| headcanons of Gwayne courting a reader whose personality is similar to helaena’s ۶ৎ
A/n:: English isn’t my 1st language so I apologise for any mistakes. I’m also already working on the marriage hcs
Cw:: mention of slight bullying. Gwayne being down bad for the reader. bugs
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
.✦ ݁˖ You weren’t deaf to the whispers going around in the court about you. People whispering how you were an odd one, how you speak in riddles and none which you say made sense, how your fondness for the little creatures was unladylike. Some at least had the courtesy to gossip among each other, while some would tell straight to your parents how they feel sorry for you, and saying how it’ll be a real struggle for them to find a betrothal for someone like you
.✦ ݁˖ You caught Gwayne’s eyes as soon as he saw you. He had heard the rumours about you as much as any person, but he wasn’t fool enough to judge you based on poor gossip
.✦ ݁˖ Gwayne was determined on getting to know you, which wasn’t nearly as easy as he expected it to be. Most of the times you were hidden away in your chambers, and the rare times your presence was necessary you would disappear as soon as given the chance
.✦ ݁˖ one evening though, gods gifted Gwayne the chance to spend time with you alone. You were hidden away in the tower’s library, book about beetles in your hands, too focused to even notice the presence looking at you. Gwayne was admiring how calm and comfortable you looked, and how beautiful. All the others times he had seen you, you were looking anywhere but into someone’s eyes, you were keeping to yourself, soft frown settled on your face. Not now though, now you looked so comfortable. And so Gwayne scoffed to announce his presence
“What’s that you’re reading my lady?” The knight in front of you inquires as you look up from your book. You debate on being quiet, hoping your silence will make him leave, but something in him makes you feel comfortable enough to answer. So you do, telling him that the book in your hands is about beetles, some of your favourite bugs. Gwayne listened intently to you talk, asking questions after a question, showing genuine interest. “You seem to hold lot of knowledge, it’s admirable”
.✦ ݁˖ After that Gwayne knew for sure he wished to marry you. That he’ll do anything to prove you that he’s a good man and lives up to the stories told about him, and that he would make a great husband
.✦ ݁˖ Gwayne takes it upon him to read one or two books about bugs as well, to be able to bond over something with you. He’ll share new little fact he learned while offering to walk you to your chambers one evening
.✦ ݁˖ Gwayne respects it when you draw away from physical touch and he won’t force it upon but he will always offer it. When walking around the palace garden he’ll offer you his arm, if you refuse he’ll smile and put down his arm while just strolling beside you. If you do take upon his offer, his smile will be extra wide
.✦ ݁˖ When it comes to kissing the top of your hand, like the gentleman he is, instead of giving a quick peck as he does to all the other women, he leaves a long lingering kiss
.✦ ݁˖ Gwayne never made you feel weird, out of place, or that you should change yourself. No, he liked you for the way you were, he admired each and every little thing about you. It was safe to say the knight was smitten with you, wherever you were there you could find him as well. He’d bring you small little gifts simply because he wanted to. He would do whatever you wished to do, you wish to stroll around the garden and look for little creatures? He’ll be by your side and listening you to explain to him about the creature without single complaint.
.✦ ݁˖ Whenever he hears an ill minded whisper of you, he uses everything in him to not lash out on the person to tell them how wrong they are. He will always defend your honour, but the honourable man that he’s, he’ll do it politely
.✦ ݁˖ One night royal ball has taken over the palace, and the whole night Gwayne spends beside you, admiring how beautiful you look in your gown. As well as blissfully dancing with you, admiring how carefree you look. In the same evening he asks you if you were to be his wife and if he has your permission to ask your hand for marriage from your father. You agree
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Tags: @mylovely-yuna @hwaofdreams @mylittlepimp @lanabanana12711 @userhotd @vlarrtrgryn @littlelovebiird @0nlybitt3r4may @fictionanddiatribes @sivkgrl @arrozyfrijoles23 @laptimelewis {feel free to comment, message or send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged!}
pairing: daemon targaryen x fem!firstlove!reader
synopsis: Daemon appeared before you as though a forgotten memory. For years, you had convinced yourself that you would never cross paths again. (requested)
notes... this is very old request that i decided to post for celebration for hotd s3! never actually wrote for daemon so enjoy this inaccurate version of him <3
tags... haunt the narrative trope!, established death (reader), reader is related to house tully and oscar tully!, reader has no phy description, daemon has hallucinations, right person wrong time trope, angst, reverse emotional comfort, ooc (just in case!)
There was a chill in the air.
Daemon felt it as Laena’s tomb was cast into the sea. The weight of her loss settled deep in his bones, lingering like the Valyrian chants her uncle sang. Grief was a constant now, never leaving him, always changing form.
He felt it again when he kissed Rhaenyra on the beach. Where Driftmark’s last light had faded and the waves grew quieter. The night was cold, and the wind was sharp against his skin, but her soft touch stayed with him. For a moment, he wanted to believe they could return to what they once were.
But the past was unreachable, just like the first time he met you.
Harrenhal was thick with tragedy. A graveyard of ambition, its walls had seen the rise and fall of men old and great. Daemon had not ventured this far from King’s Landing in years, yet here he was, in a place that reeked of loss and decay. The black castle felt lifeless, a hollowed-out ruin with its pride long since crumbled. If there had been anyone left to challenge him, Daemon thought, he would have it quickly.
A shrill cry shattered the silence. The storm raged on, rain pouring down in relentless torrents as if the Gods themselves sought to drown out whatever history remained here. Caraxes announced his arrival with a deep, guttural growl, his claws scraping against the remnants of the once-mighty fortress.
His rider pressed on, weaving through the cold, empty corridors, each step echoing in the vast emptiness. Water pooled beneath his boots. The scent of damp dirt was thick in the air.
Daemon paused before a pair of heavy doors, where muffled voices stirred behind them.
This was the moment the Rogue Prince knew well, the stillness before the storm, the breath held before a strike. Once, he had fought for Viserys. Now, he fought for Rhaenyra. The cause had changed, but war was all the same.
With one swift motion, he kicked the doors. The hinges groaned under the force, the sound swallowed by the storm outside. He stepped forward, Valyrian steel raised, ready to carve through whatever poor souls dared to stand in his way.
The room was smaller than he expected, with its occupants unimpressive. A handful of men sat around a table, their faces weathered but indifferent. At the head sat an old, plump man, completely unaffected by Daemon’s presence.
“I’m claiming Harrenhal,” Daemon announced, the words left flat, devoid of triumph.
No one moved. Men stared with unreadable expressions. Even as Dark Sister remained poised, sharp, and waiting, none of them seemed to have a shred of fear. Finally, the old man, presumably Lord of Harrenhal, studied him, calm and composed. Lord Simon Strong. Harwin’s great-uncle. Loyal to Rhaenyra, oddly compliant, and utterly unafraid.
“So it appears,” Lord Strong murmured, devoid of the fear Daemon hoped for.
“Caraxes have been growing quickly.” Your teasing is effortless, yet carries weight that lingers in the warm air. Daemon lets it settle deep in his chest, a warmth both familiar and unspoken, as he continues to scratch beneath his dragon's scaled neck. His fingers move with practiced ease, but his gaze, as always, drifts to you.
There is no fear in your expression, the wary caution he’s come to expect from others. The lack of hesitation and trembling hands. Instead, he sees quiet admiration, your touch lingering on the beast's hide as if Caraxes were nothing more than a hound at your feet.
The sight of it, the contrast of delicate fingers against hardened scales, stirs something deep inside Daemon, something possessive, something inexplicably tender. You move closer, the tips of your fingers grazing his own. It’s fleeting, barely there, yet enough to pull a knowing grin to his lips.
“He’s almost large enough to saddle two,” he muses, edged with amusement, but the meaning behind his words is unmistakable. The invitation has always been there, spoken and unspoken alike – a promise that passes like the wind that flutters quickly between your hair and the fire that stirs in the hearth after a long night.
Still, the warnings echo in his mind. The dragon keepers' stern words, his grandfather’s displeased sighs, and his brother’s inevitable outrage.
Viserys’ voice is almost tangible now. You would do no such thing! Daemon can practically see the arched frown of his brother, the exasperation in his features. The very thought makes him laugh, a silent, mindless chuckle under his breath.
Yet you, as always, are persistent.
You tilt your head, studying him. It takes everything in him not to reach out and trace the loose hairs that frame your face. There’s something in your gaze, something deep, something knowing that makes him feel as though you see straight through him.
It’s unnerving.
It’s intoxicating.
It’s you.
The summer heat clings to both of you like wet skin. The lingering scent of pine and damp Earth settles into your lungs like a fresh, made bath. The Riverlands are fertile in their crops, land, and people. Their beauty lies deep in their nature; however, no flower or gemstone could ever compare to the way you stand amidst them, unbothered by the weight of your House or the expectations it carries.
“Are you asking, My Prince?” There’s a lilt in your voice, teasing and testing.
The young prince meets your gaze without hesitation. “No,” he corrects, stepping closer, letting the space between you dwindle into nothingness. His breath is warm against your skin, his presence all-consuming. “It is a command.”
You stifle a laugh, barely. “A command?”
His lips curl, devilishly. “Yes.” His voice drops lower, softer, as a whisper meant only for you. “You wouldn’t disobey an order from your Prince, would you?”
You should falter, but you never do. That is your curse, and that is his.
You shake your head, falsely demure. “No, I would never.” A pause. “Though… what the prince speaks is against the King's commands, is it not?” You’re leading him into a trap, and he knows it, and still, he cannot resist following you in.
He exhales sharply, vexed and utterly enamored by your banter. “He doesn’t have to know,” he grumbled, as though his grandfather’s words had never truly held weight against his desires.
Daemon lowers his head, resting it against your shoulder, as though conceding a silent defeat. Between you and Caraxes, he finds himself surrounded, trapped in a cage of his own making – one of fire and steel, of warmth and long.
“One word to the King, and I’ll have you killed for that,” he mutters against your skin, devoid of any true threat.
You inhale, letting his presence wrap around you, the scent of smoke and sun-warmed leather settling into your senses. “You forget yourself, my Prince.” Your fingers thread through his silver hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he shudders, barely perceptible. “You couldn’t kill me if you tried.”
His head snaps up, sharp and sudden, his keen eyes piercing into yours. “You don’t know that.”
A lie. A weak one. One you both know.
Daemon’s heartbeat is erratic, his hands uncertain as they hover just above yours. You don’t need magic to see the anticipation in his gaze, the unspoken ache that lingers between. He always waits for you to close the gap, always lingers on the edge of restraint, as if savoring the moment before the inevitable falls.
And yet, you turn away. Instead, your attention drifts to the intricacies of his dragon armor, fingers grazing over its fine details as though each piece tells a story only you can read.
“I am your betrothed,” you remind him, voice softer now, wistful. “What other reason had King Jaehaerys declared this marriage for?” Your hands lift, resting gently against Caraxes’ long, curved neck. The dragon chirps, an oddly affectionate sound, his head tilting toward you like a beast tamed by gentle hands.
Daemon watches, fascinated and helpless.
A huff of laughter escapes you, fond and resigned. Your eyes are gleaming with something unreliable.
Gods, he was lucky.
Daemon did not anticipate meeting Lord Tully. His decaying health interrupts his plans for the additional Southern troops to fight in the war. For days, the Rogue Prince paced through the ruined grounds of Harrenhal, watching the fortress slowly crumble around him, just as his patience was beginning to fray.
He had expected this rendezvous to take a few days, just long enough to gain an answer and drive the Riverlords to the fighting cause. But with no word from Riverrun and his impatience gnawing at him, Daemon decides to take matters into his own hands.
He would not wait any longer.
By the morning, it was confirmed: Lord Grover Tully would not come. Instead, his grandson, Oscar Tully, the heir to Riverrun, would make the journey in his stead.
The Prince Consort, already frustrated, ran his fingers through his platinum hair. His body stiffened from the restless nights spent in Harrenhal, constantly stirring, unable to rest without the creeping, vivid hallucinations that plagued him. The silver-haired prince’s irritation only deepened. He could feel the weight of his impatience bearing down on him, as though time itself were slipping from his grasp.
With a sharp exhale, Daemon strode to the grand hall, his boots bouncing off the cold stone floor. His presence was as commanding as ever – every eye in the room turned toward him as he entered. His expression was grim, his scowl a mark of pure annoyance, and the room seemed to tighten with the weight of his temper.
“My- My Prince!” A young voice came about as a boy scrambled to catch him. Behind him, Lord Strong, as meek as ever, stood awkwardly, unsure how to soothe the nervous young lord.
“My- My Grace— Your Grace,” the boy corrected, his gaze flickering nervously between Daemon and Lord Strong. The Prince could smell the wretched scent of anxiety from him.
Daemon barely acknowledged the trembling lord. Instead, his eyes slid toward Lord Strong, whose anxious disposition did little to calm his fraying nerves. “Lord Grover is looking better and healthier than I expected.” His words were sharp, testing the waters of this meeting.
Lord Strong cleared his throat, his hands folded in front of him. “Ah, this is Oscar Tully, grandson of Grover Tully. He is heir to Riverrun and future Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.” He gestured toward Daemon hesitantly. “His Grace, the King… Consort, Daemon Targaryen.”
“It is an honor, Your Grace.” Oscar Tully said, bowing with respect. His eyes, however, were cautious as they met the Prince.
“Indeed,” Daemon replied, loosening his belt and placing his sword on the nearby table. He gestured for Oscar to take a seat. The boy hesitated, feeling the tension in the room thicken.
As Oscar sat down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this meeting wasn’t just about formalities. There was something far more unsettling in Daemon’s gaze.
“How fair is your grandsire?” Daemon asked, his voice laced with disinterest.
Oscar lets out a sympathetic sigh. “Sadly, he remains incapacitated. He lies in a kind of waking sleep, unable to do much more than take mead to drink. This is barely enough to sustain him.”
“So he’s alive.” Daemon‘s words were blunt and dismissive, though his eyes glinted with calculating edge. His fingers drummed patiently on the arm of his chair.
“Yes,” Oscar replied, the weight of the situation evident in his voice. He struggled to keep his composure, aware of the tension mounting between them. There was something in Daemon’s demeanor that unsettled him, something that gnawed at his sense of duty.
The Rogue Prince’s gaze narrowed, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features as he stood. He turned toward Lord Strong, as if forgetting the man still stood there.
“Unfortunate,” he muttered, though the words were more for himself than anyone else. He faced a few steps, his voice growing colder. “But perhaps. It presents an opportunity, doesn’t it?”
His stare fixed on Oscar now, the dangerous gleam in his lilac eyes unmistakable.
“A weakened lord, ripe for the taking. I had planned to rally Riverlords, bring them under my banner. But now, with your grandsire in such a state, I wonder how you’ll handle it.” The suggestion lingered like a sharp knife poised to strike.
The young boy’s back straightened, his glare hardening. His voice, though steady, carried the weight of his house’s honor. “The Riverlands are not yours to conquer.” His words were firm and harsh.
Instead, Daemon’s lips twisted into a slight smile, though it was anything but kind. “Bold words.” He tilted his head slightly, intrigued by the young lord’s resistance. “But what of the old man?”
His voice dropped lower, colder. “Perhaps… There's something we can do to hasten his departure. It would make things so much simpler, wouldn’t it?” His stare remained locked on Oscar’s, studying him closely.
The Tully boy’s breath caught in his throat, the suggestion weighing heavily on him. His mind raced, trying to process what Daemon had just implied. His expression faltered for only a moment before he found his voice again. “Are you suggesting…?”
The silver-haired prince chuckled darkly, leaning back in his chair. If you ever change your mind…” He allowed the silence to hang in the air like a poisoned blade. “The Riverlands are rich with opportunity. Too rich for someone as… restrained as you.”
Oscar’s jaw tightened, and his hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword. His anger flared, but he did not allow himself to act on it just yet. Instead, he turned toward the door, his steps deliberate as he moved to leave.
“I’ll be taking my leave, my Prince.” His voice was low, cold with barely contained fury. “Don’t ever speak of my grandsire in such a way again.”
With a final, seething glance, Oscar made his way out of the hall, his footsteps echoing in the silence that remained behind. The tension in the room seemed to follow him, like a shadow he could not escape.
Daemon remained seated, his smile fading into something darker as he reflected on the encounter. He had gone too far, but the young Tully’s defiance sparked something in him. There was something in the boy’s fierce loyalty, his strength in the face of Daemon’s threats, that reminded him of someone.
Someone like you.
Daemon’s thoughts flickered to his old life, to you, your own House, and the fire that burned you with it. How similar Oscar Tully was to the very person who had shaped Daemon’s destiny. And yet, Daemon knew the boy’s restraint would be his undoing, a weakness that could be exploited.
His eyes darkened as he stood up abruptly, a sense of urgency seizing him. The Riverlands could wait. His mind turned toward other matters – more important matters. There was a war to be fought, and Daemon Targaryen would not be the one to stand aside.
With a swift motion, Daemon snatched Dark Sister from the table and made his way to the Godswood. There, in the shadow of the great weirwood, he would meet his dragon, and the path to the throne would grow clearer. The Riverlands, the Riverlords, and Lord Grover Tully would all be pieces on his chessboard.
Viserys had been a fool to let that alliance go. Daemon would show him how it was done.
You were his first love – there was no simpler way to put it. Daemon rarely spoke of you. Never to Rhaenyra, seldom to Viserys. Your name was a whisper locked away in his mind, a forbidden utterance. It felt almost sacrilegious to speak aloud.
And yet, when he saw glimpses of you, a flicker of movement in the empty halls of Harrenhal, he ran.
For the first time in years, the Rogue Prince felt uncertainty. Real, unshakable hesitancy. Not of battle or death, but of yearning – of desperation. He wanted to reach out to you, to take hold of your body, and convince himself this wasn’t madness.
The fleeting impression of your hair – the color, the silky sheen of it – haunted him like a memory half-thought, slipping through his fingers like mist. It danced at the edge of his mind, leading him deeper into the castle’s darkened corridors. The deeper he wandered, the further you drifted, swallowed by the shadows.
His grip on Dark Sister remained firm. “Don’t run,” he murmured, but the words sounded wrong, as though he were the hunter and you the prey.
He had accepted this visage of you too easily. He had seen his lost wife, Laena, and Rhaenyra in his dreams before, and they had shaken him, but this broke him. The mere trace of your scent, that familiar blend of oak and wildflowers, was enough to bring him to his knees.
Yet unlike them, you never appeared fully before him. The ghosts of this wretched place knew what you meant to him. They taunted him with pieces, never the whole.
“You can’t hide forever!” the silver-haired warrior called into the dark, his voice raw with frustration. The rain began to fall harder now, cold droplets striking his skin. His sword gleamed beneath the dim light, as sharp and unyielding as the grief buried deep in his chest.
And still, you lingered in his thoughts, needling at him like an ache that never healed.
Daemon was used to keeping himself occupied – rallying men, strategizing, tending to the mundane affairs of war – but it was in the quiet moments that you returned. When he was left alone with his thoughts, you came back to him like a ghost who refused to sleep.
Thunder cracked as he turned a corner. A soft, golden glow seeped through the cracks of a heavy wooden door at the corridor’s end. The scent that met him was unmistakable: fresh grass, pine, rain-soaked Earth. A memory, so vivid and cruel, flourished before him. He pushed the door open, stepping into another world.
The lake stretched beyond the rolling hills, its surface smooth and undisturbed. A great tree stood rooted in the Earth, its branches swaying in the wind. The scene was so painfully familiar that it nearly drove him to his knees. It was a cruel trick of the mind, but gods, it felt real.
And then, your voice cut through the stillness.
“I never took you for a coward, my Prince.”
His grip on Dark Sister slackened. You stood before him, whole and untouched by time.
You looked older, refined in a way that only deepened the beauty he had once adored. The sky-blue gown draped over your form was something he could swear he had seen before, something he had once mentioned in passing. Your hair, unchanged from his memories, caught the light just right, and for the first time in years, he was afraid to blink.
If he did, he might lose you all over again.
When you turned to face him, smiling in that way only you could, he exhaled sharply.
“Surprised?” you teased, your voice laced with something knowing, something bittersweet.
Daemon laughed, low and breathless. He sheathed his sword, surrendering to this cruel dream. “I half expected you again sooner or later.”
Your gaze softened. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“You know I never could be.”
You stepped closer, unhurried, as though you had all the time in the world. The distance between you felt insubstantial, easily crossed with just one step – but he held back, drinking in every detail of you as if committing you to memory all over again.
“You were everything I ever wanted.”
The confession came easily, too easily, slipping from his lips before he could stop himself. And the way you reacted – averting your gaze, biting back a smile – reminded him too much of what once was. How you had always flustered under his words, how you had always been so unguarded with him. Daemon reached for you then, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, his touch hesitant, reverent. The surface of your skin was a torment in itself.
And then, softly, you asked, “Would you say the same for your wife?”
It should have been a simple question. But your voice, the way you said it – distant, laced with something fragile – it carved through him.
Daemon inhaled sharply. “You know.” It wasn’t a question. Of course, you knew.
Your lips pressed together in a small, knowing smile. “Your wedding must have been beautiful,” you mused, tilting your head. “Old Valyrian custom. Just as you promised me.”
A knife twisted deep in his chest.
You had been the one.
He had known it then, and he knew it now. But fate had not been kind. Death had stolen you away before he could be the man you deserved. And now, here you were – a dream, a memory, a cruel illusion. His hand began to slip away from you, but you caught it, pressing his palm to your cheek. You held it there, grounding him. Your eyes, deep and dark, shimmered with unspoken words.
“I’m sorry, my–”
His voice broke. The words felt foreign in his mouth. Daemon Targaryen never apologized. But for you, he would. For you, he would have done anything.
But you, ever resilient, only smiled – a quiet and bitter thing. “I don’t need your apology, Daemon.” Your fingers tightened around his hand, as though neither of you could bear to let go. “It was right of you to move on.”
“If you had still been alive,” he mumbled, forehead resting against yours, “I would have wed you all the same.” You exhaled, shuddering at the admission. Daemon pressed soft, lingering kisses to your knuckles, the way he once had. “You know I would.”
“I know,” you whispered, the ghost of a smile on your lips. “And I would have accepted.” But then, the inevitable question. The one you had every right to ask. “Do you love her?”
His silence was answer enough. You looked away. Daemon felt it – the shift, the unspoken acceptance of something neither of you could change.
“I should hate you,” you murmured.
And yet, you didn’t.
Daemon knew this truth as well as you did: He loved Rhaenyra. She was the mother of his children, the flame that could not be extinguished. But you – gods, you – were the reminder of a life he had lost before he ever had the chance to truly claim it. And when you disappeared, as he knew you would, he was left standing alone in the hollow halls of Harrenhal.
Dripping in rain. Haunted.
And still, you did not leave him. You never had.
Perhaps you never would.
Ever since then, Daemon’s mind has been occupied. He could not shake the thought of you away. Because every time he turned the corner or heard distant shouts far away, you were always expected to be there. You’ve been reappearing every so often, whenever Daemon would at least not want you to be. He would become distracted, occupied with one topic and then another. Very few men dismissed this as the way of his attempt to reconcile with the other allies back on Dragonstone.
He hasn’t sent word to Rhaenyra. It should have angered him – this hesitation, this silence, especially now, at the most critical moment of war. She deserved more than distance; she deserved a moment with him.
Yet Daemon continues to avoid it, pushing it aside in favor of more pressing concerns. There was Lord Strong, ever watchful and composed, his nerves barely concealed beneath the line of patience. Then there was Alys Rivers, the strange, peculiar witch who came to him in the dead of night, spinning tales laced with riddles. None of them would allow him a moment of silence.
The urgency of the war was closing in on Daemon. With each passing day, more lords from the South arrived at Harrenhal, and his patience, once formidable, grew thin; his judgment clouded.
In those moments, when the silver-haired prince least expected it, he saw you. In the shadows, behind passing figures, always there when you sought a moment of calm.
At some point, he had gotten used to your presence. He could even predict when you’d appear like a shadow tied to his thoughts. Whether it was the growing sentiment he harbored for you or something twisted in the bones of Harrenhal, he wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, he didn’t mind.
“You should be kinder to him, Daemon.” You urged, keeping pace just behind him.
The Targaryen Prince strode past the blacksmiths, where molten metal hissed and sparked. At last, the Riverland army was starting to prepare with steel forged, strategic planning, and boots ready to march. Everything was falling into place. And yet, doubt lingered, fed by none other than you.
“He is my nephew,” you muttered, softer as if your blood would convince him to reconsider.
“That Tully trout,” Daemon snapped, jaws tightening. “He challenges me at every turn, questions orders like he’s already won his damn banners.”
You stayed silent for a moment, letting his anger breathe.
“He looks at me like I’m some relic,” Daemon continued, voice low but sharp. “Like I’ve outlived my worth. The boy’s barely grown into his armor, and yet he dares to speak to me as though I’m the one who should yield.”
You tilted your head. “Perhaps he only wants to be heard. As you once did.”
Daemon stopped in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder. “And look where that got me.”
You met his gaze evenly, unshaken. “It made you feared. It made others follow you.”
“It made me hate,” he countered, softer now, the fire in his voice dimming. “By my brother. By the realm. Maybe even Rhaenyra.”
You stepped closer, your voice only a whisper now. “But never forgotten. And certainly never ignored.”
For a moment, something passed between you – recognition. Not of affection, but a shared weight. You had become a voice he could not silence, a mirror he could not ask to look away from. Whether you were a spirit or a shadow, you were part of him now, part of his reasoning.
“He is my nephew,” you said again. And so Daemon tried, with a clenched jaw and cold civility, to treat Oscar, not as bait, but with understanding. “Compromise with him.”
In the cool air, the Rogue Prince waits by the Godswood, the chill of the South clinging to his chest like mist. The haunting presence of Harrenhal beside him was none other than a mutual reminder, but never an annoyance anymore. No, he’s grown quite used to their non-sequential riddles and whispers. Close by, boots and horses marched, and voices echoed, in preparation for war in the following days. But in his small corner of waiting, there was only silence.
And you.
You stood in an open space that replicated a window. Half shadowed in the pale sunlight, watching as he dwelt on, reminiscent of your previous memories.
“Do you remember Riverrun?” you asked quietly, as if it were the question you had been waiting all day to ask. Today, you adorned a pale pink gown, draped in satin that elevated your figure elegantly. It softened your features, your gaze looking longingly at a distant memory.
Daemon glanced up, brow furrowed not in confusion but remembrance.
“I remember thinking I was being punished,” Daemon muttered dryly, lips curling at the corner. “Another full formality. Another highborn girl bred to smile and say little.”
You laughed, and the sound warmed the cold air between you. “You looked like you’d rather be thrown into a pit of vipers than be introduced to me.”
“Because I thought I was walking into a cage,” he said, voice low now, tinged with the memory. As if it's fresh in his mind, Daemon hums softly. “Polite words, sweet wine, and a girl too scared to meet my eyes.”
Your gaze met him without hesitation, just as it had been back then.
“But instead,” he went on, “you looked me over like you were the one judging me. No curtsy. No trembling hands. You told me my reputation was exaggerated and then asked if I’d ever done anything truly interesting.”
“And you said, ‘Not yet.’” A small smile played on your lips.
Daemon’s smirk softened into something fleeting. “You surprised me. I wasn’t used to that.”
You took a step closer. “You still aren’t.”
For a beat, neither of you spoke. There was something just beneath the surface, an ache too stubborn to name. In war, there was no time for softness, but in this moment, before duty pulled him away, Daemon would allow it. For a moment, he would allow himself to indulge in this fantasy. With you, everything around him disappeared and welcomed the cool breeze and warm skies. With you, he was able to understand the love his mother and father had, why it was worth settling down with the one you loved.
His hand brushed against yours – just barely, a passing moment of contact, but it was deliberate. You did not pull away.
Then, a knock.
Oscar Tully waits. And Daemon Targaryen, Prince of War, straightened himself with you still lingering at the edge of your thoughts. You never leave his peripherals, peering at the closed doors of Oscar Tully’s arrival.
Daemon takes this as your way of reminding him of his promise. Compromise with him. He has to, for the sake of the army and the numbers it may offer; it would be big enough to rival Landing. He would be able to leave Harrenhal once and for good. The chamber door creaks open. Oscar Tully entered with the poise of a young man who was far too young to be leading an army. His red cloak trails behind him, confidently making a banner. He bowed, not too deeply.
“My Prince,” he said, curtly.
“Lord Tully,” Daemon replied, already grown annoyed at his presence. However, he hides it under his bravado.
They stood alone now, in front of the Weirwood tree. With red tears trailing down its face, it is the only witness to their conversation. Save from you, of course, whose ever so close and unseen by all but Daemon. He didn’t look your way, but he felt where you stood.
Oscar waits for no time. “We must address Willem Blackwood.”
The Rogue Prince raised an eyebrow. “What of him?”
“He butchered half the Brackens without trial. You gave the order, did you not?” Oscar’s jaw clenched. “But he went and burned their harvests, drowned their kin in the river, and even cut down the old weirdwood at Stonebrook. This cannot go unanswered.”
Daemon scoffed. “They were traitors. The Brackens chose the green banners over ours. They knew the cost.”
“There are costs, yes,” Oscar agreed. “But there are also laws. Traditions. We follow the Old Gods. If you wish to keep their swords on your side, Blackwood must be punished, seen to be punished.”
“Seen?” Daemon echoed darkly.
The young boy straightens his posture. “A gesture of good faith. Announce his execution publicly so that it does not trample the Gods and the old ways.”
For a short time, silence fell.
Then Daemon’s voice, quiet but sharp. “You would use my own knight as an offering. To show them I can be swayed like some… puppet prince.”
“It shows you rule with justice, not vengeance.”
The prince took a step forward, and Oscar confidently held his ground, with no hesitation. “Blackwood did what needed to be done. He was loyal to me.”
“Loyalty cannot excuse sacrilege.”
Daemon’s fury glared behind his eyes, his mouth twitching, growing into a sneer. He turned, pacing like a dragon restrained by a frail chain. And that’s when your voice came – not aloud but from the quiet place he’d kept for you.
“Justice is not weakness, Daemon. It is a rule. Without it, you would have no army, no order.”
You stood behind him, a silent mirror of the man he might become. He despised it. He needed it. At last, he stopped pacing himself. He did not want to look at Oscar, and instead glanced at the narrow window beyond the horizon of Harrenhal.
“Very well,” Daemon said coldly. “You may announce it. Blackwood will die.”
The young lord exhaled, relieved as if the heaviest burden had been lifted. But without turning, Daemon added.
“You’re just like her.”
Oscar blinked, uncertain. “My Prince?”
Daemon does not answer. He’s simply looking at you, sitting in the same spot.
Lord Tully chooses not to press further and leaves without a sound, closing the door behind him.
Yet you were still there, right behind him.
The courtyard of Harrenhal was clouded in cold mist, the sky above gray and ever watchful. Lords from the South gathered silently, and their banners stood still in the air. Their eyes were fixated on the center of attention.
Willem Blackwood lay on the peak of a stone perch, lifeless and bloodied. His face bore hesitation and worry, who moments ago did not anticipate his execution. He was betrayed and swore loyalty to the man who carried the sentence. Daemon stood above coldly, gripping Dark Sister, as he stared down at the lifeless body.
He said nothing. However, a wave of murmurs went through the crowd. Nods of approval and absolution, while others exchanged glances with each other.
You stood behind him as always. As it was, your favorite spot to stand. Like the mist, your presence felt the breath behind his neck. He did not look at you, but heard you all the same.
“It had to be done.”
As blood ran down the stone that held up Blackwood’s body, Daemon glanced at his sword. Silence clung to his chest as dusk settled with a newfound agreement between the Southern lords.
The weight of loneliness causes you to finally snap at your husband
A/N: Yall I used to be so good at writing angst until the hormone demon took over😭. Here's my attempt at angst after awhile.
“What is it about me that disgusts you so?”.
That question had haunted your mind for months, rattling in your brain until you felt insanity clawing at you constantly. You always kept it inside, refusing to let it out, in fear of offending him. He never gave you any reason to fear him in the way normal wives feared their husbands. You knew he would never raise a hand to you, and for awhile, you tried to be happy with this. “At least he doesn’t beat me”. What a sad and pathetic life that was.
All you wanted was for him to see you. To attempt to make some sort of connection with you. That always seemed to be the least of his concerns. You craved some sort of proof that your new life did not have to be such a miserable shame.
“What is it about me that disgusts you so?”.
That question always stayed in your mind, but not tonight. It slipped from your tongue, your back against his in your shared bed.
You wondered for a moment if he heard you, until he finally spoke with a simple “what?”.
You had two choices - say nevermind and go to sleep or confront him. Saying nevermind would make things less tense. You could always say you were speaking in your sleep if he questioned you the next day. But then you thought back to that intense feeling of isolation you had felt ever since you arrived in Winterfell.
“I said” you took a deep breath, “what is it about me that disgusts you so?”. You forced yourself to sit up, “it must be something. Do I disgust you because I am not from Winterfell? Would you have preferred a Northern bride? Or maybe I have done something to offend you”. Had you? Surely not. If Cregan Stark wanted a bride from his homeland, he could have just picked one. You did not ask to marry him! All of this was done without your consent!
Targaryens were said to have otherworldly beauty, but you would argue Cregan Stark was just as beautiful. His dark hair was lazily tied back in a low bun. His eyes, usually hard, appeared in a tired haze. You could see peeks of his collarbone underneath his loose black sleepwear. No white hair, no purple eyes, no dragons. Just pure northern beauty.
“There is nothing wrong with you”. His voice was always so monotone. You hated it. There was no emotion. No love. He never spoke softly to you at all. You felt like another one of his guards rather than his wife. “Go back to bed”.
“I will not!” You exclaimed defiantly as you got to your feet. He would not push you away like he always did. “If there is nothing wrong with me, then why do you treat me as if I am just some commoner instead of your wife? You spend more time on an ice wall, staring out at supposed ghouls and goblins, than with me. These fake-“.
“What’s beyond the wall is real”.
You scoffed, feeling your blood grow hot despite the freezing weather. “Go marry one of them then. At least they will have your attention”.
Cregan sighed. He probably thought he was too good for this conversation! How dare you, his outsider wife, question him? If you weren’t so angry, you would’ve saw the confliction in his eyes. The way he let his hair down before tying it again, would’ve been seen as a way for him to steady himself, instead of being mistakenly seen as him being bored of you.
“I have duties and responsibilities. I cannot be here at all times. I have to worry about my people. I am sworn to them”.
The words hardly left his mouth when you screamed, “no, you are sworn to me!”. You turned to face the table, taking in the view of papers and books littered across the dark wood. “The history of the North…” you thought aloud. You read each book cover to cover several times. You even asked the maesters to tell you stories about their home. History, myths, stories used to scare children, signs of good and bad luck, you learned every little bit of this place in an attempt to connect with him. It all meant nothing. You let out a bitter laugh. “Do you truly think I have ever cared for Northern history before I came here?". You shook your head in shame, looking down at the notes you took down. "I do not care about The King Who Knelt, or the Lords before you, or the trees, or the damn ice spiders or anything else in these stupid pages".
You ripped the notes in a fury, a thing you'd likely come to regret later. "Hours spent putting ink to paper and it has meant nothing". It did nothing to make you closer. How could you have a conversation with someone who shut you down so easily? You forced yourself to face him, "I care for you. I have tried so hard to become closer to you by learning about your home because I know how important Winterfell is to you, and you dismiss me at every turn! Tell me, what do you know of my home?".
If you weren't so full of a rage built by months of loneliness, you would've saw the hurt in his face. He extended his hand, "come to me". But you did not hear the desperation in his voice. All you felt was pain.
"I am alone here. My people, my culture, my family, foods I like, activities I like to do, my friends... they are all gone. It is freezing cold here and I know no one and I feel the stares from people and you, my husband, the one who is supposed to offer me a bit of comfort, flee from me like I am a disease. You have everything and everyone you need here. I have nothing. Why- gods". You wiped at your eyes like some pathetic sniffling child. That must've been how he saw you. "Why do you not let me connect with you?".
Your gaze went down to the floor. You couldn't bare to look at him anymore. His face was too lifeless, like pretending to care about you would kill him. "My Lady, there is nothing wrong with you. If I could be near you more, I would-".
"More excuses" you whispered, defeated. This was foolish. You accomplished nothing here. Your isolation would burn more, knowing you expressed yourself but there would be no change. "I will sleep in my own bedchamber tonight and we can forget this conversation ever happened".
If you had looked at him before storming away, you would see him fumble for words to make you stay.
If you could see inside his head, you would see that Cregan did indeed want to connect with you, but wasn't sure how. He didn't want to force himself in your life. To become your unwanted shadow. So he tended to his duties like he would before you got married.
And if you were Cregan, you would know he prayed to his gods for you safety and happiness daily. You would know he always made sure the cooks made you sweet treats after meals since a member of your family told him you liked sweets after eating. You would know he scolded anyone speaking terribly about his outsider wife. You would know he kissed your forehead when he arrived home and you were already sleeping. You would know that on your wedding night, he was as gentle as humanly possible, in hopes of making your first time not so terrible. You would know that tonight, Cregan got himself dressed so he could pray to the old gods and ask for guidance.
But you were not him, and he was not you.
And when there is a lack of communication, things are doomed to fail.
Off topic kinda but when I saw Cregan on screen for the first time I was like "bitch I know that ain't child Uhtred son of Uhtred".
Desperate to win favour and power with your overlord, your father sends you to Oldtown to try and win favour with House Hightower. Never did you expect to become the object of Ormund's obsession, nor did you expect to go to such lengths to avoid his ire and fury. (2.5k words) (requested 1, 2)
Ormund Hightower x Cuy!reader
Content: MDI, 18+, smut, p in v, oral (m receving) power imbalance (reader is from house Cuy one of Hightowers vassles), obsessive and possesisve ormund. He is the warning. dub con. using s*x to stop him having a tantrum. prasie kink. half proofread.
Ormund's hand caressed your hair as you slept soundly, entirely unaware that he had entered your chambers. It had become a routine for him. To visit you as you slept, so soundly, so unaware. He would caress your cheek and hair, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you slept, leaving you with a kiss to your cheek, lingering slightly to watch as you let out a small sound at the action before leaving. But tonight he had lingered longer than he usually did, had crept in just before dawn and stayed to watch as you stirred away, your eyes swollen from sleep meeting his as you woke, gasping in surprise, your hands moving to pull your duvet to your chin, as if Ormund hadn't pulled the sheets from your body nights before, watching as your shift rode up, revealing your thighs. His hands hovered over your body, itching to touch you and caress you. But he never did; no, he would never do so when you were pure, an angel in his eyes, so perfect.
“My lord?” your soft voice spoke, and Ormund could swear he groaned every time you spoke, your voice melodic in his ears. “What are you doing here?”
“My lady,” he smiled, his hand going back to your head, his hand stroking your hair behind your ears, his hands moving to caress your cheeks as he breathed you in. “My sweet lady,” he mumbled, watching you flush from his words, “I wished to start my day by gazing at you; is it so wrong?”
You shook your head, crawling further back into the bed, the sheet still pulled impossibly high. “If it is what my lord wishes, then I suppose not,” you swallowed, your voice as soft as ever.
He smiled,” good,” he caressed your cheeks once more before standing up. “'Tis always a pleasure, Lady Cuy. I do hope you will join me to break our fasts?” You nodded, so shy and nervous; he loved that about you. He hummed in approval, reaching across to place a kiss on your forehead, bidding you goodbye.
You let out a heavy sigh as the door closed behind him, your hand coming to wipe his kiss from your forehead as you forced your breathing to calm. It shouldn't have surprised you so, seeing him watching you as you slept, his hands caressing you as if he were admiring a trinket. It wasn’t the first time he had done so, and certainly not the first time you had caught him. And yet it did. He always surprised you. How he treated you, how he acted around you, how it differed so greatly from how he acted and treated everyone else.
When your father had brought you with him to Oldtown, under the guise of meetings and audiences with Lord Ormund, he had made you accompany him to each and every meeting, relishing in the obsessive gazes Ormund gave you, the way he always made you linger behind, and invited you to dine next to him at every meal.
He had brought you to Oldtown with the goal to win favour, to entice Ormund and seduce him. A notion you did not understand. You were a girl who had grown up devout, soft-spoken, never once the type to use your beauty to seduce a man, nor had the thought ever crossed your mind. And yet your father had insisted you were perfect, that your sweet eyes and voice made you a perfect woman to seduce Ormund and win your house favour. And in truth he had been correct. You merely needed to hover in his presence, and the man's eyes never left yours. A week of this and he had demanded you stay in Oldtown, to join his court. And your father, ever the social climber, agreed.
That was the first time he surprised you.
Surprised you with his interest in you, sweet you who he called sweetling, whose hands always reached for yours whenever he was near. He surprised you each day by his need for your touch. Never improper, no, he knew you were devout, and that is what lured him in, sweet adorable you, as he would say. Sweet you, the perfect lady of the seven, so beautiful, demure and pure. All words he would whisper in your every night as he caressed your cheek, thinking you asleep. The words he would mutter as he buried his nose in your hair, smelling you, groaning at your sweet scent.
Sweet you who he broke his fast with, lunched with and dined with, sweet you who after today would surprise you further by announcing your marriage, thinking your gasps were one of joy, not shock and damnation.
“My lady,” he greeted, his eye trailing your gown, a pleased smile on his lips as he noted the green dress, embroidered with the seven-pointed star. “Come sit by me, sweetling,” he demanded, forcing Daeron to move away from him, with what you swore was a small sigh of relief. “You look beautiful,” he smiled, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing it in greeting. You smiled, a nervous blush on your cheeks, as you darted your eyes away and met Gwayne's kind gaze as he sat across from you.
“Now that we are all here,” Ormund began, dropping your hand and slamming the table to capture everyone’s attention, “it is time for an announcement.”
“Announcement?” Daeron asked, his eyes turning to you, no doubt expecting you to know whatever it was his cousin rambled on about.
“I am to be married,” he clapped, ignoring Daeron, and you felt a weight lift off your shoulders as if the attention Ormund was insistent on giving you would go to whoever he was marrying. A weight that settled back down and ten times heavier when your eyes met his. “To Lady Cuy,” he declared, a grin on his lips, “ We marry by the spring end,” he said, his hand reaching to grab yours and pulling you to rise.
“What?” You asked in shock, though Ormund seemed to take it as a surprise and pleasure as he pulled you towards him, kissing your cheek.
“Your father has agreed, and my council sees no reason to object, not when you are a clear and devout lady, an angelic one might even say.”
You flushed, searching the room as if it might offer you some escape, but even Gwayne's kind and pitying gaze could do nothing to stop the will of his Lord.
As time went by, you realised that Ormund's affections were both a blessing and a curse.
Lucky were you to have a husband so obsessed with you that he would rage the moment you were gone too long. A husband whose happiness relied on you pleasing him. But cursed were you to have that husband be Ormund. A man so prone to rages and tantrums you never knew where you truly stood.
You had feared the man since the day you had met him, and though your kind and soft temperament eased him during your courtship, once married you quickly realised the best way too with him was with your body.
Your fear for the man grew each day, his temper causing little rest for your mind or body. And though some days he was completely calm, you knew that anything from the slightest whiff of something unpleasant to a meeting where everything didn’t go exactly his way. It would ruin his mood entirely, and cause hell for everyone around him. You had been good, so good at tempering his mood, but as of late rage seemed to be the only emotion he truly knew.
Stuck in Tumbletown, with dragons at your door and a war that simply wasn’t going his way.
“Useless craven coward! Cunt!” Ormund screamed, his sword against the table. Your back pressed against the wall, Daeron's hand in yours as you held him back from Ormund's tantrum. “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” he screamed, knocking everything off the table before him.
“My love,” you called out, your hand reaching for him as he sheathed his sword and sighed.
“ Your Uncle Gwayne has sent word. It seems your brother Aemond will not be joining us after all,” he sighed, moving to sit back down and pull you to his lap. Daeron stepped forward, clearing his throat.
“Is… Gwayne coming to Tumbleton?”
Gwayne nuzzled into you, smelling the soft scent of your skin, the same scent he kept in his vile, “We must alter our scheme.” was all he said, before dismissing the rest of his men and moving his hands to your waist, “my sweet wife,” he mumbles into you, relishing in the kisses you give to his jaw as you attempt to sooth him. You were grateful he never noticed the practised movements, the stiffness of your back, the way your hands always went over his as he caressed your thighs, almost to stop him, but today, as you did most days, your hands urged him to lift the skirts of your dress, as your mouth pressed hot kisses to his jaw and neck.
“My sweet wife,” he groaned, as your hands went to the laces of his breeches, freeing his hard cock, “always there to ease my worries,” he hummed, his hands moving from your skirts to your face pulling your lips down to his “so perfect,” he spoke, pulling your face down to him, pulling you into a heated kiss as you worked his cock between your legs, lowering yourself onto his cock slowly.
Ormund groaned into your mouth as you rode his cock, his hands moving to your waist, holding you tightly as he helped you ride him,
“Fuck, sweetling,” he groaned, smilling his seed into you, as you collapsed against him, “you have made my day.” he pressed a soft kiss to your lips, before urging you up and dismissing you for the afternoon.
You heard Daeron call your name as you walked the halls of Tumbletown, his hand reaching for your shoulder to stop your steps as you headed to the gardens, desperate for fresh air and a break from the scents Ormund had forced upon the keep.
“Daeron,” you greeted softly, happy to see the prince, though your smile soon wavered at his words.
“I need your help with Ormund.”
“Oh, Daeron, I-” you said, not wishing to insert
“Please, you are the only one he doesn't lash out at,” he pleaded, using the eyes that always had you folding whenever he asked for a favour.
“Fine, what is it?” you hummed, reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. You hadn't known Daeron for more than a year, but you cared for him like he was your baby brother, a brother you wished to protect in the small ways you could.
Daeron gave you a relieved smile. “Thank you,” he sighed, “he’s barring me from seeing Tessarion.”
“Oh darling,” you shook your head. Ormund hated the dragon, and hated Daeron's love for her more. “I will do what I can, but I cannot promise you anything,” you smiled, pressing a kiss to Daeron's forehead before switching directions and heading for Ormund's solar.
“My love,” you greeted, watching Ormund as he sniffed at the vile, full of your scent; his demeanour seemed calm, watching letters and reports before him, seemingly leaving him in a good mood.
“Sweetling,” he greeted, smiling at the sight of you, “I was just thinking about you.”
You gave him a nervous smile, walking around to stand before him. “I must ask something of you.”
He hummed, turning in his chair and pulling you to stand between his legs. “What can I help you with?”
“Well, it's about Daeron,” you began, your face flushing with nerves.
Ormund scoffed, rolling his eyes, his good mood quickly fading. “Gods, what has he bid you do, the coward?”
Your hand flew to his cheek, trying to soothe his good mood back. “Please, my love, he only asked because he knew the love you bore for me could sway you,” you teased, hoping he would see it as a jest and not an insult. You never truly knew with him.
Ormund scoffed, “Fine, plead his case.”
Tension left you at his words; at least this wasn't starting with him in a bad mood. At least this way he may hear what you have to say. “He loves Tessarion,” you began, “and a dragon needs to be looked after, or else they lash out and deny her the chance to see Daeron will inevitably cause that, and the last thing we need is a rogue dragon.” You spoke nervously, rushing to get everything out before Ormund's patience stopped.
He looked at you, contemplating your words. He kissed his teeth. “Fine, the boy may see the beast twice a week.” You let out a relieved smile, reaching to kiss Ormund's cheek.
“Thank you, husband!” You kissed his cheek. “I must go tell him.” You smiled, turning to leave, only to feel Ormund's hands fly to your waist, stopping you from leaving.
“Not so fast, my sweet,” he hummed, turning you back to face him, “I am not done with you yet”
You felt your heart beating in your chest as you looked at your husband and his darkened lust filled eyes. “I believe I deserve some compensation for my cooperation,” he hummed, smiling as he watched you nod your head, waiting for his command. “Kneel”, he commanded, letting go of your hips as his finger motioned to the floor. Watching you drop to your knees, knowing exactly what he wanted. His hands reached to untie his breeches, pulling out his hardened cock. His hand moved to grip your chin, his finger swiping across the seam of your lips, bidding you to open your mouth. He hummed a pleased sound as you opened your mouth to him, ready to suck on his finger, only for him to pull it away, his hands reaching for your hair and pulling you down to his cock.
His hand stayed on your hair, pulling it as he thrusted in and out of your mouth. Groaning at the feel of your mouth around him as he fucked your mouth.
Your hand reached for his length, stroking the part that you could never quite fit, your other hand reaching for his balls, squeezing them. He groaned at your actions, the movement vibrating through his body and to your mouth, causing you to gag on his cock as he kept fucking your mouth. “That's it, take it,” he groaned, “fuck, so good.” his hand tightened on your hair, thrusting into your mouth one last time before filling your mouth with his seed. “Swallow,” he commanded as he held your hair, keeping you on his cock. “Good girl,” he praised, releasing you from his cock, feeling you swallow his seed.
He pulled you to his lap as you stood, his nose nuzzling your hair and breathing in your scent. “You are lucky to be my wife, sweetling; if anyone else had requested such…beasts be treated with,” he titled his head, flinching as he spoke, “respect. I would have them flung from the window,” he laughed, not noticing how you stiffened and swallowed roughly, hoping his obsession over you never faded.
PAIRING: gwayne hightower x fem!reader, gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader
WARNINGS: otto hightower, criston cole being a loser, implied rejection of said loser, angst, gwayne is such a lover boy, arguing, slight allusion to nsfw ig, TW: SUICIDE
WORD COUNT: 1.7k
🎶 : hymne à l’amour - édith piaf
AN: ♥️ - this is by far the most heart breaking thing i've ever written. sad sad ending - TW: suicide.
Criston Cole would be the utter demise of the noble Gwayne Hightower.
That knight (if once could even call him that) had a way of turning Gwayne’s goodnatured air into a poisonous one. For the past several weeks, the Dornishman had been on a conquest, one with the sole purpose of spreading his hate and resentment to those under his command.
And just when Gwayne thought Cole’s hatred was dwindling down, your dragon flew overhead a small dispute.
That seemed to reignite something inside him. Cole spent hours spewing horrible, slanderous things about you and the Princess Rhaenyra.
Gwayne had had a different reaction to the mere reminder of you. Reduced to his ten and five year old self, he spent his time in a daze, daydreaming and the like.
You’d been a haunting figure in Gwayne’s life for years.
The men sat around the fire, eating their horribly disgusting rations, exchanging tall tales. Cole had taken over the light-hearted nature, and forced it to become a slanderous and honestly obsessive speech about the princesses. He’d moved on from Rhaenyra, now focusing on you. Sweet, beautiful, and kind you.
“She was always a rough one.” His lip quirked, like he was trying to hint at something unbecoming of a true honorable knight. Of course, Gwayne reminded himself, Cole was not a true knight. A true knight knew when to hold his tongue. “Harsh, like that of a terrible storm. She tore through the Red Keep, leaving chaos in her wake.”
No one dared to correct him. Many that sat around the fire had visited court, had seen the notoriously kind and gentle princess move with the poise of a true noblewoman. Some had even grown up with the Princess. They all knew that she was not at all like the Dornishman said, and yet, none of them stood to defend her.
Cowards, the lot of them.
Gwayne’s jaw twitched as he waited for the man to redeem himself. He’d snapped at the Hand only a fortnight ago, and thought it would perhaps be wise to choose patience over impulse.
“Women like that are rare, truly.” Cole, unfortunately, continued. “She was, in no uncertain terms, a cun-”
In an instance, Gwayne rose to his feet, drew his sword, and held it at the Hand’s neck. “Watch your tongue, Sir Criston.”
The air stilled, the once jovial men tense with uncertainty. “It would be wise to lower your sword, my lord.”
“The mere concept of wisdom is something completely foreign to you.”
“It seems-” Criston swallowed. “That your allegiance has shifted.”
“How dare you.” Gwayne hissed. “My allegiance is not to be questioned.”
“It is-” Criston dared to speak again. “When you threaten me after my comment about the princess.”
“I am a man of honor.” Gwayne stepped back, allowing his sword to fall from the man’s neck. “And as a man of honor, I cannot stand idly by as you insult a lady. If you dare speak another ill word of her, I will strike you where you sit, the Gods as my witness.”
Criston smirked. “I shall not speak of the Realm’s Horror any longer then.” That comment earns laughs from the men.
Gwayne fought the urge to slash his throat in one swell blow. Instead, he turned on his heel, stalking towards his tent. He flung his sword on the floor beside his cot before flinging himself onto the cushion in a most undignified manner.
As he fell asleep, his mind drifted to memories of you. Well, to only one. His fondest.
Some Years Ago…
He hadn't seen you in ages, the longing in his heart nearly ready to burst. He knew that Rhaenyra and Alicent had gone off to the library thanks to his spies within the household, and he knew that that meant you were left to your own devices.
And so there he waited, watching as you walked through the castle garden, soaked to the bone thanks to the aggressive downpour. You'd abandoned your cloak some time ago, realizing there was no stopping your gown from becoming a wet rag.
His hand, gentle yet firm, had gripped your wrist, pulling you into the groundskeeper's shed. You knew who it was instantly; his touch was as familiar to you as Rhaenyra's whines (mostly regarding her father's wishes for her to marry). Still, a gasp left your lips.
Gwayne's terribly charming grin looked down at you, his face illuminated thanks to the adjacent window. “Gwayne Hightower, you cannot pull a lady-”
“I have missed you.” His head hung low, lips closer than they should be. “You have been busy.”
“Such is the life of the heir of the realm’s lady in waiting.” You reached up, brushing a stray hair behind his ear. “I have missed you as well.”
“Your gown-” He looked down, shaking his head in faux disappointment. “It is ruined.”
“Is it now?” You frowned. “What a shame.”
“A shame?” He lowered his lips to the crook of your neck, trailing kisses across your chest. Chills ran down your spine, biting your lips to suppress the urge to moan. “My darling girl, you have never looked as stunning as you have this very moment.” You glared, shoving his shoulder playfully.
“Do not tease, Gwayne.”
“I never tease-” He stopped, correcting his statement before he became a liar. “I only tease when I mean to immediately remedy the situation.”
“Ah.” Your arms found their way around his neck, fingers delicately playing with his hair. “Might I ask how you will be remedying this situation?”
“Of course, my lady.” He'd been slowly backing you toward the wall, finding satisfaction in your flustered appearance when your back collided against the partition. “I plan to ravish you-”
“Ravish?” You gawked, jaw slack. “Gwayne, what if my uncle- the guard-”
“If you do not wish for me to continue…” He whispered, hands squeezing your hips. “I will obey your commands.”
“No.” You shook your head, nudging your nose against his. “I never said I did not want to.”
“Ah.” His hands pulled at the fabric of your skirt, your stomach twisting at the action and what it alluded to. What it implied was something you’d been wanting for quite some time.
“You know-” You tried your best to seem entirely unbothered. “You have not kissed me yet.” “Haven’t I?” His eyes fluttered to your chest, your heart skipping at his actions. “I believe-”
“I would like a proper kiss.” You grumbled. “I am not a piece of meat, my lord, so you may stop eyeing me like one.”
“I do not eye.” He sounded highly offended. “I am simply taking in the vision that is before me. You are a goddess, the Realm’s Beauty indeed.”
“Gwayne-” You tugged on his doublet. “Please.”
“As you wish, my lady.” He leaned closer, his left hand left your hip to cup your cheek.
You nodded quickly. “It is.” He then pressed you further into the wall, if that was even possible. His lips never left your skin once, worshipping you like a man possessed. Your eyes closed, head tilting up toward the sky. “Gwayne-”
“I could hear my name leave your lips for a lifetime.”
“A lifetime?” Your breath caught at the implication. “What do you-”
“You know.” He murmured against your skin, causing chills to run down your spine. “You must know.”
“This-” You sounded utterly wrecked. “This is not a joking matter, Gwayne.”
“I am not joking.” He pulled your skirts up, tugging at your stockings. “You think me an unserious rake, I am convinced.”
“You must forgive me.” You gasped as his hand pawed at your upper thigh, thoughts failing to form coherently. “But your current actions are proving my point.”
“Are they?” His hand then slid up further, toying with the base of your chemise. “Would you like me to stop?”
“No!” You slapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide with fear. “No.”
“My lovely girl-” He pulled your hand away, kissing the back gently. The act was so chivalrous that it almost made you forget he was actively taking part in the social ruin of a young noble lady. “I am asking for your hand this afternoon.”
“You are only saying that.”
“I am not. I have had this planned since a fortnight ago.”
Your legs tightened around his waist. “Have you really?”
He leaned forward, his nose nudging yours. “I love you, Your Highness. Most ardently, and if you will have me, I will make you the happiest woman in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“I-” You dove down, kissing him soundly. “I will marry you. I will be your wife.”
Of course, because the gods were cruel, his fondest memory was followed by his worst. He’d left you to go meet with the King and his father, to ask for your hand, hopeful, happy even.
He’d walked in calm, held his head high, but humble.
He’d even sworn that Viserys was on the verge of saying yes when his own father cut in, destroying his future in one fell swoop. “My King, I apologize. My son, he has insulted you gravely.”
“Otto-”
“Your niece is of a higher rank. He is only a second son.” Otto glared at his child. “Leave us.”
“Father-” Gwayne puffed his chest, trying his hardest not to look utterly crushed. “I love her, truly and honestly. I would- I would provide her a loving marriage, one of happiness and peace.”
“But not one that she deserves. Not one fitting of a Princess, am I right?” Otto raised a brow. Gwayne was speechless.
“Leave us. I won’t repeat myself.”
Gwayne hadn’t seen you after that day. His father had forbidden it, going so far as to post guards at his door and at the base of the Princess’s balcony. He’d sent him back to Oldtown, and sent you into a depressive state.
A mere fortnight later, Gwayne had been walking through the streets of his home when a villager whispered about the Targaryen princess who flung herself off the tallest point of the castle.
And two days later, his own father’s raven had confirmed it. You had died from heartbreak, all thanks to Otto Hightower and his scheming.
Gwayne knew that you were gone, and yet, when he saw your dragon, he let himself believe that you were still alive. He dared to have hope. And hope would kill him, just as it did his spirit all those years ago.
contains ᦸ fluff making out physical touch angst mentions of an arranged marriage tragic lovers twins jace and aerion exist based on this req ٫٫ 5.2k
❛❛ I have bled for duty, and I would bleed for it still. Yet always I will resent it, for what it has cost me. You.
Lady Arsa Dustin ! who was sent to Dragonstone to be the princess’s lady-in-waiting when she was 15, and the princess was 13. She is known for her renowned beauty in the north and her alluring personality. She instantly found the princess charming and alluring herself, despite her shy and meek personality. The two of them almost instantly got close when Arsa gained the princess’s trust by defending her against a stupid stable boy. Arsa admires the princess very much and is willing to do anything to help and strengthen her for the rough world they live in.
Sweetling reader ! who was hesitant to get close to her new Lady in waiting, but after several times of Arsa showing her loyalty to her, the two instantly became close. It’s nice to be close with another girl who isn't part of her family, only really growing up with Heleana, Baela, and Rhaena. She’s never really had this type of bond with someone; she’s never really had a friend. They teach each other things. Arsa teaches her about using things to her advantage, how to manipulate physically and mentally. While, Sweetling tries to teach her how to play the harp and how to embroider, but her favorite thing to teach Arsa was High Valyrian.
Rhaenyra & Daemon ! who weren't blind to how close the two girls had become. They are always attached to each other's hips, smiling and laughing, arms looped together as they whispered in each other's ears, lots of gossiping. Rhaenyra loves to see her daughter happy and have a good friendship, but for the longest time she was very cautious of Arsa because she didn't want her daughter to get hurt like how Alicent had hurt her, but that cautiousness went away as time went on. Daemon enjoyed the fact that Arsa was helping her grow stronger in many ways. Arsa taught her how to use the bow, a skill she was very talented at by growing up in the north. He could also see how much stronger she got mentally, how she was growing thicker skin.
The sky above Dragonstone was a soft, pearl-gray, the clouds drifting like smoke from a distant fire. Salt-laced breezes danced across the shore, carrying whispers of sea spray and the scent of wet stone. The waves lapped roughly against the black cliffs, while the waves brushed against the sandy shores with a steady and calming rhythm. The air was cool but not too unkind for you and your Lady in waiting.
You wore a gown of soft lavender silk, embroidered with delicate silver threads that shimmered when you moved. The sleeves were long and flowing, the hems embroidered with lace. Arsa wore an equally elegant but more subdued gown, a deep forest green gown with black detailing. Both of you had matching shawls draped over your shoulders for warmth.
Your sworn protector trailed several paces behind the two of you, close enough to protect you but at a distance where it didn't feel like he was intruding. Silverwing circled high above them—a silvery streak glinting in the overcast light—her wings spread wide as she’d tilt mid-flight just to watch her rider down below.
The shore stretched before them, a ribbon of dark sand kissed by white sea foam. Your arms were linked together like always as you and Arsa walked in an easy rhythm, shoulders brushing with every step. Your footsteps left faint prints in the damp sand before tidewater licked them away again.
Arsa leaned into you slightly as they passed a log washed in from the sea, the older girl instinctively adjusting their pace so her princess wouldn’t stumble. The two of you looked natural together. One radiant as dawn, the other warm and steady as earth. Your gowns fluttered like petals in the sea wind.
Arsa tilted her head towards you, her natural red lips curling into that knowing, teasing smile—the one she wore when the gossip of the real was particularly rich. Her big brown eyes took a moment to admire your side profile as your eyes were turned towards the ocean, a small fond smile on your lips at the sight as you breathed in the scent of the sea.
“Did you hear?” Arsa murmured, voice low and velvety over the whisper of the waves. You turned your head to her at the sound of her voice, curiosity in your expression. A soft laugh left her lips as she continued, “Another letter came this morning for Jace, from some Lannister girl—she actually sent him a lock of her hair!’
You exhaled a soft laugh, the sound curling like smoke in the sea air, which sounded like the sweetest music to Arsa’s ears. You tilted your head closer to her as you walked, your eyes glinting with soft mischief as a smirk tugged at your lips. “Mother nearly had Maester Gerardys faint when he read the letter aloud—Aerion nearly had a fit!”
“So that’s why he spent hours training with the sword like one of those brooding knights in those horrid songs your bard sings.” Arsa teased in that rich northern lilt of hers that you loved dearly. The wind caught the strands of your silver hair as you gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest like she’d just insulted the entire realm. You cried out, your voice lifting with playful outrage, “How dare you!”
Arsa’s grin only widened; she adored this side of you: fiery and theatrical, all wide eyes and fluttering lashes with mock-scandalization. Her dramatic princess.
“Jaskier has the most angelic voice in all the seven kingdoms!” You declared loudly over the crashing waves with mock horror, but your giggles spilling out of your lips and the playfulness in your violet eyes ruined any attempt at faux offense. She watched you with pure adoration, warmth blooming in her chest at how you lit up.
She couldn’t help but laugh with you, a rich, unfiltered sound that mingled with the sea air. She squeezed your arm affectionately as you continued your passionate defense of your favorite bard. Her thumb absentmindedly brushed over the silk of your sleeve where it was linked with hers, a quiet gesture of comfort amid the playful bickering and gossip.
From one of the high stone ledges of Dragonstone, two figures stood silhouetted against the pale gray sky. Rhaenyra’s silver hair gleamed faintly in the muted light as she watched her daughter below, arms linked with Arsa like twin vines growing together. Beside her, Daemon leaned casually, his posture relaxed but his sharp eyes tracking every movement on the shore.
Rhaenyra exhaled softly through her nose—a mother's sigh filled with quiet pride and something else…an ache. Her little girl was growing up so fast. The way you laughed freely beside Arsa made your face glow brighter than any jewel ever could. Daemon nudged her gently with his shoulder without looking away from you both, remarking simply, “She looks happy.”
His wife didn't answer immediately—just kept staring at how naturally you leaned into your lady-in-waiting’s touch with a knowing glint in her eyes, how easily Arsa adjusted to match your steps whenever a rock or wave got in your way. It wasn't just duty between them anymore; it never really had been since the two of you met as young girls all those years ago.
Rhaenyra’s fingers curled slightly against the cold stone ledge, her knuckles whitening just a fraction. She had always known—felt it—that Arsa was more than just a Lady-in-waiting to you. The way the northern girl looked at you when no one saw, the protectiveness that bordered on possessiveness, when courtiers tried to get too familiar with you.
A shadow passed over Rhaenyra’s face—subtle, but there. The memory of her own childhood friendship that had turned bitter still haunted her, of how easily affection could curdle into rivalry or worse under the weight of court politics and royal expectations. Arsa was nothing like Alicent; she had to remind herself of that. And you had a mother here that would protect you; she would never let what happened to her—happen to you.
She finally spoke after a long silence, not a question—just quiet acceptance spoken into the sea-wind, “She loves her.”
Daemon’s smirk deepened, that wicked knowing curve of his lips. He turned fully towards his wife now, the wind tugging at his matching hair as he leaned in just enough to murmur in her ear. His voice was low and velvety with mischief, “When do we tell Lord Dustin we’re keeping his niece?”
Lady Arsa Dustin ! who swore to herself that she wouldn’t let her feelings for you be known. She was your Lady in waiting; it was inappropriate. But it was harder as the years went by and the closer the two of you became. You trusted her with things you didn't trust with anyone else; you yearned for her like how she yearned for you. The soft touches and holds would linger and last longer, not just from her end but also from yours. You were both craving something you knew you shouldn’t.
Sweetling reader ! who was in the bath after flying with Silverwing. Arsa was washing her hair and asking her about her flight when the soft talk turned more flirty as you told her you wished she would ride with you, that Silverwing enjoys her presence. She teased you and said, ‘Like her rider, I'm sure.’ When you tilted your head to look at her, your faces were closer than you expected; both of you got quiet as you stared at each other's lips.
Lady Arsa Dustin & Sweetling reader ! who kissed for the first time at that moment, and everything for them had never been the same. They became closer; if that was even possible, they had more sleepovers in the princess's bedchambers. Arsa knew that their relationship sadly wouldn't last, but she never voiced that and the truth to the princess; she was too happy…she did not wish to take her happiness away. So she allowed herself to enjoy this happiness, and she took the time to teach her princess important things, things she would need to know when she’s not there anymore.
The soft glow of candlelight flickered across your bedchamber, casting warm shadows on the stone walls and tapestries. The hearth crackled gently with a low fire—just enough to keep away the biting chill without making the chambers too stuffy. The princess’s chambers were luxurious as always, silk hangings in pretty pinks and purples, delicate tapestries woven with silver thread depicting dragons and flowers alike. Always smelling of the finest scented candles and incense, with lingering scents of the perfumed oils Daemon would spoil you with from Essos.
There you sat on your great four-poster canopied bed that was piled high with the finest silken pillows and furs, night settled over Dragonstone, the castle quiet except for the distant sound of waves crashing against cliffs. You leaned against one hand while your legs were tucked to the side; your body was clad in the softest nightgown, your silver hair natural down your back as you flipped through a book you stole from Aerion’s chambers.
Arsa was sitting at your vanity, wearing one of your nightgowns, a pale blue one that pooled down to her ankles, which made her look more delicate than she truly was. Her nimble fingers had just finished undoing her hair from her usual braids, spilling down her back in dark waves. Her brown eyes reflected the candlelight as she admired your silhouette through the vanity mirror.
The way your silver hair cascaded down like moonlight, how effortlessly regal you looked even lounging in your bed, you never failed to steal her breath.
She turned slowly on the bench, taking a moment longer than necessary to just admire you—the curve of your lips when you focused on reading, how one of your fingers absently traced along an illustration's edge. You looked ethereal, like one of those dream maidens from old songs and stories. Her chest tightened with that familiar ache: this wasn't hers to keep forever…but tonight was.
She rose to her feet with quiet grace; the hem of the borrowed nightgown whispered against the stone floor as she crossed the room towards where you sat nestled among silks and furs. The bed dipped slightly as Arsa climbed onto it behind you, moving with that quiet grace she always had. She settled right against your back, her legs folding neatly to the side so she could press close to you.
Gently, she leaned forward and rested her chin on your shoulder, warm breath fanning over your bare skin where your nightgown strap had slipped down slightly. Her arm slid around your waist naturally, her fingers caressing your side as you instinctively leaned back into her warmth. She peered over your shoulder at the book that had your attention so intently; the pages were filled with intricate illustrations of dragons and words written in High Valyrian.
The scent of your hair—something floral and sweet from the oils she washed your hair with—drifted into Arsa’s senses as she nestled closer, her lips brushing lightly against the side of your neck where your warm skin met your delicate silver strands. Her touch was feather-light at first, just a whisper of a kiss before another followed right beneath your ear that made you exhale happily.
Her fingers trailed down from your hip to gently curl around your soft hand where it held onto the book. Without breaking contact with you—her lips now lingering along that sensitive spot under your ear—she carefully closed the thick leather-bound book with a soft thump once it was under her fingertips and pushed it away from you.
Once she pushed the thick book away, her hand lifted up to cradle your jaw and tilt your head towards her. You smiled at the softness in her eyes, leaning forward to softly bump your nose against hers. She scrunched her nose cutely before capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss—soft at first, like the brush of petals against each other. The kind of kiss you’d shared countless times before, but could never grow tired of.
Her hands cradled either side of your face as she deepened it gently, her warm mouth moving over yours with quiet devotion. Her thumbs traced the warm kiss of your cheekbones lovingly between kisses. When she finally pulled back just an inch—just enough to see those beautiful eyes leaf-lidded with affection—she smiled before pressing another small peck to the corner of your lips, before closing the small distance between you.
One hand slid behind your neck to cradle you while the other pressed gently between your shoulder blades, coaxing you down onto the mountain of pillows without breaking your embrace. The bed swallowed both of you in softness, your bodies aligning perfectly like two halves clicking together as she leaned over you on one elbow.
Arsa hovered above you, her dark hair creating a curtain around your faces as she kissed you, deeper this time, hungrier. The warmth of the firelight painted gold streaks across her cheeks and lashes. She nipped playfully at your lower lip before soothing it with another kiss, murmuring against your mouth in that thick, rich northern lilt of hers—“Mmm…you taste like honey.”
You had one too many sweet treats earlier with Luke and Joffrey as the three of you watched Jace and Aerion spar with Ser Erryk. You and Luke had played a game of taking a bite every time Aerion got annoyed…the two of you were sick from sweets afterwards.
Her fingers tangled gently into the strands of your silver hair at the nape of your neck while she kissed along your jaw to capture that spot beneath it—the one that always made you gasp and squirm under her touch.
Between the kisses she pressed down on every inch she could reach—your cheekbones and your jaw—she whispered teasingly, low and fond like a prayer meant only for these quiet nights where nothing else existed but this bed and each other’s breaths mingling together, “My princess.”
Arsa’s lips traveled down the column of your throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses that left tingles in their wake. Her fingers traced idle patterns along your neck as it slipped down from your nape, then grew bolder as she mapped every soft curve and dip through the thin fabric of your nightgown.
When her mouth found that sensitive spot just above your pulse point, you arched into her instinctively with a quiet gasp—her name nearly slipping from your parent lips before it was stolen by another searing kiss. She swallowed every sound you made like they were sacred. Because they were. Her hand slid down from your collarbone and down your side to your thighs, just barely brushing against your warm skin where your nightgown had ridden up.
Then suddenly Arsa pulled away just enough, panting against each other's lips. Her dark eyes were filled with affection and something hotter, staring down at your flustered face, memorizing every inch of this moment; she knew it wouldn’t last.
You whimpered at the loss of her lips against yours, your hands immediately reaching for her and pulling her back down against you. A pleased moan left your lips as they crashed with hers once more, messier now, your tongues moving together in tandem. Your hips lifting up to press against hers, her grip on your thigh tightening.
The weight of her body pressed down on yours in the most delicious way—just enough for you to feel every one of her curves and her warmth. Between feverish kisses, you whispered a love-filled confession against her swollen lips, “Gods, I could do this forever.”
The words—I could do this forever—pierced straight through Arsa’s chest like a dagger. For one suspended heartbeat she faltered. The weight of reality crashed hard down on her: you were a Targaryen princess, 3rd in line to the throne. She was just your lady-in-waiting, a northern girl sent south to serve. You would marry a highborn lord, or one of your brothers; she would kill him before you were wed to Aemond. And she would either have to watch it all helplessly at your side until she was sent back to the north.
She didn't speak. She couldn't.
Not when you looked at her like that, with those starry eyes full of devotion and love that made everything else fall away. Worst of all, they were filled with hope.
So Arsa swallowed hard against the lump in her throat—the grief for what they couldn't have—and kissed you again fiercely, desperately pouring every unsaid emotion into it. Her lips slanted over yours with more intensity than before; there was something almost mournful in how tenderly possessive she became as both hands cradled your face while kissing deep enough that breath became secondary only after pleasure itself took priority over everything else, including sadness.
Her fingers threaded back into your hair while your legs tangled together over silken sheets already warmed from shared body heat between two lovers; only one knew time wasn't infinite…but tonight? Tonight belonged solely to them.
Rhaenyra Targaryen ! who felt her heart stop when she opened the letter and read the message from Lord Dustin that Maester Gerardys handed her. She knew the day would come when Arsa would have to return to the north, just not so soon; circumstances had changed now that she could see the feelings Arsa shared with her daughter. She sent for Daemon immediately. Daemon was silent as he read the letter after she handed him the parchment, his jaw clenching as he read that Arsa would be sent back to the north with her escort now that Lord Dustin had found the right husband for his niece.
Lady Arsa Dustin ! who had to use everything inside her to fight back tears as she stood in front of Rhaenyra and Daemon, her nails digging crescents into her palms as she squeezed her fists as Rhaenyra read the letter from her uncle aloud to her. She could vaguely remember the name of the man she would marry, but she couldn't even begin to think about her soon-to-be marriage; all she had on her mind was you. Her princess that she had to leave. Time had caught up to them; duty had caught up to them. Her usually strong voice trembled as she asked the prince and princess to let her be the one to tell you. Once they both agreed, she bowed quickly and then rushed out of the room and to her bedchambers before anyone saw her break down.
Sweetling reader ! who didn’t believe it. She laughed at first when Arsa told her that her uncle found her a husband and that she was being called back to the north, but seeing the way Arsa looked at her with so much pain in her eyes made her falter. The nightmare that she’s been having for weeks, the single boat leaving the shores of Dragonstone—the wolf banner that decorated it- it was true. The princess couldn't stop crying once the tears formed in her eyes, the silent tears turning into sharp, ragged sobs as she fell to her knees. She became inconsolable; Silverwing felt it and became restless herself. She flew as close as she could to the castle; the screeches she let out were deafening, and she only calmed down once she saw her rider.
Lady Arsa Dustin & Sweetling reader ! who spent every aching moment together until Arsa would have to leave. Both of their hearts felt like they were slowly getting ripped out. Every night they lay wrapped up in each other's arms, clinging to each other; most nights they didn't know what to say. The days were going by faster, and before they knew it, it was the day Arsa would be returning to her home with her escort. The hardest part was that their last embrace couldn't be one as lovers, only one as a princess and her lady-in-waiting as they stood on the shore. Both of them tried to hold back their tears, whispering their goodbyes before stiffly pulling away.
The morning dawned gray and somber, as if even the sky wept for the two lovers. The air was thick with salt and sorrow. The wind carried a chill that cut through your silks and furs like knives—cruel in its timing, so cold when you needed warmth more than anything. You stood there rigidly in a soft pastel blue gown that Arsa loved on you, wrapped up in one of her cloaks. It smelled like her.
The boat cut through the waves steadily, carrying Arsa away from Dragonstone…away from you. She hadn’t looked back at you—not once. She couldn't see you like that, standing there like a ghost, so much pain and sorrow in your face; her resolve would shatter completely. She didn't want that to be the last memory of you she would have of you.
She wanted to remember your laughter under candlelight, how it sounded when she kissed your cheek with a teasing nip. How safe she always felt with you curled up in her arms during storms, when thunder rattled the castle walls and made everyone else jumpy but never seemed to frighten either of you. Not this silent, shattered version standing on the shore like a statue carved from grief.
Her hands clenched around the wound railing as tears finally spilled over, despite every effort not to cry. The sea spray stung her cheeks—but maybe that was just another lie she was trying to make herself believe.
The boat grew smaller and smaller with every passing moment, disappearing into the misty horizon where the sea met sky. You couldn’t move; you couldn't breathe. Your hands were numb inside Arsa’s clear sleeves, your lips stiff from pressing them together to keep them from trembling into full-blown sobs in front of everyone who was watching discreetly. But it was useless; the first tear fell without permission.
Then another. A shaky breath escaped through your clenched teeth as you stopped yourself from crying further. You wouldn’t let anyone see you like this, even if it was your family, people you trusted. Silverwing let out a mournful cry from above where she circled low over the cliffs, sensing her rider's pain as if it were her own.
Rhaenyra approached with silent steps, her own heart heavy. She recognized that devastation—she had known it all too well, her own lovers taken from her too soon. The way your whole body seemed to curl inward, the dull numbness of loss that hadn’t yet turned into full grief. Without a word, she slipped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into her embrace, the scent of her always wrapped around you like armour since you were little.
She pressed kisses along your temple while she rubbed soft circles on your shoulder—the same way she did when you were a child; the same comfort given now for heartbreak. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she finally spoke, “I’m so sorry, my sweet girl…”
Rhaenyra’s arms tightened around you as she felt your body tremble with silent sobs against her chest. The wind howled around the two of you, carrying the hushed whispers of Jace and Aerion as they watched you with a knowing look, one held softness while the other carried something much darker.
Her fingers carded through your silver hair—just like when you were a babe, crying after nightmares or scraped knees. “She loved you,” Your mother murmured fiercely into your hairline, pressing another kiss there before continuing, “More than anything in this world.”
Daemon stepped forward, his usual smirk absent—replaced by something softer. He wasn’t as emotionally expressive as Rhaenyra, but he had a way of cutting through the pain with blunt honesty that sometimes helped more than sweet words. He placed a larger hand on your head, his touch soft and caressing as your violet eyes met.
”She wasn't meant for you.” Daemon said quietly—not cruelly—but firmly, like the facts were written in the stars themselves before you were even born into this world. Rhaenyra tensed slightly at her husband's words; it was harsh. Daemon continued, his voice low but steady, “Arsa’s blood belongs to the wolves and winter winds, not dragonfire and courts.”
Rhaenyra’s grip on you tightened protectively as if she wanted to shield you from the truth of it. It wasn't easy for Daemon to say; he could see how happy and safe she made you feel, and the loyalty she had wouldn’t be forgotten. His hand tilted your chin up gently before his thumb gently brushed away a tear still clinging to your cheek. He spoke in a gentle tone only a father could, “Your path is paved with fire and thrones…hers wasn't."
Your mind reeled with his words—her path wasn't yours. It echoed in your skull, cruel and undeniable. You remembered all the nights you dreamt of a future with her, the conversations the two of you had—sneaking kisses behind tapestries and hushed whispers of their desired future. The weight crushed down on your chest until breathing hurt too much; she had done her duty by you.
And now she is gone.
Your voice came out small and broken.
“If she wasn’t meant for me…then why does it hurt so much?” Your voice cracked under the weight of your grief, small and shattered, confusion and anger swirling in your wide violet eyes as you stared up at Daemon. Searching for an answer you were too scared to hear, too scared to accept. The pain wasn't just sadness—it was betrayal by fate itself. How could something that felt so right be wrong?
Rhaenyra pressed her forehead to your head, her own eyes glistening—not just from sympathy but because she knew. She knew the pain that came with loving someone you could have felt like. The agony of wanting them despite knowing fate would never allow it. This was pain she never wanted her only daughter to feel, but you were too much like her in many ways.
Daemon’s jaw clenched at your words; how innocent and broken you sounded. His gaze flickered away from your eyes and to your twin brothers that stood many paces behind you. Both of their eyes were on you; they hadn’t left you since Rhaenyra gathered them along with Luke, Baela and Rhaena to see Arsa off. To be there if you needed their comfort.
Jace looked like he wanted to rush forward and pull you into his arms, but he kept himself at his twin's side. Aerion looked particularly unsettled, his jaw tight with something unreadable, annoyed at the dramatics of this all. Neither of them hated Arsa really; Jace was friendly when he needed to be, and Aerion saw her as an intriguing thorn in his side. They didn't wish to see you so distraught, but they weren’t blind to the fact that things would be easier now that she was gone.
Daemon’s eyes found yours once again.
“Your heart will mend.” He said simply in High Valyrian—not dismissively of the pain you felt, but with quiet certainty. A promise he knew would come true. He’s seen it. He will see to it. Your eyes fluttered close, and you let out a pitiful sniffle as Daemon leaned in to place a soft kiss on your forehead. The kiss lingered before he pulled away. He shared a knowing look with his wife before he walked off.
A simple commanding nod to the two sets of twins and Luke before he left. Jace and Aerion shared a look before reluctantly following their stepfather. Your step-sisters and little brother looked back at you with a look of sorrow before following along. Leaving you alone with your mother and Ser Erryk, who stood on guard.
Ser Erryk remained silent in his armored stance nearby—his presence steady but not intrusive. He simply stood guard over his princesses' pain.
Rhaenyra kept you cradled against her as you wept quietly, rocking slightly as if you were still that small little girl who hid behind her skirts. The wind howled around the cliffs, carrying the scent of salt and sorrow—like a lullaby for grief. Silverwing finally descended from the sky with a mournful screech. Rhaenyra lifted her head and locked eyes with her daughter's dragon, a silent understanding.
Your mother placed a long kiss on your temple again before murmuring softly into your hair, “Come inside when you're ready.”
Rhaenyra pressed one last kiss to your forehead before straightening, her violet eyes brimming with silent sorrow. She gave Ser Erryk a small nod—watch over her—before turning away. Her steps were measured as she walked back towards the castle, the weight of motherhood heavy on her shoulders.
The moment your mother was gone, Silverwing shuffled towards you. A low whine escaped Silverwing's throat—a sound only meant for you in moments like this: grief-stricken comfort from a dragon who loved and protected you fiercely without words or expectations. She nudged gently at your shoulder with her snout affectionately. You closed your eyes as you felt her hot breath fanning across your tear-stained face.
Silverwing curled around you like a living shield, her massive body forming a protective circle against the wind. Her scales radiated a burning warmth—an anchor in your storm of grief. You buried your face into the curve of her neck, breathing in that familiar scent.
The castle loomed behind you; safe walls awaited inside where hearthfires burned bright…but for now? You clung to Silverwing and let yourself mourn properly without anyone watching. A single tear slipped down your cheek; you didn’t wipe it away this time; you let it fall freely. The pain was raw and real…but so was her love for you had been. And that?
That would never fade no matter how far apart distance made them now.
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙖𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 & sweetling masterlist & 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜
Იᰍ oh guys my heart hurts so much , the angst 😭 I really hope I did this request justice, I was stressing while I wrote this , I hope you guys enjoyed this , Sweetling and Arsa our tragic lovers 💖 BUT MY FIRST TWIN JACE AND AERION FIC 😼 this is a interactive au so your guy’s thoughts, ideas, and opinions are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! please tell me your thoughts 🤍
Summary : They called you Rhaenyra’s daughter, Jacaerys’s twin, a child born of fire and rumor. From your first breath, whispers clung to your name—Strong or Targaryen, trueborn or bastard, blessing or curse. Yet no whisper ever defined you more than the crown that fate placed upon your head the day they bound you to Aegon.
Warning : Angst, Fluff, Family conflict, Abuse of power & control, Infertility & pregnancy struggles, Mean!Alicent, Soft!Aegon.
Aegon Targaryen Masterlist.
The garden smelled of lavender and roses, the breeze carrying the soft hum of bees between the blossoms. You walked with your ladies, their chatter weaving around your laughter as the sun caught in your hair. For month now, you had forsaken the stiff silences of morning tea with your mother-in-law, Alicent, and instead chosen this path—light, free, alive.
You knew she would be furious. You could almost hear her sharp voice scolding you for neglecting tradition, for turning away from the sept-bound ritual she so cherished. But here, in the garden, your lungs filled with air that wasn’t thick with judgment. Here, you were not merely a daughter-in-law—you were yourself.
Then, without warning, a strong hand seized your wrist. You gasped, the sound caught halfway between alarm and surprise, and in the next heartbeat you were pulled flush against a broad chest.
“Seven hells,” you whispered, your voice caught with a startled laugh—only for it to die into a kiss, hot and certain.
Aegon.
He smiled into your lips as if he’d been waiting all morning for this moment. Behind you, your ladies-in-waiting covered their giggles with their hands, exchanging glances before bowing and slipping away, leaving you in the grasp of your husband.
He didn’t let go. Instead, his arms circled your waist, pulling you tighter, his nose brushing yours, his breath tasting faintly of wine though it was still early.
“Radiant,” he murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to unearth some secret you kept hidden even from him. “You’ve been glowing these past days. Tell me, little wife… why is that?”
You giggled softly, placing a palm against his cheek, feeling the scratch of stubble beneath your fingers. “Perhaps it is the air. The garden is kinder to me than your mother’s chambers.”
Aegon chuckled, a rough, warm sound that vibrated through your bones. “Ah, so that is the trick. Sunlight, blossoms… and freedom from my mother sharp tongue.” He leaned close again, lips grazing yours as he spoke. “I should’ve guessed.”
You pressed your forehead against his, heart beating faster under the cage of his arms. “And what of you? You follow me like a shadow, husband. Is the garden so enchanting, or is it me you seek?”
His grip tightened, just slightly—possessive, protective. His smirk faded into something rawer, more vulnerable. “I sought you the moment I woke. I always do.”
The words hit you with a weight he rarely let slip, the honesty trembling behind them. This was not the Aegon the realm knew—the drunken prince, the cruel son, the man of silk streets and whispered sins. This was the man who had changed since the day your betrothal was announced. Who had clawed his way out of the mire to be something better, for you.
Three years of marriage, and still he looked at you as though you were the first light he had ever seen.
“I remember,” you whispered, voice trembling with affection. “When they told me I was to wed you, I feared it was a punishment. A fate worse than death.” You brushed your thumb across his lips, watching them curl into a half-smile. “But you… you are not that man anymore.”
His breath hitched, chest rising against yours. “No. I’m not. For you, I’d burn the world. For you, I’ll never be that man again.”
The intensity in his eyes sent warmth pooling low in your belly. His lips crashed against yours once more, desperate and deep, and you melted into him. His kiss was hungry, a claiming, yet tender in the way his fingers tangled in your hair, careful not to hurt.
The world narrowed to the taste of him, the press of his body, the way he held you like he could never bear to let go.
When finally he broke the kiss, both of you breathless, he whispered against your lips, voice hoarse: “You’re mine. Always mine. I will not let anyone take you from me.”
And though you laughed lightly at his words, brushing them off with a smile, a part of you shivered—not in fear, but in recognition of the truth.
The late afternoon sun painted the gardens in warm gold, catching in the vines that crawled along the stone walls. The air was heavy with lilac, and laughter spilled from your lips as you darted between the hedges. Your skirts caught at your ankles, slowing you only slightly, while behind you came the sound of your husband’s pursuit—his uneven footfalls, his half-drunken but determined shouts.
“Run faster, little wife,” Aegon called, breathless, laughter rough in his throat. “Do not think you can escape me!”
Your giggles echoed like bells through the trees. For a moment, there was no crown, no council, no shadow of war—just the two of you, foolish in your love.
But then, the world shifted.
A sharp pounding bloomed in your skull, so sudden it nearly stole your breath. Your vision blurred, the laughter dying on your tongue as your legs faltered. The ground tilted, rushing up to meet you—
And then strong arms caught you.
“—hey, no, no, I’ve got you.” Aegon’s voice was no longer playful, but urgent, frayed with panic. He lowered you carefully to a stone bench, cupping your face in trembling hands. His eyes, wide and wild, searched yours as though he could will the pain away.
“Tell me you’re all right,” he demanded, almost pleaded. “Tell me now.”
You forced a nod, even as the dull throb still pulsed behind your temples. “I’m fine,” you whispered, steadying your breath. “It was only for a moment.”
His jaw clenched. “Did you eat this morning?”
You nodded again. “Yes. Before I came to the garden.”
Aegon exhaled sharply, brushing his thumb across your cheek as if grounding himself. “I’ll call the maester. Later..” His voice broke on the last word, softened with something that made your chest ache. “I’ll not take chances with you.”
You leaned into his touch, lips curving in a small smile meant to soothe him, but before either of you could speak again—
“So you've been here all this time.”
The voice sliced through the garden, sharp as a blade.
You both turned.
Near the arch of an old elm stood Alicent Hightower, her green silk glinting in the sunlight. She was motionless, her gaze fixed not on Aegon, but on you. Your throat went dry. You swallowed.
“Mother,” Aegon said flatly, but she did not answer him.
Her eyes lingered on you with disapproval sharp enough to strip bark from a tree. “Tell me, daughter,” she began slowly, each word deliberate, “why do you refuse me? A month of mornings I have called for you, and a month of mornings you have chosen to absent yourself from my chambers.”
Heat crawled up your neck. You smoothed your skirts beneath her gaze, gathering your courage. “I wished for a routine of my own,” you said carefully, voice steady despite the knot in your chest. “The garden… it gives me peace.”
Alicent’s lips tightened. She shook her head once, sharply, and her eyes darkened. “Gods you're just like your mother.”
The words landed like a curse.
For a moment, silence pressed heavy between the three of you. Aegon’s hand slid from your cheek to your waist, fingers tightening protectively as though he could shield you from his mother’s tongue.
Then, with a weary sigh, he spoke. “Mother, you must understand—she needs her own space. You cannot hover over her at every turn.”
Alicent’s eyes snapped to him, disbelief flaring. “Space?” she repeated, her voice cold. “You speak of space as though I were suffocating her. You insult me, Aegon.”
He did not flinch, though you felt the tension rolling off him. “Then be insulted,” he muttered.
For a heartbeat, Alicent simply stared—at her son, at his defiance, at you standing tucked beneath his arm. Then, with a bitter shake of her head, she turned, green skirts sweeping as she walked away, her figure swallowed by the shadows of the arch.
The silence she left behind was deafening.
You turned to Aegon, who still held you close, though his gaze was distant, troubled. He looked down at you finally, regret etched deep into his face. “I should not have let her speak to you so. I should not have spoken to her so.” His hand brushed your hair back from your temple, as though he could smooth away both your pain and the sting of her words. “I am sorry, love. For all of it.”
You placed your hand over his, pressing it tighter to your cheek. “You defended me,” you whispered. “There is no need for apology.”
He searched your eyes, his own raw with something almost desperate. “But you are her daughter now, too. And she—” His voice cracked, and he exhaled. “She will never see you as she should. She will never see me as I wish she would. And the hatred that runs between our mothers…” His fingers curled around your jaw, thumb brushing against your lower lip. “It will bleed into us if we let it.”
You caught his hand, kissing his palm softly, lingering. “Then we will not let it.”
The King’s Solar glowed warm with candlelight, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine lingering in the air. You sat nestled at Aegon’s side, the fabric of his sleeve brushing yours each time he reached for his goblet. Across the table, Helaena smiled dreamily, her voice lilting as she spoke to you.
“The twins walked this morning,” she whispered, as if confessing a secret. Her pale eyes lit up, soft with wonder. “Both of them, one after the other. I thought my heart would burst.”
You smiled, the warmth of her joy seeping into your chest. “That is wonderful, Helaena. They grow so fast.”
Her face blossomed into a shy grin, and she began describing their wobbling steps in vivid detail. The sound of Aegon and Aemond’s murmured conversation carried from the other end of the table—low, even, for once without argument. For a brief, delicate moment, the room felt at peace.
But peace is a fragile thing.
“Tell me, child,” Alicent’s voice cut sharply across the table, shattering the soft laughter.
You froze, your words dying on your tongue as you turned toward her slowly. Her gaze was steady, unwavering, as her fingers tapped once against her cup.
“Are you with child yet?”
The air left your lungs in a rush.
“I…” Your voice faltered. You glanced toward Aegon, then down to your lap where your hands knotted into the fabric of your skirts.
Alicent tilted her head, lips pressing thin. “Helaena conceived within a month of her wedding. Twins, no less. And yet you and my son—after years of marriage—” Her pause was calculated, heavy. “Nothing.”
The weight of her words pressed down on you, suffocating. Your throat burned, but you said nothing. The silence spoke for you.
At your side, Aegon stilled. The faint smile he had carried through dinner was gone, replaced by a dark glare fixed on his mother.
“A childless marriage,” Alicent continued, as if your silence proved her point. Her voice was silk over steel. “One begins to wonder. Perhaps you are barren.”
Your breath caught. The word echoed like a curse in your ears. Barren.
Your eyes widened, vision blurring as the blood rushed to your face. Shame, anger, hurt—all tangled in your chest until you could hardly breathe.
“That is enough.” Aegon’s voice cracked through the chamber like thunder. Every head at the table turned.
Alicent arched a brow, unflinching. “I only speak what others whisper.”
“No,” Aegon spat, pushing back his chair so abruptly it scraped against the stone floor. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the table. “You corner her at every chance, you tear at her as though she were prey. I will not sit idle while you sink your claws into her.”
Alicent’s eyes narrowed, her mouth tightening. “She is my daughter now, Aegon. If she cannot bear children—”
“Then it is my failing,” Aegon cut her off, his voice breaking raw with emotion. He pressed a shaking hand against his chest, eyes flickering toward you before returning to his mother. “Perhaps the gods punish me for my sins, for the years I squandered. Perhaps they will never bless us with a child. If that is so, it is my burden to bear—not hers.”
The chamber fell silent. Even Aemond’s steady gaze flicked downward, Helaena’s hands wringing nervously in her lap.
Aegon’s voice lowered, but it trembled with something fierce. “I begging you, Mother—stop. Stop cutting her open every time you see her. I cannot endure it.”
For a heartbeat, Alicent only stared. Her expression betrayed nothing, though her fingers clenched around the stem of her cup. Then, without a word, she looked away, her silence as sharp as any blade.
Aegon exhaled hard, as though the air had turned to ash in his lungs. He turned to you, his eyes softening even as his jaw remained tight.
“Come,” he said, voice hoarse.
Before you could respond, his hand found your wrist—firm, steady, desperate. He pulled you gently but unrelentingly from your chair, ignoring the stares that followed you both. The scrape of your chair’s legs against stone was the only sound in the heavy silence as he led you from the solar, his grip never faltering.
The doors shut behind you with a dull thud, leaving the hushed tension of the chamber behind. The hallway outside was dim, lit only by flickering torches. Aegon turned to you then, his eyes wide, shining with an anguish you had rarely seen from him.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist where his hand still held you. “I am so gods-damned sorry. You should never hear those words. Not from her. Not from anyone.”
Your lips parted, but your voice broke before the words could form. Instead, you stepped into him, pressing your forehead to his chest, clutching at his tunic as if to anchor yourself. His arms came around you instantly, crushing you to him.
The chambers were quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. The scent of lavender oil clung to the air, meant to soothe, but the weight of Alicent’s words pressed too heavily on your chest for comfort.
You sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting the hem of your nightgown, your thoughts circling endlessly. Across the room, Aegon bent over the washbasin, splashing cool water across his face. Droplets glistened in his hair, running down his neck as he reached for the towel.
He glanced at you, and in that brief flicker of his gaze, you knew he could sense the storm still raging inside you. He had tried to soothe you on the walk here, his words gentle, his grip firm, but the poison had already sunk its claws deep.
Your voice cracked the silence before you could stop yourself.
“Perhaps she is right.”
Aegon’s head snapped toward you sharply, the towel forgotten in his hand. His eyes narrowed, not in anger but in startled disbelief.
“Perhaps I am barren,” you continued, the words tumbling out before your courage fled. Your throat tightened as tears pricked your eyes. “Perhaps I cannot give you what you want most. A child. An heir. A family.”
“Don’t—” he began, but you pressed on, your voice breaking with every word.
“You want children, Aegon. You want them badly, I know it. You have told me as much when you look at Jaehaera and Jaehaerys, when you speak of our blood carrying on. If I cannot…” You swallowed hard, tears blurring your vision. “Then perhaps you should take a second wife. Or annul this marriage entirely. You deserve better than a barren wife.”
The towel slipped from his fingers, landing silently on the floor. In three strides he was before you, crouching so that his face was level with yours. His hands rose, cupping your cheeks with a gentleness that made your heart ache all the more.
“Look at me,” he whispered, voice rough, commanding yet desperate. “Look at me.”
Your eyes lifted, shimmering with tears. His gaze locked on yours, fierce and unyielding.
“I don’t care,” he said, each word breaking as if torn from the marrow of his bones. “Do you hear me? I don’t care about children. I don’t care about heirs or gods. I care about you. Only you. You are my world. My salvation. My curse. My wife.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, and his thumb brushed it away before it could fall further. His jaw trembled, his chest heaving as though the weight of your pain was crushing him too.
“Do not,” he begged, his voice a rasp, “do not ever speak to me again of annulment. Or of me take a second wife. I could not endure it. I would sooner cut out my heart.”
You closed your eyes, overwhelmed, your tears spilling freely now. Aegon let out a broken sigh, and then his arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him with a ferocity that bordered on desperation. You collapsed into him, your sobs muffled against his chest.
His hand stroked your hair, trembling as he pressed kiss after kiss to your crown. “Shhh… my love, my sweet love. Let them think what they will. Let them whisper. I do not want their blessings, their gods. I want you.”
Your fists clutched at his tunic, wrinkling the fabric as your voice cracked against him. “But I want it, Aegon. I want a child. I grew up in a house full of brothers, of noise, of family. The thought of being empty—of failing—” You broke off with a sob. “The pressure is crushing me.”
His grip tightened. He buried his face in your hair, his breath hot and ragged against your scalp. “Then we will try. And try again. Not because of them. Not for the realm, not for duty. But because you desire it. And if the gods never grant it, then damn the gods. Damn them all. You are enough. More than enough.”
You wept harder, his words both soothing and breaking you at once.
For long moments, there was only the sound of your sobs and his whispered pleas, his kisses against your hairline, his heart beating wildly beneath your ear. And in that fragile silence, you realized—whatever your womb held, whatever the gods decreed—Aegon’s love was a fire that would not falter.
You were his.
And he, broken and whole all at once, was entirely yours.
warnings: this is pure angst, no happy ending, incest (aunt and nephew), mention of infant death and non-consensual voyeurism.
It's been a while since I posted anything, so if you like it, please don't hesitate to like, comment and reblog because that motivates me to keep writing 💖💖
If you have any ideas, questions or headcanons you want to share, my inbox is always open 🤗💖
Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
I hope you have a good reading!
Shame.
Guilt.
Sick.
That's what Jacaerys feels every time he sees you and Jaehaera.
He wasn't the one who hired Blood and Cheese to kill Jaehaerys nor was he the one who butchered Maelor. However, he still feels sick when most of the time your eyes look empty and emotionless, or the nights that Jaehaera wakes up screaming because she dreams of her twin's head rolling on the floor again.
Jacaerys wasn't the one who murdered your children but he still wasn't a good man. If he was a good man then he would have let you leave this castle full of bloody memories and be free with your daughter. But the council said he needed you to strengthen his claim on the throne as well as to prevent the greens from rising against him. So he married you.
On your wedding day, Jacaerys finally saw, after days, an emotion in you: anger. You were dressed in black, and when you had to hold hands you dug your nails into him and recited your vows as if they were an insult. But he was not angry or offended. He felt that he deserved it for having put you in this position.
The night didn't get better when it came time to share a bed. If it had been up to Jacaerys, it would never have touched you, but Corlys Velaryon knew him well, so part of the council was present to witness the marriage being consummated. It did not matter that Jacaerys protected your body with his and the sheets or how much he tried to make it easy and pleasurable for you. It was humiliating and it was horrible, as soon as the council left the chambers Jacaerys joined in your silent crying.
When Jacaerys thought his guilt couldn’t get any worse, you got pregnant. The entire council was happy because the king would finally have an heir, but he felt sick seeing how miserable you looked. At least, before you would leave your chambers and occasionally he could see you smile—never at him, of course, always at Jaehaera—now you spent all your time in bed as if you had no energy for anything else. Sometimes Jacaerys would come to feed you and read you some book he remembered you liked in your youth. Your ladies took care of cleaning you and feeding you, on the days the king couldn’t come to eat with you because he had a meeting or was busy.
Jaehaera's cries got worse because you weren't comforting her anymore, you weren't talking to her anymore. And more than once Jacaerys thought about ending it all, giving you the moon tea himself so that your body would rid itself of the creature that caused so much misery. He preferred things to be the way they were before even though you barely tolerated it.
But the kingdom and the throne were more important, he needed an heir. If Aegon's prophecy was true then from his blood would come the prince that was promised.
Jacaerys prayed that you would have a child so he would never have to touch you again and make you suffer again. If the council asked for a replacement he would say it would be Aegon, his brother. He couldn't bear to see you pregnant again, he didn't want to see you so isolated from the world ever again, he didn't want the only thing you did was cry, that the only thing you seemed to feel was pain and sadness. He hoped that once you gave birth and were free of the creature, things would get better.
But he had to have been more specific in his prayers, he had to have asked the gods that the child would look like him because when he held his son in his arms for the first time all he saw was Jaehaerys.
