudging his throat.

"You went straight here? What a mutt" you mumble and he grumbles playfully, squeezing your side.

"The thought of dying before having you under me was worse" he says, an edge of seriousness lingering there. You drape a leg over him and he savours it with a glide of his palm before he's gently pushing it off. You look at him with disscontempt.

He smiles, huffing as he sits up weakly. You watch shadows move over the strong muscles of his back, your eyes shimmering. "Don't worry, i'll be back in your bed tonight." he says, drawing his shirt over his body again much to your disappointment.

You sit up as well, trying to tame your tousled hair. "Is there lots to discuss?" you ask with ill hope, wishing to get your duties out of the way fast so you could go right back into the warmth here. He hums, nodding. "There is. And if i'm not wrong, the gossip has already spread between the maids about how you were just moaning my name."

"Or about how you ran to my chamber" you counter and he gives you a warning glance over his shoulder as he ties his pants, muttering something in High Valyrian, purposely so. You roll your eyes. His own take one last look over your naked body, eyes crinkling in a way that flushes your cheeks.

"Just sit through this meeting and i'll get you more of what you want" he promises, leaning over the bed to stroke your cheek before he leaves.

taglist: @moondragonplays @kentonito @pray-for-the-dead @justreadinghere7 @rosetintmworld @prada-cat @hotdsstuff @soleilgrec

[happilyhertale]

ᴼᶠᶠ ᶜᵃᵐᵉʳᵃ, ˢᵗᶦˡˡ ᵉⁿᵗᶦʳᵉˡʸ ʰᶦᵐ

• ᴮᵒⁿᵘˢ ⁻ ᴹᵃᵗᵗʸ ᶠᶦⁿᵍᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ᴮᵒᵇᵇʸ

[mrsvelvet128]

Yours. Always. Chapter 6

Hey guys I’m so sorry for posting late but I’ve been ao busy with work😭😭

I finished season three yesterday and my inky reaction is just what the fuck? Anyways I’m having a sort of ‘writers block’ so if you guys have any ideas for the story do not be shy to share<333

Happy reading!!

————————————————————————————-

Maera was still panting when the guards burst into the throne room.

The doors slammed open with a crash loud enough to shake the torches upon the walls, and within seconds steel surrounded them from every direction. White cloaks, red cloaks, drawn swords, frightened eyes—too many men, too much noise, too much blood.

Aegon stumbled backward until the Iron Throne caught him, and he fell into it more than sat, his hands gripping the jagged arms so tightly that the blades cut into his palms. His eyes remained fixed upon the scene before him, wide with horror and utterly helpless.

Aemond lay motionless on the marble floor, blood smeared across his mouth and nose, silver hair scattered like spilled moonlight around his head. And Maera stood above him, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths, her shackled hands stained crimson.

Aegon wanted to move.

Gods, he wanted to move.

He wanted to shout at the guards to get away from her. He wanted to be the one to pull her back before they touched her with their rough hands. He wanted to tell her that he’s willing, that he would go with her, that he would fly to Dragonstone and kneel before Rhaenyra himself if that was what it took to end this nightmare.

But his body refused to obey him. The crown upon his head felt suddenly heavier than the throne itself, pinning him in place while the moment slipped beyond his reach.

“Princess!” one of the guards shouted as they closed in.

Maera did not even seem to hear them. Her gaze remained locked on Aemond. Not on the blood. Not on the bruises already darkening beneath his skin.

On his face.

On the faint, terrible smile that still lingered there despite everything.

I’m glad it’s you.

The words echoed through her skull like a curse.

Rough hands seized her arms.

Only then did she react, though not by fighting. Her body trembled violently as the guards dragged her away from him, her boots scraping against the polished floor. She did not look at Aegon. She did not look back.

The last thing she saw before the throne room doors closed was Aemond lying where she had left him, blood on his lips and that unbearable softness still haunting his expression.

.

The walk back to her chambers passed in fragments. Whispered voices rose and faded around her. At some point someone tightened the chains around her wrists. At another, a servant gasped at the sight of her bloodied hands. None of it felt real.

When they reached her chambers, the guards shoved her inside with far less care than before. She hit the floor hard, pain flaring through her shoulder. The door slammed shut. The bolt slid into place.

Silence.

Maera remained where she had fallen, curled slightly against the cold stone. Her breathing gradually slowed, though her body still shook with the remnants of fury and grief.

She did not know when exhaustion finally claimed her. One moment she was staring at the moonlight spilling across the floor. The next, darkness swallowed everything. Yet even unconsciousness offered no peace.

Aemond’s smile burned behind her closed eyes.

Not mocking.

Not cruel.

Relieved.

As though being beaten by her hands had somehow become a mercy he believed he deserved. The image followed her into the darkness.

.

Warmth touched her face. Soft fingers brushed strands of silver hair away from her cheek with a gentleness so careful that for a moment she thought she was still dreaming.

Her body reacted before her mind did. Instinctively, she leaned into the touch. A familiar ache bloomed in her chest. The familiar scent fogged her brain into comfort.

“Jace…” The whisper escaped her lips without thought.

She felt herself being lifted, strong arms supporting her weight with effortless care, and then the softness of her mattress beneath her. Slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes.

Deep green eyes looked back at her.

Not violet.

Not warm brown.

Green.

Her breath caught.

“G-Gwayne?”

Relief softened his features as recognition dawned across her face.

“My lady,” he said quietly.

Ser Gwayne Hightower sat beside her bed, still wearing the dark riding leathers of a man who had only recently arrived in the city. His hand remained cupped against her cheek, thumb moving in slow circles over the bruised skin as though reassuring himself that she was truly there.

Maera stared at him in disbelief. She had not seen him since the day he had been ordered to leave for Oldtown. Back then she had been younger, angrier, certain that the world could not change so quickly. Gwayne had been more than a sworn sword. He had been her shadow through half her childhood.

When she sneaked out of the Red Keep at midnight, he followed. When she climbed places no princess had any business climbing, he climbed after her. When she got herself into trouble, and she had a remarkable talent for doing exactly that, Gwayne was always the one who helped her escape the consequences before Daemon could discover them.

He never mocked her wildness. Never treated her like a burden. Never made her feel like less than herself. And she had loved him for that in the pure, uncomplicated way one loves the people who make childhood feel safe.

Now he looked at her as though safety had become impossible.

“Is this a dream?” she rasped.

A soft chuckle escaped him, though sorrow lingered beneath it. “It is not, I’m afraid.” His thumb brushed gently beneath her eye. “Though I cannot stay long. I came to King’s Landing under orders from my sister. Ser Criston and I leave again before dawn.”

The words struck harder than she expected.

“You’re leaving… again.” Her voice broke on the final word.

Tears burned suddenly behind her eyes, and with them came everything she had been holding back for days—the terror, the grief, the betrayal, the crushing exhaustion of fighting a war that seemed determined to consume everyone she loved.

Gwayne’s hand stilled against her cheek. He swallowed visibly. He did not want to leave her here. She could see that plainly in his face. Every instinct in him screamed to remain at her side, to stand outside her door with a sword drawn and dare the world to try taking her from him again.

But he was a Hightower.

She was a Targaryen.

And their lives had long since ceased to belong to themselves.

“Maera…” he began softly. “I am so sorry—”

She pulled away from his touch with a sharp sound that was almost a growl. Hurt flashed across his face immediately.

Maera pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over. “I’m sick of people apologizing.”

The room fell silent.

“Everyone is sorry,” she continued, her voice trembling with exhausted anger. “Alicent is sorry. Aemond is sorry. Aegon is sorry. The whole bloody realm is sorry, and none of it changes anything.” Her breathing grew uneven again.

“Luke is still dead.”

Gwayne’s expression crumpled. He moved closer carefully, as though approaching a wounded animal that might bolt if startled.

“I know,” he whispered.

“Do you?” She looked at him then, and the raw pain in her eyes made his chest ache. “Do you know what it feels like to hear someone say they’re sorry for killing someone you loved? To look at them and realize they mean it, and hate them anyway because meaning it isn’t enough?”

Gwayne had no answer. So he did the only thing he could. He reached for her again, slower this time, giving her every chance to pull away. When she didn’t, he gathered her carefully against his chest.

For a moment she remained rigid.

Then the last of her strength gave way.

A broken sob escaped her lips as she clutched at his tunic, and Gwayne held her while the storm she had been carrying inside herself finally began to break.

.

Much later, after Maera had fallen into an exhausted sleep, Gwayne left her chambers with a heart that felt unbearably heavy.

He nearly collided with Alicent in the corridor.

The queen dowager looked from his face to the closed door behind him and immediately understood more than he wished she would.

“How is she?” Alicent asked quietly.

Gwayne’s jaw tightened.

“Drowning.”

Alicent closed her eyes briefly, grief washing across her features.

Before either of them could speak again, hurried footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. Two guards passed without noticing them, speaking in urgent whispers.

“The order came from the Hand himself,” one muttered. “Before sunrise.”

“And the king?”

“He isn’t to know until it’s done.”

Alicent went utterly still.

Gwayne frowned.

“What order?”

She turned toward him slowly, horror draining the color from her face. “My father has sentenced her to death…behind Aegon’s back. I heard the guards talking and came here immediately.” She gulped.

The words hung between them like a blade. Gwayne’s hand went instantly to the hilt of his sword.

“Then we get her out.”

Alicent looked back at the closed chamber door where Maera slept, bruised and exhausted and utterly unaware that dawn was meant to be her last. For the first time in many years, the queen dowager made a choice that belonged neither to the Greens nor to the crown.

It belonged to the girl she had once loved like a daughter.

“Wake her,” Alicent whispered. “We leave tonight.”

“Where is her Dragon?” He asked as he opened the chambers door again, his voice was soft but his movements were rushed as he made his way to the bed and softly lifted Maera up, he did not want to wake her in a fright like this.

Alicent followed him and pulled out a coat from the closet before walking back to the door and locking it. Her heart hammered against her ribcage as she rushed to the hidden passage way.

“I do not know, he hasn’t been seen since she arrived, but for now, we get out of The Keep.”

Gwayne nodded as he adjusted Maera’s body in his arms before following his sister into the dark.

He knew this was treason, knew that if they were discovered his head would likely decorate the walls before sunrise, but a vow made to Princess Maera had never been something he could break. He had promised to stay with her. Always.

[sweetscarlettangel]

Chain Reaction XIII

"...kindness and love together still do not run a household on their own, and I have buried enough Reynes to know which qualities outlast a person and which were always going to belong only to her."

"And you think I might be one who lasts."

"I think you're asking the right questions in the right room," Alannys said...