─ summary: you're not speaking to them. how long before they break?
─ pairing: Gwayne Hightower, Ormund Hightower, Aegon II Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Daeron Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Jacaerys Velaryon x f!reader
─ content: 18+ MDNI | fluff | a little angst | implied smut | annoying husbands | hardheaded men
─ a/n: i wanted to add onto the original by doing the other AKOTSK/HOTD men. as always, thank you so much for the likes, comments, reblogs, requests, and asks. 🖤
AEGON — Three Days.
The first day he pretends he is not bothered at all. He drinks, he acts out, he stays up the whole night through, making a great show of being a man who doesn't care. By the second day the show is wearing thin, because the truth is that he cares a lot. All he wants is to be near you, but he is stubborn, and some part of him is convinced that you ought to apologize first. By the third day, he cannot bear it another hour. He comes to your room pouting like a scolded child, saying he is sorry, begging you to speak to him again. "I cannot continue!" Dramatic to the very last. You give in, partly because you did miss him, and partly because you would rather not have the whole keep hearing him carrying on like this.
AEMOND — Two Days.
More than anything, Aemond is desperate for love; the love you give him so freely, that no one else ever has. He knows he was wrong. He knows you are right not to speak to him. But he will not say so, because his pride is a vast and immovable thing. He lies in his own bed that second night, cold and alone and sleepless, and decides at last that his pride is not worth this. He rises, sneaks into your chambers and climbs silently into your bed, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "May I stay?" he asks. He cannot make himself say the words I was wrong, that is not his way, but the look in his eye, and the tears standing in it, say it loudly enough. You nod.
DAERON — Forever, Potentially.
He does not remember the fight, or you telling him to sleep elsewhere. He simply wakes to find you not speaking to him, and being who he is, assumes your love for him has finally run dry, that you no longer have it in you to endure him, and he is crushed by it. But he understands. Someone like you deserves a far better husband than the likes of him. So he resolves to disappear, to stop being a burden, to never trouble you again. It goes on like this for almost a week while you slowly lose your mind, because what in the actual hell is happening?! You confront him at last. He is stunned, he remembers none of it, but more than that, the revelation that you still love him undoes him completely. He pulls you into his arms and kisses you hard. The kind of kiss where his arms are around your waist pulling you impossibly close and your hands are curled in the front of his doublet. You're left so breathless you don't even remember why you were upset. He apologizes, swears he will change, he does not want to live in a world in which you have stopped loving him.
GWAYNE — An Hour.
The sweetest, most devoted husband, completely undone by the barest hint of your displeasure. If you are upset and not speaking to him, he lasts an hour at the very most before he comes to you with a little gift and a very big apology. He is so sorry for being so careless, he will never do such a thing again, never ever, he swears it. And he is so handsome and so sincere as he says it that staying angry is simply not an option available to you. You step into his arms and let him hold you and kiss you.
JACAERYS — Less Than an Hour.
The stress he carries makes him irritable sometimes, careless, a symptom of his youth as much as anything, and he says something snippy when you were only trying to help. He does not even let you leave the room. The words are barely out of his mouth before he regrets them and is apologizing. You try to walk past him and he stops you gently, both hands on your shoulders, his eyes piercing straight through you. He is putting an end to this before it can go anywhere at all. He repeats his apology, his hands sliding from your shoulders down to hold both of yours. You nod, but you need a moment, and he gives it to you. Your silence is the only thing he can think of, occupying him entirely until, an hour later, you come and find him, and climb into his lap, and let him hold you. He will never speak to you that way again.
ORMUND — A Day.
He is a pain in your ass, and he wants to break you. "Hmm. Not speaking to me now?" he says with that infuriating smile the moment he realizes what you are doing. He crowds your space all day, and he is, frankly, impressed by the sheer iron of your resolve. If only all his soldiers possessed your discipline. "How long do you imagine this can continue? You must speak to me sooner or later." After a full day of it, you do indeed snap. "Seven hells, do you ever stop talking?!" You storm out of the room, slamming the door behind you. He will not tolerate that in his house; he follows you, his fury matching your own, as he pulls you into the bedchamber. What follows is a fight indeed, a battle for dominance, each of you determined to have the upper hand. You win.
VALARR — Until Supper.
You and Valarr are in the middle of a thunderous fight, the first of your marriage. You and he on opposite sides of the room, nothing but tension and frigid air between you, when you decide to stop speaking to him altogether. He wants to fix this, but he also does not think hashing it out in the heat of the moment is particularly productive,not while you are both still upset. He lets you be silent, but you do not get to be angry at him all day. He comes to dress for supper and makes it clear he means to talk about it now, and he apologizes thoroughly for his part in it. It is difficult to maintain anger against someone so clearheaded. You apologize, forgive him, and ask him to help you with your dress. He decides to skip supper in favor of eating something else entirely.
he likes to let go. he is a prince burdened with too much responsibility, the weight of expectation pressing down on his shoulders like a mountain. so when the rare moment comes that valarr finds himself free of his oppressive duties, he descends upon you like a wild boar. he sweeps you up into his arms and spins you around. "gods, how i have missed my beautiful wife!" he will kiss your palm, then trail his lips upward to your wrist. his gaze will look intoxicated. it is you who have drunk him senseless with your presence, with the scent of your oils that has become so achingly familiar. he will not release you from his embrace until you are both utterly spent. he will encourage you in countless ways, and from his angular mouth will come sounds that make your cheeks, ears, and neck flush without mercy.
AERION
he likes encouragement. aerion is like a puppy who needs to be told he is a good boy and scratched behind the ear. but this is a disobedient puppy, wild as a wolf cub. you may tell him how good he makes you feel, and out of pure mischief he will delay your climax. or he will playfully bite your thigh, your neck, wherever he pleases. "close... i am close..." you will whimper, clutching at his neck as if you are drowning and sinking beneath the waves of sensation. "say please, were you not taught to be polite?" he will stop with a grin that bares his canines. you will utter the sacred word, almost painfully digging your nails into his porcelain skin. and aerion will continue, delivering wave after wave of pleasure.
DAERON
he is mad for spontaneity. but not in the way of coming to your chambers in the dead of night, taking you, and leaving. not at all. daeron forgets everything entirely when it is you who comes to him, who curls against him like a cat. when it is you who whispers things better left unspoken, your warm breath burning against his skin. he loves such initiative and is instantly ready to immerse himself in unbridled pleasure with you. "you are my curse and my salvation," he will say with a smile as you push him down onto the sheets like some mere maiden. his hands will reach for you of their own accord, but you will swat them away. "not yet, my prince," you will say, seizing all initiative and dominance for yourself. "seven hells, you look burning hot, sweetheart." daeron will smile, and you will find that smile foolish, even rather endearing.
BAELOR
he likes variety. baelor, like valarr, is consumed by the affairs of the kingdom. he is the heir to the throne, and routine irritates him. especially in sex, when it ought to be the opposite, offering him release and respite. he will grow weary quickly if you do it in the same position or the same place every time. he would not mind taking you on his own table after a meeting of the small council. "you are an incredible woman," he will say when you meet his initiative, positioning yourself on the sturdy oak table among scrolls and parchments. he will quickly discard unnecessary clothing, quickly burrow into the folds of your dress. but he will be exceedingly gentle and cautious, as if this were your first time. "let us try to be quiet," he will say playfully, as if you were not grown adults but younglings who have just discovered such pleasures, unable to restrain themselves, eager to taste all the delights of life.
MAEKAR
he likes it to last. one might say he is rather lazy, in a sense. but he can remain with you in bed for hours and has no objection to several rounds. it brings maekar immense pleasure when he worships your body. he kisses you in every possible place, strokes you, and praises you, with words and with touch. he transforms into the most delicate and tender man. "i would stay here forever," he will say before his face disappears between your thighs and your fingers clutch the bedsheets. he savours every sigh that escapes your lips, every subtle arch of your back, every tremor that runs through your limbs. he whispers praises against your skin.
JACAERYS
he likes it gentle and unhurried. he cannot abide roughness. never. and not near you. jacaerys begins from afar, telling you how wonderful you look, how incredible you are, and how he cannot believe his fortune in being yours. he will lie beside you, to the side. first, gently, almost weightlessly, with just his fingertips, he will trace your ribs, your stomach. with his eyes alone, he will ask permission to kiss you. he seems afraid of breaking you, as if you were a delicate porcelain doll. his lips will cover yours in the warmest, most reverent kiss, then continue down your neck, your collarbones. you will begin sighing and moaning with impatience and the sheer wonder of how he manages to bring such pleasure with only his lips, his eyes, and his words. "you are eager, my lady," he will chuckle kindly.
AEGON
he likes to feel safe. in truth, aegon is rather vulnerable and depressive. he needs to know that nothing threatens him, and you especially. he will come to you with the look of a beaten puppy, drop to his knees, pressing his face against your stomach, his arms winding around your waist. you will be taken aback by such a surge of devotion. "i love you," he will whisper against the fabric of your dress, kissing the lower part of your belly, slowly moving upward. then he will lower you onto the bed and position himself above you, tender and trembling, showering you with kisses.
AEMOND
he likes to feel his superiority. he is fearsome. he needs to brand you. he will never allow you to be on top. it is only him and his pride wrestling with each other here, and you are merely the intermediary. "now look at yourself..." aemond will say, each thrust driving him deeper between your wet, slick folds. his veined, sinewy, yet surprisingly strong hands will leave marks upon your submissive, soft, and yielding body. he feels himself unquestionable, inimitable, and singular. he is rough and at times cruel. he is absolute. and he likes to see tears welling in your flushed face. but when it is over, he will lie with you and bury his face in the curve of your neck and mumble words of love. "i am nothing without you, and you are nothing without me." and he will fall asleep like that, holding you like a child.
DAEMON
he likes it quick. daemon seeks release and wants it as fast as possible. yet there is control and domination present. he assumes the leading role in your pair. he directs. daemon undresses you roughly, with tugs. he kisses you carelessly and sharply. he enters you in the same manner. he does everything abruptly, without delay. he has nothing to prove; he already knows he is the best, so he can burst in upon you without warning. "i want you so badly," he will say, hastily untying the elegant laces of your dress.
a/n : these headcanons didn't turn out quite the way i originally planned. i really dislike them. they feel very rushed and unclear but i decided to publish them anyway. please forgive me for this embarrassing mess.
Ormund Hightower who reluctantly takes his wife with him when the Hightower army marches towards Kings Landing because he cannot bear to be apart from her and she cannot stand knowing that he is leaving for battle and might not come back.
Ormund Hightower that keeps his wife’s handkerchief tucked into his armor and pulls it out to press into his nose whenever a reeking commander or soldier approaches him after being summoned for new orders.
Ormund Hightower that orders his wife to stay in their tent at all times because it’s too dangerous for a lady of her birth to wander around soldiers but the in reality he doesn’t anyone in the camp ogling her and getting funny ideas about his wife.
Ormund Hightower marches into their tent buzzing with anger after getting a message from Kings Landing saying that he is meant to remain where he is and wait for Aemond to come on Vhagar before he can make any other move.
Ormund Hightower who takes his anger out by fucking his wife into the mattress — lewd sounds, desperate moans and grunts could be heard by anyone that passed their tent. He himself couldn’t care less by who heard or who knows that he’s fucking his wife — for him it’s even better because they all will know that she’s only his.
Ormund Hightower who takes his wife while she’s on her hands and knees, his hand wrapped around her throat to tilt her head back to rest on his shoulder, her back pressed to his chest, hair sticking to her forehead and eyes glossy with tears because of how well he fucks her. His cock hits all the right places making her clench on him and whine pathetically while his hand chokes her slightly.
Ormund Hightower whose hand slide off her throat to press into her lower belly when he cums — deep inside her, his seed planting another heir, another son for house Hightower and he throbs at the mental image of her swollen and filled with his child bearing the fruit of his love for her.
Ormund Hightower that pressed his nose into the heated skin of her shoulder as she breaths — trying to stop the tremor of her muscles after he finally pulls out
Dunk is massive so he takes up like most of the tub, meaning you are usually sitting directly on top of him or straddling his lap because there is simply nowhere else to go. He blushes furiously at how close you are, trying to look anywhere but at your chest, but he secretly loves it. He’s too shy to initiate much, but if you wash his chest or his hair, he melts, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath, his large hands coming up to caress your hips.
➥ Baelor Targaryen -
Bathing with him is very intimate. He has strong hands that feel incredible when he massages the tension out of your shoulders. He doesn’t need words,he expresses his love through service, washing your back and hair gently. He likes to pull you close afterwards, just sitting in the cooling water with his arms locked around you, his face buried in your neck breathing you in ,making sure you feel protected and safe from the outside world.
➥ Aerion Targaryen -
During bath with him the water is always burning hot and filled with expensive scented herbs. He is in love with himself, so he spends a good amount of time admiring himself, but he asks for your attention too, he likes to put mirror in front of tub so he can admire the aesthetic of your bodies together in the steam. he might run a finger down your spine just to feel you shiver, kiss down your shoulders or grip the back of your neck to pull you into a possessive kiss.
➥ Alicent Hightower -
Bathing together is a quiet, relaxing ritual you have with her, she carries so much tension in her shoulders and hands that the water needs to be burning hot to get her to relax. She is modest and shy at first, sitting at the far end of the tub, but she melts if you take the lead ,sitting behind her gently washing her hair or massaging her shoulders . It is one of the few places she feels safe enough to stop worrying and being anxious, allowing herself to lay against your chest and just relax.
➥ Gwayne Hightower-
Gwayne is a man who appreciates the finer things, and bath time with you is no exception. he’ll sit back against the tub, pulling you back against his chest so he can lazily wash your arms and hair ,he’s surprisingly chatty, gossiping about the camp or court, often stopping mid-sentence to bite and peck your shoulders or slide his hands down your stomach beneath the water.
➥ Rhaenyra Targaryen -
During bath she likes to sit between your legs or have you rest against her, needing the physical touch. She often rests her head back against your shoulder, closing her eyes and murmuring in High Valyrian about her day, trusting you with her frustration and worry.
➥ Valarr Targaryen -
He is sweet and a little clingy. Valarr treasures these moments because he often feels fragile compared to the other men in his family. He loves a bath filled with flowers or scented herbs (something you probably suggested once and now he always remembers). He sits close, legs tangled with yours, kissing your knees, holding your hand, or resting his cheek on your wet shoulder. he treats the bath as a romantic getaway, whispering sweet nothings time to time.
➥ Maekar Targaryen-
Maekar is always stiff and finds it hard to relax, even in hot water, he usually sits in silence, brows furrowed, he needs you to be the initiator. When you climb in, he won’t say a word, but his arm will immediately hook around your waist to pull you in close. He loves when you wash his back or chest,it’s one of the few times he allows himself to be cared for.
➥ Daeron Targaryen-
Daeron is often tipsy, bringing a goblet of wine with him, but the water sobers him into a sweetness. He is clinging, wrapping himself around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He often rests his head on your chest to listen to your heartbeat, finding it more calming than anything else. he needs to feel every inch of you to remind himself that you are real and not part of his dreams (nightmares).
➥ Oscar Tully - (aged up)
During bath time he is a bit shy at first, the steam from water hiding the flush on his cheeks when you drop your robe. He loves facing you in the tub, his knees knocking against yours. He is incredibly attentive, wants to help you wash up, his hands sliding over your skin with need, often pulling you forward so he can kiss you deeply while the water sloshes over the sides.
➥ Aemon Targaryen (pale prince)-
Bathing with Aemon is romantic and incredibly intimate. He treats it as a getaway from his duties, he is the type to wash your hair for you, massaging your scalp gently. He loves the feeling of your legs tangled with his beneath the water, and he’ll often press kisses to your wet shoulders, whispering sweet words against your skin.
ORMUND HIGHTOWER x Targaryen Princess (ward) ───
Ormund’s character “headcanons”
Warnings: age gap (15/20years difference), corruption kink, sexual content, idk dude just mdni :)
Author’s note: If you already know me from wp AO3 or TikTok, then you know I can’t stop yapping about this man, like it’s genuinely concerning at this point. So of course I’ve doubled down by starting a whole new fic about him! Since your girl loves deep character work (canon or otherwise) and plenty of smut, here’s my introduction to Lord Slaytower and the messy moral issues he has with his young ward (and their kinks and way of having sex until they can really have sex and all those things you can expect from me). The princess’s name isn’t mentioned in this piece but it’s meant to be Daena once I publish the story. Major spoilers for their plot ahead as always with me. Anyway, enjoy! Because I certainly do every single time I write about him :))
Ormund Hightower, who is raised as the undisputed golden boy of one of Westeros' wealthiest houses, acutely aware of his position from a young age (which, as everyone knows, always ends up with one entitled little boy growing into one deeply fucked up man)
Ormund Hightower, who enjoys above all the liberties that come with not yet being lord, spending his youth testing the limits of his privilege (being those freedoms the ones that shape the clever, arrogant, and prideful man he will one day become)
Ormund Hightower, who develops an unshakable belief in his own superiority and destiny, holding it as dearly as the Faith itself. Who comes to believe that men like him are tested more harshly by the Gods and rewarded twice over for their devotion and restraint.
Same conviction that leads him to believe that the Seven will always allow him to toy with the edges of sin more freely than lesser men, twisting his sense of righteousness into something self-serving (and leaving him forever caught between crushing guilt and an unwavering conviction that he had somehow earned the right to sin a little)
Ormund Hightower, who is raised alongside his cousin Gwayne in something close to brotherhood.
Left in Oldtown from a young age, motherless and under Hobert's care, Gwayne is both Ormund's closest friend and the boy forever destined to stand in his shadow. Even if their affection is genuine, so too is the cruelty that often flourishes between boys raised together, where one child's ego is too often built at the expense of the other's.
Ormund Hightower, who is in his twenties when the Queen's children are entrusted to Oldtown, and who discovers for the first time what it means to be displaced. The Targaryen twins eclipse him, his infant son and heir, and everyone else in Lord Hobert's eyes.
Oh to be jealous of two kids of only eight years old—kids with the blood of Old Valyria, a dragon of their own, and the fascination of a city and a father that have always belonged entirely to him.
Ormund Hightower, clever enough to quickly understand that the twins are the future of his House as much as his own blood was (and his future burden political asset, too). Who makes certain to win the young prince's trust and keep him close (only to find himself competing with their uncle Gwayne, whose warmth and charm the children seemed to prefer from the very beginning)
Ormund Hightower, who is the first to oppose Rhaenyra and Alicent's pact to betroth the young princess to Rhaenyra's eldest son, provoking his first clash with his father. Who defended the honor of the girl of twelve, insisting she could never be handed to a bastard whose claim to the Iron Throne was both unlawful and an affront to the Seven (because that birthright belonged by every law to her older brother) Who failed, but at least tried.
Ormund Hightower, who inherits his father's titles when the twins are five and ten, and from that day forward ensures the septas keep a sharper eye on the princess. Who insists upon her education and gives her a place as cupbearer in his council, (determined that if she is to be handed to the enemy, she will go prepared to survive Dragonstone)
Who feeds Daeron the belief that the Blacks (and his childhood bestfriend among them) mean to steal his sister.
Who never allows the princess to grow comfortable with the notion of one day becoming queen, making sure she never forgets who is the rightful heir to her father's throne.
Lord Hightower, who finds in the princess’s teenage years the first challenge to his long standing arrogance and prideful certainty.
Because she is neither easily impressed by his status nor intimidated by his authority. Her Targaryen blood mixed with her Hightower pride make her maddeningly resistant to his guidance whenever she chooses to believe otherwise (sometimes it is conviction, other times she simply delights in proving that the Lord of Oldtown can be baited into losing his temper)
Lord Hightower, who finds himself strangely delighted by it.
Lord Hightower, who soon convinces himself that playing house with his sixteen year old ward is perfectly normal and never consideres the long term consequences.
After all, what could possibly be inappropriate about his young ward befriending his children? What is wrong with letting her run his household when she does it so capably? Why should long walks filled with clever conversation be seen as anything but guardianship? Why would staying up until the hour of the owl playing cyvasse be considered strange? Why would their domesticity be wrong, when it feels so natural and comfortable for both? Why remarry, after all, when he already has the princess for himself?
Lord Hightower, who in his thirties comes to the realization that he is not just being outwitted, but deliberately toyed with by that girl of scarcely eight and ten (who slowly finds out her favorite game is turning debates into spirited arguments, asking "why" with relentless feigned innocence until his patience wears thin, and playing the foolish maiden while slipping in questions she knows will sour his temper for the rest of the day)
"Do you truly believe Prince Jacaerys would make such an unsuitable husband, my lord? I confess, I rather think I shall make an excellent Queen. Better, mayhaps, than my brother would ever make a King."
Who would have thought, Lord Hightower, that your wifeward would start to think like a wife in other senses, after years of treating her as such in all but the bed.
Who would have thought that your wardwife, with all her little issues, would misinterpret the boundaries you had long since forgotten yourself, and start giving you fuck me eyes across the Council Chamber, because she so desperately needs you to fuck her, Lord Hightower!
Lord Hightower, who occasionally slips and call her "girl" whenever she pushes him one argument too far, only to immediately correct himself to "princess" (because manners, unlike his patience, were not to be abandoned)
Who finds himself in a daily struggle between propriety, the urge to remind her who holds authority in the room, and an even stronger determination not to reward her insolence with the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper (a man used to commanding the greatest respect wherever he stood should never have found himself praying so often for the Warrior's patience)
Lord Hightower, who soon finds himself uncomfortably aware of the beauty and cunning mind parading through his halls. Who rediscovers the meaning of true restraint when his entitled instincts from youth whispers that what is under his protection is, technically, his (who added restraint and mercy to his prayers, asking the Warrior for too much this time)
Lord Hightower, who starts begging nightly for strength, confessing vague "impure thoughts" about someone he has no right to imagine in such ways.
Lord Hightower, who begins repenting through fasting and grows more short-tempered
Nothing tests a man’s faith and spirits like the need to fuck the one person he is honor bound to protect. No one would have blamed him for taking himself in hand in the privacy of his chambers to relieve that torture, but Ormund Hightower blamed himself harshly, every day.
Lord Hightower, who begins correcting Prince Daeron whenever the boy calls him "uncle" in front of his sister.
He was not their uncle, he was their lord, their mother's cousin at most (a fascinating hill to die on for a man who loudly condemns incest and the Targaryens' customs, and who finds himself determined to believe that his desires somehow exist outside those same abominations)
Lord Hightower, who for all his pretense of being a good man, a pious man, and an honorable one, is simply a freak and a pervert who has spent years telling himself it is not incest or grooming if he never lays a hand on the girl (only to end up knuckles deep inside her three days before her wedding)
Lord Hightower, who fingerfucks the princess in his charge to “ease her fears of the marital bed” (all while telling himself that that is still noble somehow)
Lord Hightower, who punishes her attitude by edging her, overstimulating her until she is shaking and sobbing, delighting in every plea that leaves her lips.
Lord Hightower, who may not have been strong enough to keep from touching her, but still possesses enough restraint not to take her maidenhead even as she begs him to (thank the Seven for how honourable he is. Fuck the Seven for it, actually)
Lord Hightower, who presses his forehead to hers and whispers “forgive me” against her lips as she keeps begging for him to claim her. Who will force her to kneel beside him in prayer for the sins they had just committed, keeping his aching cock untouched as some kind of repentance.
Lord Hightower, who will break again the very next day and teach the princess how to take a man into her mouth (feeding his corruption kink as she acts naive and submissive, and calls him “my lord” knowing what that does to him)
Lord Hightower, who always tells her “this is the last time” and “we must stop this madness” while she is on her knees beneath his desk during the day, sucking him with devotion.
Then he spends the nights on his knees in the sept, begging the Seven for forgiveness once again.
Lord Hightower, who becomes a nightmare to everyone around him the moment they tear his precious girl away to give her to a boy (a boy who will claim the maidenhead he has so kindly preserved)
Lord Hightower, who sees his prayers answered soon enough after that damned wedding (reaffirming to himself that perhaps the gods do not find his sins so terrible after all, if they so eagerly give her back to him)
Lord Hightower, who leads the greatest host of the Greens as the Dance erupts in full, only to end up fucking the King’s own sister in his command tent. Who delights in covering her mouth so her twin brother does not hear her cries (and because he comes harder when she bites down on his hand) Who adores the power play, the risk, and the thrill of his authority over her.
Lord Hightower, who knows the best way to end a long day on the march is taking care of his darling girl, still flushed and buzzing with adrenaline from dragonback. Who thanks her for her aid by dropping to his knees like a man possessed, devouring her until she shakes and cries out, then seizes what little energy she has left and makes her ride him slow and deep.
“You’ve been riding that beast of yours all day, my poor princess. You must be so, so tired. Let me take care of you, darling. You just have to sit on my cock and ride me gently, I’ll hold you and do the rest.”
afterward, they share a long bath together (“you still reek of dragon, wretched girl” “maybe you should stop fucking me before I wash, my lord”) then he holds her against his chest until she falls asleep, exhausted again.
Lord Hightower, who knows better than to risk it, who tries so hard to be responsible, often growling “not inside” right before he is about to come, only for her legs to lock around him or for her to giggle at the pathetic attempt, making him lose control completely and fill her anyway.
Lord Hightower, who can barely meet Daeron’s eyes anymore, knowing exactly what he is doing to the boy’s twin sister behind his back.
Lord Hightower, who keeps a piece of her favor tucked inside his armor during battles (a scrap of cloth always carrying her scent, his most precious token, kept close to his heart)
Lord Hightower, who falls in love harder than he has ever thought possible, and who decides that no sin, no god's wrath, and no man’s law will ever be worthy of loosing his true heaven.
WARNINGS: mentions of panty sniffing and masturbating
NOTES: hey, so, I saw this man sniff that flask like his life depended on it and just knew he'd coax his wife to wear some sort of medieval panties (lmao) just so he can take them with him to have something good to sniff on.
Ormund, who always asks you to leave him one of your linen undergarments before he departs, insisting that no scented flask could ever compare to the scent of you(r cunt).
Ormund, who insists that the scent lingers longer if you wear the linen for several days before his departure, though he never truly explains why.
Ormund, who refuses to leave unless he carries something that smells like you, considering it just as important as his sword and armor.
Ormund, who carefully folds the linen and tucks it beneath his breastplate or into his doublet before every ride or battle, where it rests close to his heart.
Ormund, who lifts the fabric to his nose whenever the stench of sweat, horses, and blood becomes unbearable.
Ormund, who absentmindedly reaches into his armor during difficult rides, taking comfort in the familiar scent that reminds him of you and his place between your thighs.
Ormund, who finds that one inhale of your familiar scent steadies his nerves before riding into battle better than any prayer ever could.
Ormund, who lies awake at night, clutching the linen to his face and breathing in your lingering scent as he strokes himself, surrendering to the ache of missing you.
Ormund, who treats the linen like a treasured keepsake, making certain no squire or servant ever touches the small pouch in which he keeps it.
Ormund, who always returns the carefully folded linen to you after he comes home, only to ask for another before his next departure.
Ormund, who would sooner forget his own cloak than leave behind the piece of linen you gave him.
"Ya know, ye don't have to do that for me..." he says one night, while you were both laying on your backs, staring at the stars.
"I'd do anything for you, Dunk." You catch his hand in yours, and don't let go until morning.
𝐿𝑌𝑂𝑁𝐸𝐿
・He loves your witchy ways.
・Lyonel often watches as you do spells, jinxes, curses. His interest comes from pure curiosity.
・Constantly asks you questions, wants to know what means what.
"Ah, so that's how it works...Gods my wife is incredible."
・Asks if you can curse some of the courtiers. (As a joke...maybe)
・Helps collect your ingredients; well, he gets the maesters to get them.
・Lyonel has found spell bags underneath his pillow, lavender on his bedside table, he even wears the necklace you enchanted.
𝐵𝐴𝐸𝐿𝑂𝑅
・He was shocked to find out but got used to the idea quite quickly.
・Baelor protects you from court gossip, as many think you're delusional.
"Be careful how you talk, or you may lose your tongue." You would never had thought Baelor would say something like that, but when it comes to you - there's nothing he wouldn't do.
・The courtiers are really just intimidated by the thought of the future Queen/King of the Seven Kingdoms being a witch. You hold power because of it.
・In your shared chambers is where you really let your witchy side show. There's glass bottles, herbs drying, ingredients on shelves and different types of oils.
・Baelor truly doesn't mind, he is a little curious but he knows not to touch anything.
𝑀𝐴𝐸𝐾𝐴𝑅
・Didn't believe you at first but one day he accidentally walked in on you doing spellwork.
"What in the Seven Hells are you doing?!"
・He startled you and you dropped a glass bottle.
"I'm making a spell you ridiculous man! And you made me drop it!"
・The shrill arguement lasted a few minutes before Maekar apologised (which isn't a normal thing for him to do, but when it comes to you, then he softens)
・He never lets anyone talk ill of you. Especially when you aren't there - he cannot stand people talking behind your back.
・Maekar has told you to use your shared chambers however you would like.
・Which means it is now covered in ingredients and flowers, herbs and glass bottles. Some things are from the maesters, and some are from what you've made.
Fic and title inspired by Oedipus by Regina Spektor
Aged up characters- Daeron and his Twin are 19
Summary:
“In the war-torn dark of his campaign tent, you find your twin brother Daeron hollowed by battle and haunted by the betrothal that will soon hand you to his brother Aemond. Once the gentlest of the Targaryen sons, Daeron has been quietly breaking beneath the weight of being the spare’s spare—the last son always expected to yield.
But when your comfort turns to desperate, forbidden touch and Aemond’s name slips from your lips, something inside him finally snaps. The sweet boy you loved is gone, replaced by a possessive, unhinged hunger that refuses to let you go. Not to duty. Not to dragons. Not even to blood.
As Vhagar’s roar shakes the sky and discovery threatens to destroy you both, Daeron makes his claim brutally clear you were always meant to be his. And he will burn the realm before he lets anyone take you.”
Warnings: This fic contains explicit twincest, graphic sexual content, obsessive possessiveness, and dubious consent elements including threats of forced sex. War trauma, family conflict, and dark themes are present. Reader discretion is advised. DEAD DOVE 18+. Minors DNI.
Work count 3.1k
Inside the spacious canvas of Daeron’s tent, the air hung heavy with woodsmoke, dragon musk, and the sharp scent of healing herbs. You stood before your twin, Daeron Targaryen, the gentle flame of your shared blood. Weeks had passed since you last saw him—long, agonizing weeks while he rode on campaign with Tessarion. Golden firelight flickered across scattered battle maps and heavy Targaryen tapestries, casting long shadows that only made the exhaustion on his face look deeper.
His once-proud shoulders were bowed. Bruises bloomed along his jaw and brow like crushed violet petals, half-hidden beneath a lock of dyed brown hair. He had sacrificed even the silver-gold of his birthright to move unseen among the enemy. The sight of it still hurt.
You crossed the space between you without hesitation, your dress and long pale rose-gold hair swaying in the firelight. He looked up at the sound of your steps, violet eyes lifting to meet yours. For a moment the hunger in them was unmistakable, but beneath it was something softer—relief, longing, and a bone-deep weariness that made your chest ache.
“Sister,” he said, voice rough. He reached for you and pulled you close, hands trembling slightly as they settled on your waist. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I thought of you every moment I was gone.”
You threaded your fingers gently through his darkened hair, studying him. The war had hollowed him out. The gentle boy you had grown up with—the one who used to bring you wildflowers and read to you in the gardens until your head rested on his shoulder—was still there, but he looked thinner, older, haunted.
“Daeron…” Your voice was soft, thick with everything you had been holding in since he left. “Lēkia, I miss you so much. Let me carry some of this burden. What can I do to help? I can’t bear to see you like this.”
The words seemed to hit him harder than you expected. His eyes closed for a moment, as if the simple offer of relief was almost too much to accept. You had always been able to read him better than anyone. You saw the way the killing weighed on him, how every victory carved away another piece of the sweet, dutiful boy he had once been.
He gave a shaky laugh that held no real humor. “You already carry enough just waiting for me to come back alive. I won’t put more on you.”
“But I want to,” you insisted, stepping closer between his knees. Your hands moved to his shoulders, thumbs pressing carefully into the tight muscle there. He was so tense it felt like touching stone. “You’ve been carrying all of this alone. The battles. The deaths. The weight of every decision. I see it in your eyes, Daeron. You’re not sleeping. You’re barely eating. And now this…” Your fingers brushed lightly over the bruise along his jaw. “I hate it. I hate seeing what it’s doing to you.”
He leaned into your touch like a man starved for gentleness. For a long moment he simply let you tend to him—your fingers working slowly over his shoulders, down his arms, careful around every new mark the war had left on him. You had done this for him before, when you were children and he came back scraped from training. Back then it had been easy. Now it felt like trying to hold together something that was quietly cracking.
“I dream about them,” he admitted quietly, voice low so only you could hear. “The men I’ve killed. The ones who begged. The ones who didn’t. I used to think if I was honorable… if I fought cleanly… it would matter. But it doesn’t. It all feels the same in the dark.” His hands tightened on your waist. “And then I think of you. Of coming home to you. And for a little while the noise stops.”
Your heart twisted. You had always known he loved you—deeply, quietly, completely. Even before either of you had words for it. He had been your safe place, your secret keeper, the one person who never asked you to be anything other than exactly who you were. And now the war was trying to take even that softness from him.
You cupped his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. “Then let me be that for you tonight. Let me help carry it, even if it’s only for a few hours. You don’t have to be strong with me. You never did.”
Something in his expression shifted. The exhaustion was still there, but beneath it rose something warmer, more desperate. His hands slid up your back, pulling you fully into his lap until you were straddling him on the chair. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
“You smell like home,” he murmured against your skin. “Rose water and vanilla. I thought about this scent every night. About how you would feel in my arms. About how you’re the only person who’s ever seen all of me and stayed.”
You held him tighter, one hand stroking the back of his neck. “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever, if I have any say in it.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His violet eyes were dark with emotion—love, fear, and something sharper that had only grown since the betrothal was announced. The news that you were to be given to Aemond had broken something in him. You had watched it happen. The sweet, gentle Daeron who would have stepped aside for duty had begun to fracture the moment those words left your grandsire’s mouth. Now there was a wildness in him that hadn’t been there before—a desperate, almost mad possessiveness that both frightened and thrilled you.
“I was supposed to be good about this,” he said, voice rough. “I was supposed to smile at the feast and wish you well and let you go to him. But every time I think of his hands on you, of you in his bed, I feel like I’m losing my mind. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. We came into this world together. The gods made us that way. And they want to rip you away from me?”
His grip on your hips tightened, almost painful.
Before you could answer, he kissed you.
It started soft—almost reverent—but quickly turned hungry, desperate. Weeks of separation and fear and twisted love poured into it. His tongue claimed your mouth like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. One hand fisted in your hair while the other dragged your hips down against him. You could feel how hard he already was, the thick line of him pressing up against your core through layers of fabric.
You gasped into the kiss, hips moving instinctively. The friction sent sparks racing up your spine.
The kiss deepened, turning messy and wet. His teeth caught your lower lip and tugged. One of his hands slid up to cup your breast through your dress, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaked. You whimpered into his mouth and ground down harder, chasing the pressure against your clit.
“Daeron,” you breathed when he finally let you pull back for air. “We should—”
He didn’t let you finish. He kissed you again, deeper, and shifted beneath you so the hard ridge of his cock pressed directly against your soaked smallclothes. The thin fabric was already useless, clinging to your swollen folds. Every roll of his hips dragged the rough material of his breeches over your clit in a way that made your vision spark.
You were so lost in it—the heat of him, the way he trembled with how much he needed you—that the words slipped out before you could stop them.
“Aaah, Lēkia… we should stop,” you moaned, the protest weak and unconvincing even to your own ears. “Aemond will be joining soon with Vhagar.”
The name hit him like a blade to the gut.
Daeron went completely still beneath you.
For one terrible second the only sound was the crackle of the brazier and your own shaky breathing. Then something in him snapped.
His hands clamped down on your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises tomorrow. His violet eyes, usually so gentle, had gone dark and wild—almost feral. The last fragile thread of the sweet, dutiful boy he had once been finally burned away in that moment. The betrothal had already been eating at him for weeks. Hearing you say Aemond’s name while you were straddling him, while your soaked core was pressed against his cock, while he was shaking with how badly he needed to claim you—it was the final push over the edge.
He was no longer just jealous.
A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest. One of his hands left your hip and came up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back so you had no choice but to look at him. His other hand stayed locked on your waist, holding you exactly where he wanted you—your covered entrance pressed directly over the thick, hard line of his cock.
“Say his name again,” Daeron snarled, voice low and shaking with barely contained rage, “and I’ll fucking take your maidenhead right here.”
The words were so raw, so vicious, that a shocked whimper escaped you. Your walls fluttered helplessly around nothing.
He didn’t soften. If anything, the sound only made him darker. His hips rolled up once, hard, grinding the thick head of his cock directly against your throbbing clit through the soaked fabric. Then the words poured out of him like venom he had been holding back for years.
“I hate it,” he spat, voice trembling with years of buried resentment. “I hate being the spare’s spare. The last son. The one they always expect to bow and smile and give way while everyone else takes what they want. Aemond gets the glory, the biggest dragon, the respect. Aegon gets the throne. And me? I get sent off on campaigns no one cares about and told to be grateful for the scraps. They look at me like I’m an afterthought. Like I’m the one who should step aside and be happy about it. And now they’ve given you to him too—like I’m nothing. Like I don’t matter. You’re mine. You were always supposed to be mine. And I’ll burn the fucking realm before I let them take you from me too.”
He punctuated the last words with another rough grind of his hips, dragging his cock against your swollen clit until you gasped.
“Say it,” he demanded, voice rough and shaking with weeks of repressed madness. “Say you’re mine. Say it like you mean it, or I swear on every god in the Seven Kingdoms I will rip these fucking smallclothes off you and take what’s mine right now while my brother’s dragon circles overhead.”
You were shaking. The contrast between the gentle Daeron who had let you tend his bruises and this dark, possessive, half-mad version of him was terrifying—and it made you ache in ways you didn’t want to examine too closely.
“Daeron,” you moaned, the only word you could manage as he continued to grind up against you relentlessly. “Daeron—please—”
He groaned like the sound of his name on your lips was the only thing keeping him from completely losing control. His grip on your hair tightened as he forced you to keep looking at him while he rutted up against your soaked core.
“That’s it,” he panted. “My name. Only my name. I don’t want to hear his ever again. Not while I’m touching you. Not while I’m making you come. Not while I’m buried inside you—which I will be, soon enough, betrothal or no betrothal.”
The grinding became faster, rougher. Every powerful thrust of his hips rammed the head of his cock against your swollen clit. You were so close, teetering right on the edge, your walls clenching and fluttering around nothing while your soaked core pulsed against him.
“I’m yours,” you gasped, the words tumbling out broken and desperate.
“I’m yours, Daeron—I’ve always been yours—”
He snarled in satisfaction and slammed his hips up harder, grinding the thick ridge of his cock directly over your clit with brutal precision.
“Come,” he ordered, voice dark and shaking. “Come for me right now. Let me feel how much you belong to me.”
The orgasm crashed over you so hard your vision whited out. You screamed his name as your body convulsed in his arms, walls clenching rhythmically around nothing while your soaked core pulsed and fluttered against the hard line of his cock. Wave after wave of blinding pleasure tore through you. Your thighs shook. Your entire body trembled uncontrollably.
Daeron held you through it, still grinding up against you, drawing every last aftershock from your oversensitive clit until you were whimpering and trying to squirm away from the intensity.
Only then did he let himself go.
With a guttural, broken groan of your name he came hard, cock twitching and pulsing as he spilled hot and messy into his breeches. His hips jerked up against you in short, desperate thrusts while he rode out his release, arms locked around you like iron.
For a long moment afterward, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the crackle of the brazier. Daeron’s arms loosened just enough for him to press shaky kisses to your forehead, your temple, your hair. The wildness had softened again, leaving something raw and aching in its place.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice hoarse and cracking. “I’ve always loved you. Even when I tried to be good. Even when I told myself I should let you go.” His arms tightened once more, almost desperately. “But I can’t anymore. Not if it means losing you to him. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m like this now.”
You rested your forehead against his, breathing him in, still trembling from the force of your orgasm. “I know. I know, Daeron. I still see you.. Underneath all of it.”
Then the tent flap tore open with violent force.
“What in the seven hells is going on here?” a voice hissed in utter disgust from the entrance of the tent. The flap was thrown open with force, letting in a gust of cold night air that made the brazier flicker wildly. That voice belonged to someone you both knew well—your uncle, Gwayne Hightower.
His face was twisted in a mixture of shock, fury, and revulsion as his eyes took in the scene before him—his niece straddling her twin brother, dress bunched around her hips, both of them flushed and disheveled in the aftermath of their forbidden passion. The sight seemed to physically wound him. His gaze dropped lower, landing on the damning splotches staining the front of Daeron’s breeches—clear, undeniable evidence of what had just happened between you.
“By the gods…” Gwayne breathed, voice shaking with barely contained rage. “Have you two lost your minds? In the middle of war?! In the middle of a gods-damned campaign with the enemy at our throats and your betrothed’s dragon circling the sky?!”
“Uncle, please,” you cried out pleadingly, voice still hoarse from pleasure and panic. “We can explain—”
He did not care.
Gwayne stormed forward like a man possessed, crossing the small space in two furious strides. His hand shot out and grabbed your arm in a bruising grip, yanking you roughly off Daeron’s lap. You stumbled as he pulled you to your feet, dress still rucked up around your hips, your legs unsteady beneath you. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough to leave marks, his face harsh and disbelieving as he stared down at his former ward.
“How dare you,” he hissed, voice dripping with betrayal and disgust. “You call yourself a knight? You, who I took as my own ward, who I taught honor and chivalry and the sacred duties of knighthood? Taking advantage of your own sister—your own twin—like some common beast rutting in the dirt?”
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This was Daeron. The dutiful, kind, soft-spoken boy he had mentored himself. The one who had always been the most gentle of the Targaryen sons, the one who had listened when Gwayne spoke of duty and restraint and protecting the innocent. To see him like this—breeches stained with the evidence of his own sister’s pleasure, arms still half-reaching for you even now—felt like a personal knife twisted straight into Gwayne’s heart.
“What have you done?” Gwayne demanded, voice rising. “What have you both done? After everything I taught you. After every lesson on honor, on protecting your family, on controlling your baser urges. And you—” His furious gaze snapped to you, still trembling in his grip. “You let him? You encouraged this depravity?”
Before either of you could answer, a deafening dragon roar split the sky overhead.
The sound was so close and powerful it silenced all three of you instantly. It vibrated through the canvas walls, rattled the tent poles, and sent a cold chill racing down your spine. Vhagar had arrived.
Aemond was here.
But Daeron did not care.
A slow, cocky smirk curled across his lips as he rose to his feet, completely unbothered by the wet stain darkening the front of his breeches or the fury radiating from his uncle. He met Gwayne’s glare without flinching, violet eyes burning with dark triumph and something far more unhinged. In two steps he was at your side again. He collected you into his arms with possessive ease, one strong arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you firmly back against his chest even as you still trembled from the aftermath of your release. His other hand settled low on your hip, fingers splaying possessively over the bunched fabric of your dress.
He held you there like a statement.
Like a claim.
Gwayne’s face twisted further at the sight—Daeron refusing to let go of you, refusing to show even a shred of shame.
Daeron’s violet eyes never left his uncle’s. They gleamed with defiance, with madness barely leashed, as if daring the entire world—and especially his older brother—to try and take you from him now.
Let Aemond come.
Let the dragons roar.
Daeron’s hold on you only tightened, every inch of his body radiating the same silent, unhinged promise he had growled against your skin minutes earlier.
He would fight for what was his.
What the gods had promised him.
His birthright.
And if anyone—uncle, brother, or king—tried to rip you away from him again, he would burn the entire realm to ash before he let it happen.
authors note:
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading! 💚 I hope this chapter hit the way you wanted.
Please leave comments and let me know what you want to read next — I’m taking requests!
Requests can be as dark as you want. However, I only write fics featuring Green characters (Gwayne Hightower, Ormund Hightower, Aemond Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen, and Daeron Targaryen). Requests set in the era of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms are also welcome (Daeron, Aerion, Vallar). Also MINORS DNI.
💬 3 🔁 0 ❤️ 21 · The Kings’s 33rd Son Part 2 · Daeron the daring x Twin reader, Daeron Targaryen x reader
Chapter 2: Starlight
Chapter 1
Also you can read a “what if” to this fic here https://www.tumblr.com/drevbkkurwszvhnk/821871611202453504/the-art-of-breaking-dragons-aemond-targaryen-x
💬 0 🔁 1 ❤️ 32 · The Art of Breaking Dragons- AEMOND TARGARYEN X SISTER READER X DAERON TARGARYEN · “Caught in a forbidden embrace with her
