morning breakfast with husband! gwayne and your son! daeron. inspired by daeron asking for gwayne in the latest episode .
daeron knows that love exists because you and gwayne exist.
its fluid, golden liquid, dancing in the way gwayne spoons the honey in your sweetened tea before you've even made it to the breakfast hall. he hasn't eaten yet, he waiting for your entrance and the moment his eyes set foot on your frame through the door he's up in an instance. daeron doesn't even hear the scrape of his chair or the clunk of his shoes on cold ground, nor does he hear the small breaths from his uncle's quickened pace. no, this happens at light speed, like a natural born reaction that gwayne is drawn to you.
daeron sees the slow smile mirrored across your faces, a teasing joke that the two of you only know and he sees gwayne take your hand, bring it to his lips with such grace, such nobility and restraint that you scrunch your nose up in delight; feeling exactly how it felt all those years ago when he first courted you. the sound of your laughter swirls like the honey in your tea, like a magnet gwayne's ears perk up and he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. he knows daeron is behind back at the table so he doesn't do more, he knows what it is to be respectful and not, though you do a damn well job of making sure he forgets most of the time. but for the sake of his nephew, he stops. he offers you his arm that you take instantly, slotting in perfectly next to his as his steps slow to match yours, a piece of harmony.
daeron watches with a smile as gwayne reaches the table, he walks past his chair first, knowing you'll want to reach out press a featherly kiss to his hair and a warm palm to his jaw. "good morrow, my sweet," and the glint in your eyes lights his whole world bright. its motherly the way you tend to him, the way he's always ever known it to be you and gwayne. gwayne and you. ormund, when its not you and gwayne. oh how he wishes it will always be you and gwayne.
he misses the heat as soon as your hand leaves his face with a ruffle to his hair and you take your designated seat in between your husband and son, one that gwayne has already pulled out for you and tucks you in. its a marvel how he does this all one handed, one firmly tucked into yours and daeron almost giggles boyishly at how such a love, so firm and strong can exist in turbulent times as such. but this is normalcy, your purpose and when gwayne brings your sweetened tea to your lips, the ceramic a nice warm and not burn just the way you like you sigh in bliss.
"thank you, my love," you whisper tenderly and he smiles, one for himself in pride and the other to you in devotion. your attention turns to daeron as gwayne begins to tuck into his meal. its a rhythm, you talk with daeron about his valyrian lessons, how his dragon riding is coming on, his interests, his rest, all these details are important to you. daeron almost feels bad for the way he's sucking in your attention but gwayne pays this no mind. the subtle shuffle of cutlery against his plate and besides, he's too busy rearranging your plate- he wipes the jam he knows you like clean off his dish and onto yours. and without even taking your eyes off your nephew, you move the fruit he likes off yours and onto his.
gwayne murmurs a "thank you" against your skin, the breath hot and heavy with a kiss to your neck as you're still turned to your nephew.
"you're doing extremely well, daeron," you lean in and pat his hand reassuringly. and daeron's heart swells with immense pride, all he's ever wanted was to do good with the cards he's been dealt.
"very well," gwayne's head bobs from your side of view, "you make our house very proud, you make us very proud," and just like the honey in your tea, daeron melts into something dangerously softer. the love you and gwayne share has always opened its orbit in the presence of daeron, and now it sucks him in whole, a nice warm tuck to an easy rest.
"though i'm afraid you'll have to start eating soon my heart, lest your uncle devours this whole spread," you jest and as daeron's body vibrates with an entertained chuckle, your head is thrown back into a fit of giggles, muffled as your tucked into your husband's chest as he tries to pretend outrage and offense. you look up to him, secure in his hold and soften.
"good morning to you, wife," he teases and for a second, gwayne forgets all about the young one seated centimetres from you and closes your mouth over his. in all the moments daeron has been raised in your care, there's no words to describe how you and gwayne are when you are with each other. daeron's heard the stories, been trained with the noble knight and knows how fearless, how co-ordinated and lethal his uncle can be. but he also knows the whispers, the laughter, the love existing in mundane moments. gwayne doesn't need to be loud to command the room, he certainly has commanded yours and daeron's life with such ease. but never has he seen his uncle so unguarded when he is by your side, so enamoured and oh so, normal.
"yes it seems it is a good morning," you whisper in return, content in his hold and by his side for life.
daeron eats the rest of his breakfast with quiet contempt and as he stares out to the resting sun with all its beautiful blue and white, he wishes that in his lifetime he hopes to get as lucky as you and gwayne have. to find a love seems an easy feat, but to find a love and yourself in another and to find reasons to fight for that love each and every day, that is rare.
Can You Truly Quell A Dragon?~Rhaenyra x fem! reader
Pairing: Rhaenyra x reader
Premise: You're watching Rhaenyra's mind unravel, anxieties and fears overtake through her first few official days as queen and all you want to do is ease her, in more ways than one.
Valyrian Used : Rina syz [good girl]; Dreje ilzyna iksa [you're so wet] ;Ajorraelenka [needy] ; Toli jaelan [I want more]
Word Count: 2.5k
Writer's Note: Back on my Rhaenyra fixation thanks to season three. She looks so good, of course I couldn't resist. The Valyrian I used isn't perfect by any means, just wanted to add an extra layer of spice, got all of it from here. Please comment your thoughts, hope y'all enjoy!
You noticed it.
The first time was when she was addressing her small council; you peeked under the thick arm of her personal guard, a gold cloak that wouldn't be permanent. He held Daemon in high regard, only succumbing to his Queen at the behest of the Rogue Prince, so you always kept him in the corner of your eye as you watched Rhaenyra move through the Red Keep.
She didn't jump out of her skin as the rat scurried across her foot, just raised her leg up and slightly yelped. You noticed the disappointment etched onto her face as she walked from the room and into the great hall.
When her monthly bleeding came, the words she uttered frightened you half to death. Being around your Queen was tense—she was tense—leaving Dragonstone ushered a sense of normalcy with how true this was for not only you, but for Rhaenyra, too.
As the pressing issues continued to quell your Queen, her distance from you grew.
You weren't far when you heard lord Corlys' outburst, calling out not only Rhaenyra's honor but the legacy of her boys, her dead boys who she loved and cherish all the same. Corlys kept his head, along with his life; Rhaenyra seemed horrified but you saw more within her eyes. You saw a lingering grievance aching to be let out, with an anger stuck deep within her heart.
It appeared again after another small council meeting. She called it off, claiming it to only be because of cramps.
It came up again when a disheveled dragon keeper rushed towards her, delivering unfortunate news. You couldn't follow it all, since you couldn't understand High Valyrian too well, and you were in the middle of throwing half of the Greens banners into a flaming pile.
You did catch Rhaenyra skulking around the flames with an intense eye contact that made your stomach pool with want, eager to give her whatever prophetical wish she wanted granted within those flames.
No. She was officially Queen now. She kept you in the dark; you had to respect her wishes. Regardless of how much you wanted to hold her, regardless of how drab Dragonstone was, it was a different realm than Kings Landing. Rhaenyra was different now.
"Y/N?"
You glanced up at the flames, finding Rhaenyra next to you. She was always captivating, although the nearby flames gave her silver Targaryen locks a yellow twinge, accentuating like the tip of a lit fire.
You bowed your head. "Y-Yes, your grace?"
Rhaenyra smiled, a quick quirk of her lips. She gently took your wrist as she got in your space to whisper. "Come with me."
You had no time to follow as she marched you all the way to her private chambers. Once you got to the door, Rhaenyra let you go in order to talk to her personal guard, who followed close, akin to loud shadows.
"Give me my privacy, ser," she ordered. "I'm more than capable for an hour of peace."
The guard nodded, bowed and left.
Rhaenyra pulled you inside, the tenderness she had seeped away, just a bit due to the tension at her fingertips.
Her room was neat, up kept due to the constant tending you and her other ladies-in-waiting do for her throughout the day. Once the door was closed, sealing you and Rhaenyra alone together for the first time since she sat the iron throne as queen.
She paced the room, played with her rings; the sight had slightly dizzy, the fire from earlier exhausted you. You sat and watched her.
"Why must the Gods test me so?" she muttered. "Should I rule as my father did or bring down fire and blood as my ancestors did, they wouldn't challenge me. They wouldn't deceive and--"
"Your grace."
Her head snapped up to you, stopping her mid sentence. She stalked over, eyeing you heavily like the dragon she commanded, forcing you to slide away from her.
Rhaenyra caught you by the arm before you could completely leave her reach. She stroked your arm delicately, all while staring at you, entrapping you in those purple, valyrian eyes.
You knew what it meant, thighs pressing together at the attention. It's all you truly wanted, moreso, you desired to break away from that thich mast of depression that clung to your Queen since she lost her daughter--now lingering more since the loss of her sons.
"Y-Your grace?" you asked again.
Rhaenyra twitched. She brought up at hand, stroking your face. "My sweet girl, you've been more than loyal to me for the past few years," she said, lips quirking up in a tiny grin. "Maybe I should have sought your council."
Being able to finally lean into her touch again was glorious. She hadn't been this careful in days, focused on anything without a slip of that mask she formed to hide her fear and grief.
"What should I do, hm?" she said. "Should I remain civil to Alicent, appease and get ready for whatever game Ormound Hightower is playing in Tumbleton, or should I just burn it all. Burn all of my enemies as Daemon wished, as what my heart bellowed since my own daughter and father were taken from me? As did the sons who perished for me to sit on that accursed throne of swords?"
Rhaenyra clasped your hands in her own now, squeezing tight. She spoke to you, clearly, yet you still believed they were geared to herself and her personal council. You weren't completely sure what she should do. Tumbleton shouldn't burn, yet Alicent being in her ear only brought her trouble. Rhaenyra was queen however, she didn't need your council or anyone else's to do what she thought was true and absolute. She did need to grieve though; she need to remove that mask.
"Y/N?" she tilted your chin up with her finger. "Are you listening?"
You nodded. "O-Of course, your grace. But do you really need my council?"
Rhaenyra chuckles humorlessly. "I wouldn't be asking so if I didn't."
You bit your lip and decided to be honest. "You should do what you think is right, my queen--"
Rhaenyra blinked. "What I think is...right?" she spoke slow, like the words were foreign on her lips.
You unwound your hands from her own and pressed one of them against her chest. The beats of her heart were steady, as it was when you laid with over the past few months.
"Your father made you heir and, as you said, you need not want your sons--your children dead for nothing," you explained.
Rhaenyra's gaze stayed on you, narrowing while her hand worked up and around your arm, caressing your shoulder. She said nothing else, prompting you to do the same as she silenced you with a deep kiss. She was rough, body flush on yours, pushing you to lay on your back.
"Would you feel a way of me, hm?" she whispered. Your queen laid a trail of kisses down the base of your neck. "If I incinerated our enemies, would that scare you?"
Her words carried a heavy weight, though cavalier in her tone; it was as if Daemon spoke them, not the woman who only ever offered you sweet words, tender touches.
At your hesitation, Rhaenyra's hand went up to take your throat, lightly, but still there.
"Tell me, sweet girl," she commanded.
Her voice went deeper, hoarse, a definite command; your thighs pressed together again. Rhaenyra noticed this time, smiling slyly.
"Does that excite you?"
You swallowed and shook your head. "N-No your grace--"
Rhaenyra pressed her finger tips on your throat, still slight but you felt her more. "Don't lie, please, don't lie."
You hadn't dared to, not with the desperation in her voice or the way her purple eyes searched your face for an answer.
"Yes. Yes, it does, my queen."
Rhaenyra growled, the act akin to Syrax as she tapped your side. "Turn around."
You flopped onto your belly and Rhaenyra's hands clung to your hips before clawing and tearing at your dress. Her mouth found your neck again, kissing and nipping at the back of your neck while her hands moved lower, dipping into the fabric of your undergarments.
"Please," you groaned.
"Mmh, all you have to do is tell me, sweet girl," Rhaenyra whispered. She paused to suckle at your pulse point, forcing you to jerk in her arms. "Tell your queen what you want, otherwise, I'll take my sweet time...I missed these breasts on purpose."
Her hands moved to cup your breasts, squeezing and twirling the nipple slowly.
"Please! Touch me!" you moaned.
Rhaenyra grinned against your skin. "I am, Y/N. As you wanted," she said, accentuating each word with a roll of her finger across your nipple. "Perhaps you should be clearer with your demands."
She played with your chest more, making it difficult to answer. With a huff of breath at your ear and those familiar fingertips at your throat, Rhaenyra whispered. "Perhaps I wasn't clear enough myself."
Her voice went to those deep depths again, hitting you straight to your core. "Y-Your fingers my queen. I need them inside," you said, nearly sobbing.
Rhaenyra kissed your ear. "Rina syz."
Your hips jerked involuntarily at the valyrian being spoken so close. Rhaenyra chased, dipped her hand below the fabric, moaning at your already dampened cunt.
"Ah, dreje ilzyna iksa," she groaned, moving along your slick.
She was slow like before when she had you against the table at Dragonstone, eliciting noises from you that would rival any common whore of Kings Landing while she fingered you to release.
This time was different. Once she pushed in, she found your clit and rubbed there fast, hard and in a dizzying rhythm that nearly brought you to release. Your hand found her wrist to signal the building towards your peak.
"Not yet," Rhaenyra purred, switching back to the common tongue. "Face me, now."
You faced your queen again.
A deeper kiss was pressed to your lips. "Beautiful," she said, pulling back to take in your frustrated face. She moved from over top of you aback to the beds center, bunching up her gown and skirts to reveal her toned thighs. "Ride me."
You kissed her, now being the one to rip and tear, pull at her dress until it was pooled to the floor.
Rhaenyra shook her head, smirking as she tipped your head up to kiss you once again. "Ajorraelenka."
You straddled her thigh, wrapped your arms around her neck and watched your cunt glide on her porcelain thigh. She flexed it gently, the quick move taking the breath from the base of your throat. Your queen did it again, rougher this time, bouncing her leg while trapping you in her arms, groaning at your scent.
All you felt was Rhaenyra. She hit your center perfectly; with each bump, you threw your head back, clutching the skin of her neck tight, sighing. You hid the loud sounds in Rhaenyra's silver locks, hoping not to alert any of her guards or the ears of the Red Keep.
"Is this not enough, sweet girl?" Rhaenyra said against your skin. She pulled back from your neck to snake her hand down, pushing two fingers inside. "I want to hear all your noises."
Her fingers curled while her thumb tapped your pulse just right, eliciting a louder moan. You cut it off though, burying your face into her chest.
"Toli jaelan," she growled, pushing you back against the bed. She sunk to the edge, pulling off your soaked underwear. "Moan as much as you need."
Just the visual of your queen positioned between your legs had you jolting up towards her. She chuckled lowly, mouth meeting your succulent mound. She wasted no time in lapping at your sweet folds, groaning at the taste while her fingers worked beautifully at your center.
"Rhaenyra!" you moaned, gripping her hair.
Rhaenyra pulled back, your essence coating a string connecting her mouth and your cunt. "There's my sweet girl," she groaned. "Fuck, you tightened up at that. Maybe if I..."
Your queen shifted up, pressing her body against you while one hand fingered you and the other laced around your throat, slightly curling. A gasp broke from you. The heat that pooled in your belly grew tighter at Rhaenyra's rapid succession until...it exploded.
"Fuck," you yelped, cumming all over Rhaenyra's fingers.
Usually Rhaenyra's hands would gather up your face, pampering you in sweet words and caresses after while cleaning you up.
Instead, Rhaenyra lifted your leg slightly to pin it against her hip, driving her own cunt against your own; her own juices mixed in a dangerous sympathy along your own to prompt more noises from the both of you.
"I'll take Tumbleton," she moaned. The sensation of her wetness, the sound of it moving along blurring your vision. You shut your eyes, only for Rhaenyra's hand to squeeze along your throat. "Look your queen in the eye while she's speaking."
You did as you were told: hypnotized by the passions Targaryen's were known for. Rhaenyra's mouth agape, purple eyes scrutinizing every detail of your body; your breasts that flopped with each move of her hips, your pulse that kept just under her fingers. You were at the mercy of Queen Rhaenyra and you adored every moment of it.
"I've been too lenient with my enemies, my subjects," she said, rutting harder against you. "I've forgotten the blood that runs through my veins, I do have six dragons. More than the conquerors before me."
Her fingers slipped against your cunt again, finding you tighten around her fingers again.
"Ah, my sweet girl," Rhaenyra whimpered. "This excites you, doesn't it? A Targaryen fucking you. Your Queen commanding your body as she does her entire realm?"
You nodded, lost in the sensation; her words brought you towards the brink yet again.
"So pliant under me," she purred. "If I were a man, I'd fill you just like this. You'd accept, wouldn't you? The realm would have something to fear then, I'll raise an army of bastards, as many as I want."
The thought got you there, cumming yet again; Rhaenyra gasped at the wetness that squirted across her own mound and tummy. Her movements hadn't let up as her hand moved from your throat and into your hair.
"Answer me," she commanded, tilting your head up. "Would you carry your Queen's babes? Join me and my husband in our quest to rule the entire realm for centuries?"
"Y-Yes!" you moaned. "Yes, your grace!"
Rhaenyra's body tensed up, connoting her release.
She fell atop of you, exhaustion melding well into your body. It gave you time to ruminate on her words; had she really believed her boys to be bastards? You turned over to watch your queen as she rolled off your body to sit on the bed's edge.
The mask was back, albeit, a new one. This one had heavy regality with ridges of self confidence that drained her days after the death of her eldest.
"They would be yours regardless," you said, wrapping your arms around her waist. "They would be loved, just as you loved your other boys. They are yours, no matter what the realm would say."
Rhaenyra leaned in your arms. "Thank you, sweet girl."
an: nobody perceive me right now i have the post period hornyness, just finished the latest episode of hotd and this happened, the grasp this terrifying man has on me is driving me insane
pussy inspections with your husband ormund hightower, because of course he does, his control over you has never been a suggestion, you had quickly learned that to survive his strict vision of the world and to avoid the severity of his punishment what he demands is obedience and compliance.
so he always has you seat in that special chair he had made just for the occasion, one that raises your legs in just the right way and gives him an easy view after he's returned from his endeavors, a travel or maybe just a long and boring meeting where the people across the table from him managed to bored him to death.
he calls for you and offers that seemingly candid gesture, that smirk that he thinks is a smile but it always seems like a threat to your eyes.
"come here, wife".
he takes in all the details of your shape, making sure the fabric of your dress is appropriate, eyes fixing on the tight fit of he corset around your torso and the way the garment perfectly accentuates the perfect curves of your soft waist. you come close to him as he continues his assessment, fingers making sure there is not a hair out of place, his brief smile the confirmation that he is pleased with your choice of styling.
"I like this, wear it more often like this",not a suggestion, an order in that nonchalant way he is so prone to give. he leans over and pecks your lips with a kiss in a gesture you quickly had to learn to be always willing to correspond with enthusiasm, "it suits you".
he breaks away from you while starting to remove the leather belt around his middle, his heavy valyrian sword going to the rest at the side of the bed: vigilance, a very appropriate name for a sword belonging to the lord you call your husband. you are familiar with the ritual by now, the meticulous ritual of him getting rid of the outer layers of his regal appearance.
"show me".
you know what it means, and yet it still manages to bring a blush into your face without fail, the habit doesn't reduce the scrutiny, and the weight of his stare hasn't gotten easier to bear; on the contrary, it seems every time it gets harder and harder, because much to your dismay your body seems to have grown completely used to his demanding nature.
slowly you take your spot on the high chair and expose yourself for him, opening your legs in front of him as he takes his place in front of you, sitting at the perfect place so your exposed core is right at eye level.
he exhales a sigh as his thick fingers caress the tender skin of your thighs, hot breath fanning over you, skin prickling with anticipation.
"open". he says, as he pinches the doughy fat of your inner thigh.
too used to his command you obey without questioning, you've learned hesitation could very well mean betrayal in front of this man. so you spread your folds in front of him using your hands, he hums in appreciation at the efficiency of your obedience.
he always takes his time, ringed fingers carefully tracing your soft folds and thumb lingering a second longer on the entrance of your tight channel, moist already gathering a his touches, at the way his fingers reached the hood of your clit and pulls, delicately but firm, he repeats the motion several times until you are struggling to not let out a sound, after all he hasn't given you permission to do so.
when one of his fingers finally goes inside is slow, exploratory, making sure everything feels the same as usual, making sure his wife wasn't defiled by somebody else than him. he hums, satisfied with the usual warmth and tightness of your channel receiving him.
a wet 'pop' follows his movement as he retreats his finger and wipes the sticky emission in a white handkerchief that he takes a long inhale from.
his voice is hardened by his desire in a way that has you clenching around the emptiness left by his touch. he starts removing the final layers of his garments, proud member erect and glistening as he positions himself at your entrance.
"let us devote ourselves into birthing an new hightower, the one who shall continue my efforts to put a worthy heir in the iron throne".
hi orion, i saw that you accept hotd requests, so i looked at your prompt list and i think a quote “Rather me than you” would be perfect for jacaerys velaryon x reader. maybe something connected to battle of the gullet? jace and vermax survive but his betrothed and her dragon are wounded, almost died while saving him and he’s angry. they argue but after a few hours when he sees her struggling with the pain, he apologizes, they talk about their feeling and he comforts her? have a nice day! ❤️
Jace didn’t know whether you were a fool or just eager to die with the stunt you pulled. Everything happened so quickly for him that the things he did remember was when you had rammed Ghost into Vermax and shoving him out of the way, shouts for him to fly higher, and finally the shapes of what felt like a thousand arrows being let loose all at once followed by the sounds of Ghost’s pained screeches and him screaming your name so loud to the point his throat still hurt.
They won the battle of the gullet but at a personal cost to himself. The second Jace figured out what had happened, he was quick to have Vermax sweep the expanse of the ocean desperately, and for so long that a single seed of doubt had began to spread that he might’ve lost you forever, yet his stubbornness and determination to find you and Ghost seemed to have seeped into Vermax as his dragon refused to loose his mate and kept flying until a large body of pure silver was seen fighting beneath the waves did Jace and Vermax let out a sound of unified surprise and relief. The tightening in his chest finally released him from a reality he was merely seconds away from living within but it still held him loosely. There was blood, a concerning amount of it that Jace didn’t know if it was all yours or Ghost’s, it didn’t matter in the moment because seeing your body riddled with arrows, floating in the ocean and staring up at the sky you oh so loved to soar with a blank stare caught his eye.
You looked so…lifeless.
‘Jace!’ Baela called out to him, removing him from the idea that he was already too late and was looking at the consequences of his actions that forced you to take the fatal blow for him. ‘Jace! They’re still alive! If we act now we can get them back to Dragonstone to heal.’ She cried over the wind to get through to him upon seeing his reaction, hovering over you as though he was already at your funeral, like he was already seeing a loss he would always hold himself accountable for and she couldn’t allow that to happen. You were alive and Baela knew it from the faint sound you breathing and how Ghost was fighting to stay above the water, your fluttering eyes and finger twitching, Ghost’s snout bobbing out to the surface for air after being pushed down by a strong wave.
‘Yeah but we’ll need help.’ Was all Jace could say as they put their plan to work. It took a while but Ghost was carried back by Vermithor and you were laid over Vermax, Jace holding onto you tightly as he, Baela, Hugh and Addam flew back to Dragonstone. His mother would have a few choice words with all of you for doing what you did but he would have to deal with that when it came to him, as for right now you were all that matter in this moment as he would constantly have his fingers at your pulse, counting your heartbeat and the faintness of it before ushering Vermax -who kept calling out to your dragon weakly- to fly faster.
‘Stay with me.’ Jace said to you as he felt for your pulse, noticing it’s weakening state, shallow breathing and a slight glaze coming over your eyes slowly but surly, it struck great within his heart as he leaned down and pushed his forehead shading yours. ‘You’re not leaving me. if you do I’ll demand your soul back from the gods, blasphemous as that is to say, but if you do I swear I shall go to whatever afterlife you reside and bring you home to me.’ He whispered lowly but there was hitched in his voice, his eyes had become glassy and his jaw tightened as he felt your body loose its warmth.
Jace gritted his teeth as he pushed his head further against yours, hoping that if he looked at you hard enough you’d become revitalised, that you’ll smile again and that Ghost would fly from Vermithor and back to you, trilling at Vermax as you both raced across the sky, flying too low scared him now. He didn’t want to ever be caught like they ever again, for the image of you taking his place will haunt him forever, imprinted on the back of his eyelids that he knows that sleep won’t come easily anymore without physically feeling you against him from now until forever. If you wake up- no- when you wake up you’ll hate him forever hovering over you, hate him for stopping you from fighting for your queen -his mother- and how you’ll hate him for wanting you to stay where he’ll know you are safe until he comes home.
‘You are not leaving me.’ He said one last time with vindication as Dragonstone came into view.
Now Jace finds himself sitting near your bed, but he wasn’t hugging and kissing you once you woken up heavily bandaged and bedbound, he was glaring, pointing and shouting about your recklessness. His dark eyes flared and mad looking, jaw clenched and unclenching as his fists balled up until his knuckles were white. ‘You’re reckless out there!’
‘I was saving you! You were the one who was too low! Any lower and you were giving them a free shot at you and Vermax!’ You shouted back, grossing your arms over your chest, ‘and you call yourself a dragon rider.’ You added as an extra dig at him, knowing he takes pride in being a dragon rider and soon enough as you said it he fell for it as expectedly.
‘Yet I wasn’t the one riddled in arrows and almost lost my dragon! You knew that doing such a thing was risky, that it would spell certain death! That it would mean me losing you and paying for it with every breath I take, knowing I couldn’t stop you from being so..so.’
‘So what? Go on Jace because it seems as though you’ve got a lot to say about me being foolish and reckless and stupid with my life and Ghosts’ and I’d love to hear about it from the man who defied his own mother.’ You scoffed, barely concealing the pan of pain that spread across your body, from your shoulder, your chest, abdomen and legs and lower back. Yet instead of voicing it you hid it behind a look of annoyance, you grit your teeth and tried to will away the blossoming back, cursing yourself for not listening to the maester and his words about taking things easy, but things with Jace were never easy and were always over complicated for no reason.
‘So careless with your life!’ Jace screamed as he stood up and began to pace in front of you, his chest heaving as though he was already out of breath when in reality he was still mentally stuck out at sea, staring at your seemingly lifeless face staring up at the sky, blood and the arrows sticking out of you and how faint your pulse was breath his fingers along with how shallow your breathing was. His mind couldn’t fathom you fighting him right now, he knew he should be happy that you were okay and he was but everything within him screamed to berate you for thinking his life was worth saving over yours, you knew he’d do the same for you but this was both of your issues; you’d sacrifice your birthrights just to keep the other safe and not think things through outside of keeping the other out of danger.
This was war not a little scuffle that ended up with bruised knees and scrapes.
You raised your eyebrows. ‘If I didn’t you’d be dead my prince.’ You spat the words out ear at his feet, the pain now becoming more worse then before but you warrant going to show Jace that, it’ll only fuel his righteous rage. You were just a spare body in this war, Jace was the heir to the throne, what did it matter if you met your end out in the ocean? Why did it matter to him? You knew why but in the midst of everything you didn’t compare to his importance, Jace needed to live to see the end of this war and pass from a sweet old age. You would’ve gladly protected him in the afterlife along with Lucaerys, anything to make sure he wasn’t harmed at all. Yet you were lucky enough, extremely lucky, to have survived that fight in the first place.
‘You’d rather be dead?! Is that it?!’
‘I’d rather you live!’
‘Why?!’ Jace shouts.
‘You’re my prince! The man I love! You expect me to just sit back and watch you die!’ You said as if the solution was as simple as patching a hole in the wall or fixing some steps, something that seemed to piss Jace off as he ran a hand through his hair and stopped short of the end of your bed, placing his hands on the wooden framing and leaned in slowly as he spoke. ‘And you expect me to just let you die. Let the ocean take you when I could’ve done something to make a difference, to ensure your survival- (name)?’
Jace stoped himself when he noticed that you were closing your eyes, leaning back against the headboard and holding your abdomen where most of the bandaging was, noticing spots of blood here and there seeping out and without a second thought the argument was abandoned as he sat next to you and grasping your hands. ‘(Name) talk to me, what’s wrong, do you want your bandages changed, please just speak to me. I’m sorry.’
‘Jace.’ You coughed out through the pain, weakly patting the space on the bed. ‘Shut up and come here will you.’ Jace leaned in to kiss your forehead before moving into bed with you, grabbing you by the shoulders and easing you to settle again him, his hands holding yours, allowing you to squeeze them when the pain flared and pressing kisses here and there against your face along with whispered apologies, apologise that came out faster then the venom he spouted earlier. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I didn’t, I don’t want to loose you.’ He said with urgency, feeling himself lost within that image of you out in the ocean once again, he closed his eyes tightly as he buried his head into your hair, reminding himself that you were alive, warm and breathing breath him with the way he memorised the callouses of your palms and the lines that were embedded within them.
‘I forgive you Jace,’ you replied softly as you felt the pain subside, allowing yourself to sink further into him, moving to kiss whatever part of him you could without straining yourself. ‘The moment I saw you fly too low was the moment I noticed their bows and arrows and in that moment I knew I couldn’t live without you, I couldn’t breathe and didn’t want to live a life where I could’ve done something but didn’t. I just wanted you to live. I’d rather it be me than you.’ You whispered to him, hiding your own tears at the aspect of it being you staring at his lifeless body within the water instead of your own, the imagine would’ve haunted you for the rest of your life and you knew that you would’ve became reckless and vengeful to the point where you’d have to be locked away from your own betterment.
‘Why did you think I would settle with suffering instead?’ He asked with a voice that sounded like it was on the verge of breaking. ‘Why did you think leaving me to live was enough punishment? Why did you think my breath was worth more than yours? Did you not think about my feelings? And how I’d seek vengeance and burn every single last person involved with your death?’ Jace brought his face level with your own as he looked down at your lips then back into your eyes. ‘Don’t you know I would want nothing more than to be with you again?’ He adds.
You sigh. ‘Adrenaline makes a fool out of all of us, so enjoy me while I still think and feel, while I still love and breathe.’ You told him, knowing that from here on out things will be vastly different.
‘Then let me be selfish and enjoy you for the rest of my life, however short or long it maybe.’ Was Jace’s response as he leaned in to kiss you on the lips, remembering all of it until every warm breeze that would pass and linger on his lips would remind him of you.
Summary - Stuck in the Riverland's on a marriage tour, you pretend to be Lady Strong when Benjicot Blackwood doesn't recognize you as the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms
Warnings - none except not edited!!
Word Count - 3.1k
!MINORS DNI!
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
As if the prospect of a marriage tour was not horrid enough, your first stop was proving to be positively dreadful.
You had imagined the lands surrounding the Trident to be beautiful. A lush, verdant landscape—filled with fragrant herbs and bright, blooming flowers, painting the Riverlands in rich, colorful hues. You pictured babbling streams and plush grass, stunning castles and, perhaps, some equally as stunning men.
What you hadn’t imagined, however, was the weather.
Even from within the confines of Riverrun—the ancestral castle of House Tully—you still feel the effects of the merciless heat beating down upon the sandstone walls.
Your handmaids had tried to dress you accordingly, stuffing you into your thinnest—and, consequently, your least regal—gown, in hopes that it might prevent sunstroke. Yet still, even as three of Lord Tully’s own servants try fanning you while you sulk in the dining hall, you feel as though every inch of your body is drenched in sticky sweat.
“This is miserable,” you groan to Ser Lorent, the Kingsguard who had been assigned to your tour. Flanking your right, you spare the knight a pitiful, sidelong glance. “I believe I would sooner die a spinster than be forced to live in this sweltering purgatory!”
The servants, haphazardly positioned around the table, remain utterly stone-faced, not letting on if they found your comment about their homelands to be humorous or offensive.
Ser Lorent merely laughs. “The Riverlands are known for their humid summers, princess.” With a wink, he adds, “If you ever bothered with your studies, you would know this.”
“I study!”
“With the blade, perhaps,” Ser Lorent muses, his teal eyes twinkling with lighthearted mockery. “But certainly not with books, princess.
Rolling your eyes, you slump further into your chair, your body practically melting into the upholstery. “Leave the geography lessons to Jace,” you tell him, waving an idle hand. “After all, he's the heir to the Iron Throne. I am merely the prized broodmare—” focusing on your plate, and the half-eaten lunch upon it, you try swallowing the bitter tang now filling your mouth—“a royal womb to be sold off to the highest bidder.”
And, at times, you aren’t even sure if that is considered an honest truth… You’ve certainly never felt royal.
Like your brothers, you were born extraordinarily plain-featured. With no silver hair or lilac eyes, you appear more like a common-born peasant than someone of prized Valyrian stock—and it didn’t help that, unlike your brothers, you had no dragon, either.
Ser Lorent watches as you absently push a piece of seared cod around your plate, sighing. “That isn’t true, my princess.” His words are tinged with sympathy. “You are being sold to no one. Your mother wishes for you to have a marriage born of love—not duty.”
“Ah, yes,” stabbing the fish with the prongs of your fork, you bring it to your lips, “which is why I’m being forced to spend my summer meeting with the haughty sons of fat country lords—for love.”
His tongue clicks with disapproval. “Your mother has given you a choice in selecting your own husband, princess; which is a luxury not granted to many women.”
Frowning, you pop the piece of fish into your mouth, turning his words over in your head.
Gods.
You hate it when he’s right.
“Fine,” you relent, still chewing. Turning sideways in your chair, you raise your fork to him in a mock threat, “But my earlier statement stands! If I must take a husband, then it certainly won’t be anyone from here—lest I become no more than a puddle of sweat.”
Ser Lorent cracks a smile at you. “Should you turn to a puddle, princess, then I vow to mop you from the floor.”
“How valiant of you, Ser Lorent,” you laugh. “I’m unsure of how I might ever repay you for such loyalty.”
“I’m not sure you have to worry about that, princess—I don’t believe that puddles are much concerned with matters of debt.”
Turning back to the table, another soft laugh spills from your lips. “I suppose you’re right, Ser.”
All too soon, however, your amusement begins to fade. A warm breeze blows in through the many open windows lining Riverrun’s dining hall, the stifling air only accentuating the stickiness of your skin.
Sucking in a deep, heavy breath, you ask, “How long do we have?”
Ser Lorent doesn’t ask for clarification, knowing almost at once what you were asking him. “We’re expected back in the Great Hall in a little under an hour, princess.”
You blow the breath out, groaning slightly.
An hour—that's all the time you had left before you would be forced back upon the dais, expected to once again smile and be cordial as men and boys from all across the Riverlands made their case for your hand.
How many of them could possibly be left? This morning alone you had met with dozens upon dozens of them, their voices all blurring into a monotonous hum as they spoke of the history of their Houses—if one can consider nonsensical legends from the ancient Age of Heroes as true history, that is.
Noticing the dreadful pall cast over you, Ser Lorent clamps a comforting hand on your shoulder. “How about a walk before we go back? It might help to clear your head,” he suggests. Then, with a wry grin, “Perhaps you might wish to think back on the men from this morning—see if any of them might make you change your tune about life in the Riverlands.”
You pin him with a playful scowl. “There’s not a man alive that could change that tune,” you vow. “But you’re right—a walk might be nice.”
Rising from your seat, the servants around you lower their fans, silently dismissing themselves.
“Will you be accepting my company on this walk?” Ser Lorent teases—though you know what he’s really asking is: will you be accepting my protection.
“After this morning, I believe I’ve had enough company for a lifetime.”
The knight’s brow draws tight, an apprehensive frown beginning to pull at the corners of his lips. You roll your eyes.
“Oh, don’t worry so much, Ser Lorent. It gives you wrinkles,” you tease. Adjusting the slit running along one side of your dress, you reveal the dagger holstered on your thigh. “I assure you that if any of these Riverlanders dare lay a hand on me, they’ll lose some fingers.”
Ser Lorent snorts, head shaking. “It’s not you I worry about, princess,” he jokingly admits. “Just stay close by, understand? Your mother will have my head if anything happens to you.”
“Yes, yes—understood,” you dramatically gripe, already walking past him to the exit.
“Oh, and princess?” He calls out just as the guards pull the doors open for you to leave. You glance over your shoulder at him, brows lifted. “At least try not to injure anyone.”
With one last roll of your eyes, bright with mischief, you shout on your way out, “No promises, Ser Lorent!”
Wandering through the outer yards of Riverrun, the blistering sun beating down upon your skin, you find yourself overwhelmed by a sudden ache in your chest.
You miss home. Desperately.
You miss Dragonstone’s near-constant cover of clouds, forever shielding you from the heat. You miss the cool breeze rolling in off the Blackwater, the air peppering your cheeks with salty kisses.
But even as you dream of a reprieve from the muggy Riverlands, you can’t help but miss your family—your brothers—most of all.
Perhaps it is that feeling that led you here, to the training yard, guided by the familiar lull of splintering wood and steel slicing through the air, the sound offering a much-needed remedy to the homesickness twisting in your gut.
Smaller than the one at Dragonstone, Riverrun’s yard was no more than a cramped stretch of dusty-dirt, lined with old training dummies and archery targets. Mostly encircled by the towering sun-bleached stones of the castles, only a small part of the yard remained open to the sprawling gardens beyond, sectioned off by ornate iron fencing.
Striding over the open gate, your attention falls upon the lone boy standing in the yard's center.
As the sunlight beats down overhead, long shadows dance around his feet as he glides through a set of movements—each step calculated, every strike deliberate.
You step closer, keeping your steps light as you approach. With his back turned to you, you watch as sweat drips down his neck, glistening. It soaks into his tunic, the thin black material clinging to his lean, muscled back.
He’s talented—you think, studying his form.
Talent is something you're familiar with—intimately. You were raised around warriors—trained by the Rogue Prince himself. Yet never before had you found yourself so utterly bewitched by a fighter.
He didn’t move like other boys.
He wasted no time on the flowery style displayed by so many summer children—the ones who thought of battle as a performance rather than a matter of life or death.
Instead, he moved with the lethal prowess of an apex predator—his blade cutting through the air with a controlled ferocity that, while lacking the flourish of other warriors, was undeniably impressive.
Dirt flies as he throws himself into another set of movements—a series of strikes and parries, executing with unbelievable precision. With every twist and pivot, muscles tense and shift beneath his tunic, his body as powerful a weapon as his sword.
He lunges forward—and wood cracks! as he slashes his blade along the belly of one of the dummies, a move that would have disemboweled a living opponent.
Cutting through the sudden stillness, you bring your hands up to your chest, filling the yard with a slow clap. Back still turned to you, the boy's spine goes ramrod straight at the unexpected sound.
“Impressive,” you muse, taking another step towards him. Mere feet remain between the two of you, now. “You move well—better than most, I’d say.”
The boy spins around to face you, his once elegant movements now blundering as he nearly trips over his own feet. Biting your tongue, you try to hold in a laugh.
Big, storm-cloud eyes meet your gaze, pinning you in place as he blinks, visibly thrown-off by your presence. “Sorry-” he stammers, out of breath. “I didn’t think anyone else would be coming out here-”
You lift a hand, cutting him off with a smile. “Oh, no—don’t apologize on my account! I enjoyed the show,” you tell him. “Seems that you have a real talent for swordplay.”
His cheeks flush, his lightly sun-kissed skin turning a stark crimson. “Thanks.” His laugh is a nervous, awkward thing—endearing, too. He sticks a hand out towards you, the other still limply holding his sword. “Benjicot. Blackwood,” he introduces himself, fumbling over his words, “but you can call me Ben or Benji—or anything, really.”
You take his hand, biting your lip to mask your amusement. “Pleasure to meet you, Benji.”
A beat of silence passes before confusion finally tugs at his features, his hand falling back to his side. “Uhm—” another sweet, awkward laugh— “and you are…?”
Realization dawns on you, leaving your brows to shoot up to your hairline.
Seven Hells. He doesn't know, does he?
A sudden speechlessness grabs hold of your tongue.
You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised—after all, you aren't what many expected of a Targaryen princess.
Plain-featured and dressed in thin, common clothes, you imagine you likely appear no different than the servants surrounding you at lunch, fanning you to keep the heat from going to your head.
Even so, it's rare that you met someone who doesn't know who you are. And, selfishly, after a morning filled with insincere compliments from haughty Lord’s, you like the idea of remaining nameless—titleless—for the first time in your life.
“Wow—sorry—that was thoughtless of me, wasn’t it?” Tapping a finger to your temple, you laugh. “I’m Mylissa,” you lie, stealing the name of one of your handmaidens. “Mylissa Strong.”
“Strong?” He echoes, brow furrowing. “Strange—you don’t sound like you’re from the Riverlands. Your accent is—”
“Southern?”
Benji nods.
“Well, I’ve spent the better part of my life in the Crownlands, so I suppose I’ve picked up their accent,” you explain. “I’m here with the princess, actually—as her lady-in-waiting.”
The mention of the princess—you—turns his skin a pasty white.
Keeping a tight leash on your curiosity, you try not to sound too intrigued when you ask, “And what about you? Raventree Hall is a decent ride from here, is it not?” On horseback, the ancestral seat of House Blackwood was two days away from Riverrun, if not three. “Are you here to meet with the princess?”
Benji shifts his weight, leaning from one foot to the other. “Supposed to,” he begins, his words tumbling out, “but I don’t know—I’m not so sure that I’ll go through with it.”
Your expression falters, disappointment washing over you like a cold wave, combatting the intolerable warmth of the sun.
“Why not?”
He shrugs—a timid, shy gesture that feels so unlike the predator you had snuck up on. “There are over a hundred men in there,” he waves an arm to the castle, to the Great Hall within, “all waiting for an opportunity to impress the princess—meanwhile, I can hardly get out a single sentence without choking on my own spit.”
Your laughter bubbles up involuntarily, a few giggles spilling past your lips. The Blackwood boy shoots you a playful glare from beneath long, dark lashes.
“Well,” you begin, absentmindedly toeing the dirt between you, “perhaps the princess might find it endearing, don’t you think?”
Benji scoffs. “Doubtful. I mean, think about it!—she’s a princess!”
Your eyes widen, glimmering with mock-offense. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
Once again, that crimson tinge returns to his skin, crawling up his neck, this time.
“I meant no offense,” he defends himself, mistaking your expression for one of a Lady meaning to defend her princess. “But what could I possibly offer a princess?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think on his words. “Well, the Blackwoods do have a history of being valiant warriors, do they not? And you seem to be quite skilled yourself,” you say, daring to let your stare drift down to his arms, the short sleeves of his tunic revealing well-muscled, sweat-slick biceps.
He snorts. “I’m willing to guess that the princess would likely care naught for my skill with a sword.”
“Then you would guess wrong,” you retort, a faint, teasing smile on your lips. “Many say that the princess herself is quite skilled with a blade—I imagine she would quite like a boy that’s capable of challenging her.”
Benji’s eyes darken a shade, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “And what about you, Mylissa?”
The false name catches you off-guard, but you do your best to hide it.
“What of me?”
A bit nervous, he asks, “Would you like a boy that can challenge you?”
Your heart stutters in your chest—skipping several beats as his stare lowers, dipping past your waist and falling upon your thigh. On the dagger sheathed there, no doubt.
Heat begins to crawl up your neck, hotter even than the sun's blistering rays. “Oh—” You stutter, words lost upon you.
It’s true that you were used to the attention of men. After all, your morning has been filled with it, and soon enough the rest of your day will be, too.
But this was different.
Benji wasn’t giving you attention because you’re a princess, a mere royal womb to strengthen his House’s bloodline. Rather, he was doing it simply because he wanted to—a feeling that was utterly foreign to you.
Wiping a clammy hand on his sweaty tunic, Benji misreads your silence, taking a half-step back. “Apologies, my Lady—that was too forward and-”
You don’t let him finish his rambling. Taking a step forward, you close the gap he sought to create between you. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“A deal?”
You nod. “As you know, the princess will be in the Great Hall for the rest of the evening, holding court with the other Lord’s who’ve come for her hand. I'd like for you to meet with her.”
Benji cocks his head, confusion crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I truly mean no disrespect to your princess, my Lady, but I was asking if you might be interested in–”
“I know what you’re asking, Benji.” You lift one shoulder in a casual shrug. “And after you meet with the princess, if you still wish to inquire about my hand,” you say, placing a palm to your chest, “then I will happily hear you out.”
In the distance, a bell sounds out—signaling the time, you realize.
“If you’ll excuse me,” you start, already taking a few small half-steps backwards. “I’m expected inside.”
Letting his sword drop to the ground, Benji lunges forward to catch your wrist. “So you agree to meet with me after court, then?”
“If you’re still interested,” you muse, a tinge of anxiety laced through your tone, “then yes.”
The corners of his lips twitch into a bashful smile. “I give you my word that–”
You planned to interrupt him. To tell him not to make oaths he wasn’t certain he could keep, knowing that he may very well change his mind about you once he realizes who you are—that you’re not technically a Strong. But, before you can, another voice intervenes.
“Princess!” Ser Lorent calls out, exasperated, as he walks through the gate. “We must hurry, princess,” he continues, pausing only to give a wary glance at Benji’s hands wrapped around your wrist. “We’re late.”
Your pulse begins to pound, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins at being exposed as a liar by Ser Lorent.
Benji’s face goes blank—then his eyes go wide, big as saucers as you snag your wrist from his grip.
“Princess...” He utters, voice laden with disbelief. “Princess?!”
You can hardly bring yourself to do anything other than grin stupidly at him, nearly stumbling over yourself as you back-up to where Ser Lorent is waiting impatiently.
“It was lovely meeting you, Benji!”
You hope he can hear just how genuine your words are.
“I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” you call out over your shoulder, sparing him one last glance as Ser Lorent guides you to the gate, watching as he blinks in astonishment, still processing the revelation.
Walking back towards the inner-castle, Ser Lorent glances down at you with a knowing look. “You seem giddy.” There’s a teasing glint to his words that makes you roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “So,” he continues, his brisk pace never faltering, “does this mean that your statement from lunch no longer stands? That, perhaps, this sweltering purgatory may yet grow on you?”
You bite your cheek, a permanent grin still etched onto your face.
“Let’s just say that I’ve decided it’s best to keep my options open, Ser Lorent.”
a/n - you may ask yourself: lainie, why would you refer to him as mostly BEN in the last fic and BENJI in this one??
and the answer? I have not ONE clue. my brain is rotting and benji is cute.
anyways, hope you guys enjoy this one! feel like I got to explore more of his personality here. additionally, I need HBO to know that if this boy ends up not being benjicot blackwood then I'm gonna fucking riot
benjicot blackwood tag list - @a-song-for-ages @ghostinvenus
summary: in the harsh, frostbitten lands of the north, you, the fierce valyrian-blooded wife of cregan stark, find your world unraveling with the return of arra norrey. pregnant with your first child, your strength is tested as arra’s presence stirs doubt and jealousy, threatening your place as lady of winterfell.
author notes: hi! in this one-shot, i picture the reader as having valyrian blood running through their veins, but without the signature silver hair or purple/blue eyes like the targaryens. however, they do speak high valyrian and ride dragons just like them. of course, this is an imagine, so feel free to picture the reader with any appearance you like. as always, enjoy and happy reading!
“do you think the babe will have your eyes?”
cregan’s voice rumbled low, a rare softness threading through it as he rested a hand on the swell of your belly. the fire crackled in the hearth, his calloused fingers traced absent circles over your gown, and for a moment, the world felt warm, safe.
you tilted your head to meet his gaze, your dark hair spilling over your shoulder like ink against the pale furs.
“i hope they have yours,”
you murmured, a faint smile tugging at your lips.
“grey like the north, steady and strong.”
he chuckled, a sound that vibrated through you, grounding you.
“strong, aye. but they’ll have your fire, i reckon. that valyrian blood of yours, it burns brighter than any hearth.”
you wanted to hold onto that moment, to bottle it and keep it close. your hand found his, pressing it tighter against your stomach, where the babe stirred faintly.
“a wolf with dragon’s blood,”
you said, your voice teasing but laced with pride.
“the north won’t know what to make of them.”
“nor will i,”
he admitted, his grey eyes softening as they held yours.
“but i’ll love them all the same. as i love you.”
the words wrapped around you like a cloak, and you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. his heartbeat was steady, a drumbeat against the howling wind outside.
but the peace shattered when the doors creaked open, a servant stepping in with a hesitant bow.
“my lord, my lady… arra norrey has arrived. she’s in the great hall.”
the name hit you like a gust of winter wind, sharp and unyielding. cregan’s hand stilled on your stomach, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. you watched him, searching his face for a crack in the mask he wore so well.
“arra?”
you asked, keeping your tone even despite the sudden knot in your chest.
“i thought she’d settled in the mountains.”
“so did i,” he said, rising to his feet.
his voice was clipped, not cold, but distant like he was already halfway out the door.
“i’ll see what she wants. rest, love. i won’t be long.”
he pressed a kiss to your forehead, firm and fleeting, before he left. and as the door shut behind him, you felt it, the first splinter in the foundation you’d built together.
arra norrey was no stranger to winterfell.
she was a ghost from cregan’s past, a woman of the north with wild auburn hair and a sharper tongue. she’d been his companion in youth, a friend, a whisper of something more before you’d swept into his life like a storm from the south. the youngest daughter of a valyrian line, your black hair and fierce spirit had captivated him, binding him to you in a way that felt unbreakable. or so you’d thought.
you didn’t mind her shadow at first. you were secure in your place, in the way cregan looked at you, in the child growing inside you. but when she swept into the great hall that day, her presence was a tempest you hadn’t braced for. she was all sharp edges and familiarity, her voice cutting through the air as she greeted cregan with a smile that lingered too long.
“it’s been years, cregan,”
she said, her tone warm, almost possessive.
“the north hasn’t changed, but you… you’ve grown into it.”
you stood at the edge of the hall, unnoticed at first, watching as he returned her smile, not the one he gave you, but something softer, older.
“you’ve not changed either, arra,”
he replied, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes you couldn’t name.
nostalgia?
affection? it clawed at you, that uncertainty.
she barely glanced your way, her focus locked on him. and as the days bled into weeks, it only grew worse. she found reasons to be near him, of bringing tales of the mountains, offering to scout with him, brushing his arm as she laughed at some shared memory from a time before you. you told yourself it was nothing. you were his wife, carrying his heir. but every touch, every glance she stole, chipped away at the steel you’d forged around your heart.
one afternoon, you watched from a window as they stood in the courtyard, her hand resting on his arm as she spoke animatedly. he didn’t pull away. he laughed, a sound that once belonged to you alone and the sight twisted something deep inside you. your hand pressed against your belly, where the babe kicked harder, as if sensing your turmoil.
“i don’t know what to do, sara,”
you confessed one evening, your voice trembling as you sat with sara snow in the quiet of the godswood, the air was bitter. sara, with her dark eyes and gentle demeanor, had become an unexpected anchor in the storm. she carried no judgment, only understanding.
she tilted her head, studying you.
“you’re his lady, his wife. she’s a memory, nothing more. why let her haunt you?”
you pressed a hand to your belly, feeling the faint kick of the life within.
“because he doesn’t see it, the way she looks at him, the way she tries to pull him back to what they had. and i… i feel like i’m fading. like i’m not enough.”
sara’s hand found yours, her grip firm.
“you’re more than enough. you’re valyrian steel in flesh, stronger than she’ll ever be. but you’ve got to tell him, not me. he’s a man, thick as they come sometimes. he won’t know unless you make him see.”
“i’ve tried,”
you whispered, your voice breaking.
“but every time i look at him, i see her shadow behind him. i see the way he softens when she speaks, and i wonder… did he settle for me? did he choose me because i was here, because i was convenient?”
sara frowned, shaking her head.
“you think cregan stark, lord of winterfell, would marry a woman out of convenience? he chose you because you’re a force, a flame in this frozen hell. arra’s a spark that’s long gone out. don’t let her make you doubt that.”
you wanted to believe her, but the doubt had taken root, spreading like frost over glass. that night, when cregan slipped into your chambers, his hands cold from the yard, you couldn’t meet his eyes. he sensed it, kneeling before you as you sat by the fire, your hands folded over your swollen belly.
“what’s wrong, love?”
his voice was gentle, but it broke something in you.
“arra,”
you said, the name tasting like ash.
“she’s everywhere, cregan. every time i turn, she’s there, pulling you away. and you let her.”
his brows furrowed, confusion etching his face.
“she’s an old friend. she means nothing—”
“don’t,”
you snapped, your voice rising despite the tears burning your eyes.
“don’t tell me it’s nothing when i see the way she looks at you, the way you smile at her. i’m your wife, cregan, carrying your child, and i feel like i’m losing you.”
the silence that followed was suffocating. he reached for you, but you pulled away, the ache in your chest too raw.
“i thought i was your fire,”
you whispered, your voice cracking.
“but maybe i’m just the shadow she’s casting.”
he stood then, his expression hardening not with anger, but with something deeper, something pained.
“you think i’d choose her over you? over our family?”
his voice was low, strained, each word deliberate.
“i’ve been a fool not to see it, how it’s hurt you. but you’re wrong, my love. you’re everything.”
you wanted to believe him, but the wound was too fresh, too deep.
“then why does it feel like i’m fighting for you?”
the words slipped out, fragile and broken.
“why does it feel like i’m begging for a place that should already be mine?”
he didn’t answer right away. instead, he turned and left the room, the door closing with a soft thud that echoed in your bones. you sank into the chair, tears streaming down your face as the fire dwindled to embers. the babe kicked again, harder this time, and you pressed your hands to your stomach, whispering apologies to the life you carried, for the fear, for the doubt, for the cracks in the love you’d thought unbreakable.
the next morning, arra was gone.
you heard it from the servants first, she’d been sent back to the mountains, her horse saddled before dawn. the news came like a cold wind and unexpected, and you stood in the courtyard, watching the empty space where she’d last been. the snow crunched under your boots, your breath clouding in the frigid air.
when cregan found you, he looked weary, his eyes shadowed with something you hadn’t seen before, regret, perhaps, or resolve. he stopped a few paces away, his cloak dusted with snow.
“she’s gone,” he said simply, his voice rough.
“i told her to leave. for you.”
you stared at him, your heart pounding.
“why?”
“because i saw it, how she looked at me, how it tore at you. i’d never dishonor you, never let anyone come between us. arra… she was a piece of my past, a friend i thought i could keep at arm’s length. but i was wrong.”
he stepped closer, his hands reaching for yours, and this time you didn’t pull away.
“i should’ve sent her off the moment she arrived. i was blind, and i’m sorry.”
tears spilled down your cheeks, hot against the cold.
“i thought… i thought you regretted me,”
you admitted, your voice trembling.
“that i wasn’t enough. that she was the one you wanted, deep down.”
he cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears, his touch warm despite the chill.
“regret you? gods, no. you’re the fire in my blood, the steel in my spine. i’d burn the north to ashes before i let you doubt that. arra was a memory, a ghost i didn’t bury well enough. but you… you’re my life, my heart, the mother of my child.”
you broke then, a sob escaping as you fell into his arms. he held you tight, his warmth seeping into you, thawing the ice that had settled in your chest.
“i love you,”
he murmured against your hair, fierce and unwavering.
“only you. always you.”
you clung to him, the weight of your fears lifting, replaced by the steady beat of his heart against yours. the babe kicked between you, a reminder of the life you’d built, the love that held despite the cracks. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face as snowflakes caught in your dark hair.
“i’d fight the world for you,”
he said, his voice low but steady.
“every inch of it. you’re my lady, my wife, my flame. no one else.”
you reached up, your fingers curling into his cloak, pulling him down until his lips met yours. the kiss was desperate at first, all the pent-up fear and longing spilling out, but it softened into something tender, something sure. the cold faded, the shadows retreated, and all that remained was the heat of him, the strength of you, and the promise of what lay ahead.
as the snow fell silent around you, you rested your forehead against his, your breath mingling in the frozen air.
“i believe you,”
you whispered, and it felt like a release, a weight you hadn’t known you carried.
“i love you too.”
he smiled then, the one he saved for you alone, soft, unguarded, and full of the north’s quiet strength.
“good,”
he said, his hand slipping to your belly.
“because this little one needs us both.”
and in that moment, with the wind howling and the world vast and wild around you, you knew no shadow could dim the fire you shared.
a thought: as a reward for his loyalty after the war, Queen Rhaenyra allows Roderick Dustin to pick a wife from the ladies in her court.
You, as the eldest daughter of a lord, are of course called to the feast to meet the men who are taking home a bride, the Queen's Bridal Ball, quite certain that you are going to hate every second of it and determined not to be picked. Being pranced around like a prize for the entertainment of arrogant lords and knights!
But certainly, you obey the queen's (and your lord father's) command, dressed in your loveliest gray gown, silvery-gray silk hanging off of your shoulders and diamonds glittering from your neck and ears. You do look lovely...and as you are pretty, so you are clever, able to avoid every man's pathetic attempt at conversation, invitation to dance, and flirtation, a rabbit scampering away from the trappings of wolves and wild things, looking for your first chance of escape. You finally took it when some lordling attempted to drag you onto the dance floor (and groping you as he did so), wriggling out of his grip and taking off into the gardens.
A cold burst of wind kissed your skin.
Somewhere behind you, a thunderclap of laughter echoed.
But you did not look back as you ran into the darkness of the gardens, laughing yourself as the cold air filled your lungs. You could breathe again! Here, in the dark and the quiet, you could almost imagine the lands of your true home, not quite the North but close enough to it to have but a touch of wild and frost. Your mother and sisters hated it but you adored it. Not the castles nor the town, but the wilderness that surrounded it...the trees dancing in the dark, the kiss of the wind...the snow!
It was snowing...
Looking up into the night sky, your spun slowly with your arms outstretched, laughing still as snowflakes tangled in your hair and melted upon your lips.
"You've outmatched them all, haven't you?" a deep voice suddenly spoke.
Turning, you were not sure who you'd expected to see. But you were certainly surprised that it was Lord Roderick Dustin, the old gray wolf grinning at you softly.
"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean, my lord."
"Aye, you do, don't play your games of intrigue and coyness with me, woman. I'm not as green as that lot. They simply don't know how to handle wild things, perhaps they fear you'll bite."
"Perhaps I would."
He laughed and you heard it again, the thunder. It made something in you shiver...not from the cold nor from fear, but from something else. Something you had not felt before, stirring inside of you, drawing closer to the man.
"What's the North like?"
"Cold. Harsh. Beautiful. There's nothing else like it and no place I'd rather be."
"Why stay? Why not go home now?"
"Because I want to take something warm home with me."
His eyes were alight and pretty, so pretty, you had never noticed that before...and suddenly you were far too close to him, a tough hand upon your waist as you looked up at him.
"Why are you out here, wild woman?"
"I grew sick of the games. Those men merely annoy me. And you are correct, Lord Dustin, they do not know how to handle me. It would be an ill-fated match."
"Aye, true enough," he grinned. "You need something that runs with the wild. Not something to cage it."
His hand had taken yours, rough and warm, and you did not pull away.
"Shall we, my lady?"
For the first time all night, you danced. As the snow swirled in the darkness, you hardly felt the cold at all, Lord Roderick drawing you closer into his warmth. You would remain together in the gardens for a long, long time, only returning to the ball when it was nearly over, and not a soul had noticed either of you missing at all.
You were not surprised as Lord Roderick lead you to the queen's table, declaring that h had found his lady, if she would have him.
"i shall," still holding his rough hand and looking up at those lovely eyes.
He was right, wasn't he?
You belonged where the wild things were, so that you might laugh and run and love it all...and you would. Something, that strange stirring within you, told you that this would not be an ill-fated match.
It was simply fate.
Possible bachelors for the other Brides of the Ball:
Luthor Largent 🖤 Addam of Hull 🖤 Hugh Hammer 🖤 Cregan Stark 🖤 Erryk Cargyll (shut up, he survives the war but is wounded and the queen releases him from his vows and offers him a wife and a peaceful life)🖤 (please tell me anyone else you want added to the list)
Summary: You were trained in the Citadel’s methods but were never allowed to become a Maester, because of your gender. Instead, you were recruited directly by the Iron Throne for what you know. However that alone is not enough.
PS: I'll write a part 2 for this!
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen (House of the Dragon) x Female Reader
This is the first time I'm writing for the GOT and HOTD series so if there's any lore related mistakes or suggestions please do point them out to me and I'll fix it for the part 2, enjoy!
Word count: 12,378 // No smut warnings
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON (only for support purposes pls do not feel obligated)
The first thing you learn about King’s Landing is that it does not care what you know.
It cares what you are allowed to be, which banners you were born under, and who thinks they can claim you as a piece on their board. It cares about the cut of your gown, the softness of your hands, the sweetness of your voice. It cares about whether you look like you belong. Knowledge, in this city, is tolerated only when it arrives wearing the right skin. So you arrive with a sealed decree.
Your litter is stopped twice before the Red Keep’s outer yard, not because anyone suspects you of treason, but because the guards need to decide what story you are. A Reach lady traveling alone with a small escort is an object of curiosity, a potential scandal, a problem to be sorted into a proper box. They look for a husband’s sigil, a father’s authority, a brother’s sword. What you bring instead is a strip of parchment bound in ribbon, heavy with wax and the unmistakable three-headed dragon stamped deep enough to leave its teeth in the seal.
The captain who takes it from you does not smile. He is not sure whether to bow. He bows anyway.
You are from House Mullendore, an Oldtown-adjacent house that once held more land than it does now, when its name still carried weight beyond polite laughter and remembered mistakes. Your family’s fall did not come from cowardice. It came from choosing the wrong side at the wrong time, during one of the Reach’s old feuds that the realm never bothered to record properly because powerful houses prefer their embarrassments to vanish. The Citadel remembers everything, of course, but the Citadel does not publish its grudges. It files them away. It waits. It uses them when necessary.
You learned early how a house can be ruined without a single battle. A misjudged marriage. A debt taken at the wrong interest. A neighbor with a longer memory and a sharper smile. Your father taught you courtesy. Your mother taught you silence. The maester assigned to your keep, an old man with ink-stained fingers and a hard, private pity, taught you the only weapon no lord could confiscate from a girl.
He taught you to read like a man in the Citadel would read. To count like a quartermaster. To write like a raven’s wing. To listen like a spy. When you were old enough to be noticed, he took you to Oldtown under the excuse of delivering accounts, and he let you walk the Citadel’s lower halls where novices hurried past clutching their chains and their pride. You were never allowed to become one of them.
Not because you lacked mind, but because you were born in the wrong body for the Citadel’s vows. No matter how cleanly you could translate High Valyrian, no matter how quickly you could solve a rationing problem, no matter how easily you could dismantle a lord’s lie using nothing but arithmetic and patience, you were still something the Citadel preferred to keep outside its gates. So you learned their methods and their limits. You learned which doors never opened. You learned the shape of power when it refuses to call itself power.
Then the Iron Throne sent for you. Not a polite invitation. Not a marriage offer disguised as honor. A summons routed through Oldtown’s network of ravens, through men who pretended not to know why they were carrying messages, through hands that never lingered too long on parchment. You were told, in careful words, that the King required a specialist. Not a regent. Not a consort. Not a sweetly smiling lady meant to soften sharp men at a council table. A mind to be used, because the realm had entered the kind of season where the cost of being wrong was measured in ash.
By the time you are escorted through the Red Keep’s outer yard, you have already made a dozen small assessments that no one asks for. You have counted the guards at the gates and noted how many are veterans versus green boys. You have watched the way servants move, which corridors they avoid, which doors have too many locks. You have observed the stables and the number of horses saddled for immediate use. You have smelled the kitchens and guessed how much grain is being burned through daily. It is not pride that makes you do it. It is habit. Wars are not lost in the moment men draw swords. They are lost in the weeks before, when no one checks the stores, when no one counts the mouths, when no one notices the plague creeping through the docks.
The steward who meets you in the keep is courteous but confused. He calls you “my lady” twice out of reflex. Both times he corrects himself as if the words burn.
“You are expected,” he says finally, as though that is safer than naming what you are. You do not smile. You do not frown. You simply nod, as if you have always been expected by kings.
The corridor toward the council chambers is cool and dim, built to impress the small into silence. Tapestries hang heavy with old victories and older lies. You pass knights in white cloaks that do not quite move aside, their eyes measuring you with the contempt reserved for women who have stepped into men’s lanes. You meet their gaze without apology. You have no interest in winning their approval. Approval is a shallow currency. You deal in outcomes. The doors to the council chamber are opened for you with a particular ceremony, not because they honor you, but because they honor the seal you carry.
Inside, the air holds tension like a blade held too close to the skin. The table is long, scarred, polished by generations of hands that believed they belonged there by right. Candles burn in iron holders, smoke curling upward in slow ribbons. Maps cover part of the surface, weighted by carved stones. Ravens’ messages lie stacked near an inkwell. Someone has been awake all night in this room. You do not look around like a newcomer. You look around like an appraiser.
There is the Queen Dowager’s presence, unmistakable even when she says nothing, the air around her tight with devotion and calculation. There is the Hand’s measured stillness, the posture of a man who believes order can be imposed on chaos if he holds the reins hard enough. There are knights and lords and counselors who do not entirely trust one another, their loyalties written in the angles of their shoulders.
And there, too, is Prince Aemond Targaryen. He is seated with the stillness of a coiled thing, long-limbed, controlled, dressed as if austerity itself were a virtue. One eye watches the room with sharp, bright attention. The other is covered, and the absence draws focus the way a wound does. He does not slouch. He does not fidget. He looks like a man who has decided that power is a posture you never relax.
His gaze lands on you as you enter, and you feel it like a hand at the throat, not because he is loud with it, but because he is precise. His eye flicks briefly to the seal you carry, then to your face, then back again, as if he is calculating the threat you might be before he decides what category you belong in.
You step forward and stop at the end of the table, because no one has offered you a chair yet. The Hand gestures, and a clerk moves to take the parchment from you, but you do not release it until the Hand himself looks up. There are many ways to show deference. You choose the one that keeps you intact.
“I bring the King’s decree,” you say, voice calm, unembellished. You do not add a flourish. You do not soften it with a smile. “Sealed and undisturbed.”
The Hand studies you for a long moment, then nods. “Give it here.”
You hand it over. The wax seal breaks with a quiet snap that sounds louder than it should. The clerk reads, voice clear, and the words turn the room as surely as a wind turns banners. By order of the King, you are appointed to the war council as Royal Military Scholar and Intelligence Architect, granted access to reports, ledgers, raven correspondence, and strategic planning. Your role is defined with careful specificity. You are not granted power to command armies. You are not named to speak over lords in matters of honor. You are named to advise on logistics, intelligence, alliances, and war readiness, and your counsel is to be heard.
There is a beat of silence when the reading ends. Not thoughtful silence. The kind that happens when men realize the board has changed shape.
A few faces turn toward you with polite disbelief. Some with irritation. Some with the careful curiosity of predators evaluating a new animal. One man’s lip curls as if the title itself offends him. Another shifts, calculating whether you are a tool to use or a nuisance to remove.
Aemond does not move. His eye stays on you. His expression gives nothing away except this: he is not pleased to be surprised. The Hand clears his throat. “The King has decided,” he says, tone that brooks no argument. “You will sit.”
A servant pulls out a chair. Not at the end. Not in the back. Along the table, close enough that your presence cannot be ignored but not so close to the Hand that it suggests intimacy. The placement is political. Everything in this room is political.
You sit with composure that makes several men uncomfortable, because they had expected gratitude or nerves. You settle your hands neatly. You do not fidget. You do not glance around for permission to breathe. The Queen Dowager watches you with a careful, assessing gaze. “A scholar,” she says softly, not quite a question.
“A military scholar,” you correct gently, not impolite, simply accurate. “And an intelligence architect, as the King has named it.”
That earns you a few looks, because correction in this room is a kind of challenge. The Hand’s eyes narrow slightly, then he nods once, as if deciding he likes your spine even if others will not. “Oldtown trained?”
“Citadel instructed,” you say. “Not chained.”
A small stir moves through the room at that, the subtle discomfort of men who do not like being reminded that the Citadel’s authority is also exclusion. You keep your gaze steady. You have no interest in arguing about fairness. You are here because the realm is breaking into factions and men are sharpening speeches while the supply lines rot. Aemond finally speaks. His voice is calm, and that calm is the most dangerous thing about him. “If you were not allowed a chain, why should we trust your methods.”
You do not react to the implied insult. You do not bristle. You do not play pride against pride, because that is how plans fail. You look at him as if he has asked a reasonable question and you are willing to answer it.
“Because a chain proves obedience,” you say quietly. “Not correctness.”
There is a ripple of tension at the table. A lord shifts, offended. Someone inhales sharply. The Hand’s mouth tightens, as if he is suppressing a smile.
Aemond’s eye hardens. He tilts his head slightly, the gesture of a man testing for arrogance. “And you believe yourself correct.”
You meet his gaze evenly. “I believe in probabilities,” you reply. “And in consequences.”
His jaw flexes. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t smile. He simply watches you as if you are an unfamiliar weapon he hasn’t decided whether to admire or break. The Hand speaks again, guiding the room back toward purpose. Reports are mentioned. Movements. Alliances that might be courted. Ships that can be called. Men that can be raised. You listen more than you speak at first, because listening is how you learn where the rot is. You note who interrupts whom, who defers to whom, where the fear sits.
When talk turns to dragons, the room’s temperature changes. Some men become reverent. Others become reckless. Dragons make cowards feel brave and fools feel invincible. Someone speaks of fire as if it is a solution to any problem. Someone else speaks of burning an enemy’s fields as if famine is a punishment that only touches the guilty. You keep your face composed. When your turn comes, you do not romanticize.
“Dragons win battles,” you say, voice level, “and lose wars, if you do not feed the land afterward.” A few blink at you like you’ve spoken blasphemy. Aemond’s gaze sharpens, interest cutting through his irritation.
“Fire can end an army in a day,” you continue, “but it can also end harvests for years. If you burn what the smallfolk eat, you will spend the next season fighting hunger and rebellion instead of your enemy. If you scorch ports, you will starve your own garrisons. If you make widows, you will breed hatred that no victory feast can drown.”
Silence follows your words. Not because they agree. Because they cannot dismiss you with a joke. Aemond leans back slightly, the smallest shift, and the movement reads like restraint. He does not like being told what power costs. He is the kind of man who believes fear is a tool you can wield without it ever cutting your hand.
“You speak as though you have seen war,” he says.
“I have seen ledgers,” you reply. “And graves.”
That lands differently. Even men who despise you understand graves.
The Hand’s voice resumes, measured. “You will have access to the war reports. The ravenry will bring you copies. You will coordinate with the master of coin regarding stores and transport. You will review the garrison readiness.”
A lord opens his mouth as if to object, then thinks better of it.
Aemond says nothing more. But his eye does not leave you when the meeting moves on. It is not a gaze of admiration. Not yet. It is the gaze of a man who cannot decide whether you are arrogance wrapped in calm, or simply correct, which is the more dangerous possibility. When the council finally disperses, chairs scraping, cloaks shifting, men filing out with their pride intact and their plans half-formed, you remain seated a moment longer, collecting your own thoughts. You feel the weight of the room lingering, the invisible lines of allegiance and resentment drawn around you like a net.
You have been placed at the council table because the King ordered it. That is the only reason anyone will tolerate you here. As you stand, smoothing your sleeves, you catch movement at the edge of your vision. Aemond remains behind. Not alone in the room exactly, there are servants and guards and scribes, but he stays when he could leave. His posture is controlled. His expression unreadable.
He steps closer, just enough that his shadow falls partially across the maps. He speaks in a voice meant for you alone.
“You mean to dismantle men in this room?” he says quietly, not quite a threat, not quite approval.
You look at him, steady. “I don’t mean to dismantle anyone,” you reply. “I dismantle assumptions.” His mouth tightens as if he dislikes the distinction because it makes him sound like one of your assumptions.
“And if my assumptions are the ones you dismantle,” he says.
You meet his gaze without flinching. “Then you will be spared the cost of being wrong.”
For a beat, nothing moves between you except air. The tension is not romantic yet. Not soft. It is the first strike of flint, the recognition of two different kinds of power seeing one another clearly. Aemond’s eye narrows slightly, and you can’t tell whether he wants to silence you or bring you closer to his plans. Perhaps he can’t tell either. He turns away without a bow, cloak whispering behind him as he leaves, and you watch him go with the same cool attention you give every dangerous asset. You came to court with a royal decree and a mind trained to count what others refuse to see. Now you must survive long enough to use it.
The days that follow settle into a pattern that is not comfortable, but familiar. You are watched. Constantly as a matter of fact.
Not openly, not with the theatrical suspicion men reserve for enemies they believe they can crush, but with the quiet scrutiny reserved for things that do not belong and yet refuse to leave. You feel it in the pauses before answers are given when you speak at council. In the way eyes slide to you and away again, as if acknowledging you too directly might grant you legitimacy. In the careful politeness that coats every interaction like varnish, glossy and thin.
No one challenges your place outright. They cannot. The King’s decree sits like an unsheathed blade over the table, and you have made it difficult for anyone to argue against your presence without exposing their own incompetence. You come prepared. Your reports are concise. Your numbers are accurate. Your recommendations are framed not as opinions, but as inevitabilities. You do not argue. You explain. You do not raise your voice. You wait, and when silence stretches long enough that someone must respond, they find themselves responding to you.
You are polite enough to be tolerated. Lady-like enough to avoid insult. Sharp enough that those who resent you choose silence over humiliation. You know that silence is not approval. You are keenly aware of the assumptions coiling around you. You can almost hear the unspoken logic: a woman denied the Citadel’s chain, educated but barred, surely sympathetic to Rhaenyra’s cause. Surely aligned, if not openly, then in her heart. Surely a liability. You do nothing to confirm it. You do nothing to deny it either. You keep your cards close to your chest. You wait. (A/N: Hamilton referance for my musical nerds, such as myself.)
Instead, you thread yourself through the court like a needle through cloth, careful not to tear what you are sewing together. You do not speak in favor of Blacks or Greens. You do not comment on legitimacy, inheritance, or right. You talk about roads, grain, ships, ravens, weather, timing. You speak of what armies require to move, what people require to endure, what wars consume when men are too busy counting victories to count bodies.
You understand elimination. You have studied it in histories written by men who never thought it would apply to them. The quickest way to be removed from a council is to be predictable. The second quickest is to be useful to only one side. So you become useful to the realm.
You attend councils and say little until necessary. When tempers rise, you do not calm them. You wait for them to burn themselves down, then quietly note the cost. You have learned that men rarely listen while they are speaking. They listen only when they have exhausted themselves. Outside the council chamber, you learn faster.
The Red Keep is not ruled by those who sit at the long table alone. It is ruled by servants who hear everything and are trained to repeat nothing unless asked correctly. You ask correctly. You do not bribe. You do not threaten. You listen, you remember names, you notice which hands shake when silver is counted, which guards linger too long by certain doors, which kitchens waste more food than they should. You learn where fear lives. You learn where loyalty leaks.
You walk the keep at measured hours, never too early, never too late, letting yourself be seen just enough to become familiar rather than suspicious. You exchange quiet words with septas and scribes. You thank stablehands by name. You do not pretend to be above anyone, because you know power does not flow downward. It circulates.
Bit by bit, you edge closer to Queen Helaena. Not directly. Never directly. Gods forbid.
You begin by standing where she passes. By speaking to her ladies instead of to her. By listening when she murmurs strange things under her breath that others dismiss as harmless confusion. You do not dismiss them. You catalogue them. You notice how often her odd remarks align with coming events, not clearly, not cleanly, but often enough to matter. You speak to her gently when you do speak, not condescending, not reverent, simply present. You do not ask her to explain herself. You thank her when she speaks. In time, she begins to look for you.
Not every day. Not always. But sometimes, when you are near, her eyes flick toward you as if checking that you are still there, still listening. When she speaks of threads and webs and things breaking, you do not correct her. You say, “I will remember,” and mean it. With the Queen Dowager, the approach is different.
Alicent Hightower is not a woman who rewards openness. She rewards usefulness wrapped in restraint. You never contradict her in public. You never flatter her in private. You frame your observations as concerns for stability, for legacy, for order. You speak of how smallfolk remember who protected them when winter came, how lords remember who preserved their power quietly rather than loudly. You do not challenge her faith. You acknowledge it. You show her that you are not reckless, not romantic, not driven by grievance.
She watches you the way she watches everything: carefully, with a tension that never fully relaxes. You sense her testing you, setting small traps in conversation, watching to see which way you lean. You do not lean. You remain upright. Over time, she begins to speak more freely in your presence, not confiding, but no longer guarding every word. That is as close to trust as Alicent ever allows.
Aemond Targaryen, on the other hand, does not soften. If anything, he hardens. He does not address you unless forced. He does not seek your counsel. When you speak, he listens with the bare minimum of courtesy required by law and station, his expression closed, his posture radiating a restrained hostility that has nothing to do with your arguments and everything to do with what you represent. A woman. An appointment he did not choose. A voice in a room he believes should be governed by dominance rather than deliberation.
He does not like that you are effective. He likes even less that others are beginning to rely on you.
You notice the way his jaw tightens when your assessments are acknowledged by the Hand. You notice how his eye flicks toward you when a lord’s aggressive plan collapses under the weight of your quiet questions. You notice how often he goes still rather than interrupt you, as if any reaction might grant you satisfaction. You do not seek his attention. You do not avoid it either.
When you dismantle a plan of his, you do so without addressing him directly. You speak to the room. You speak of supply lines stretched too thin, of scorched land breeding rebellion, of dragonfire solving one problem while birthing three more. You do not question his courage. You question his costs.
He cannot accuse you of cowardice. He cannot accuse you of ignorance. And because you never frame your opposition as personal, he cannot challenge you without seeming rash. So he endures you. Privately, he is furious.
You see it in the way he grips the table. In the way he exhales through his nose when you finish speaking. In the way he never looks at you directly unless forced to, because when he does, there is something in his gaze that is too sharp to be simple contempt. You understand him more quickly than he realizes.
Aemond believes power is dominance because dominance has always been the language spoken to him. He has learned to survive by sharpening himself, by making himself dangerous enough that no one dares look down on him again. He does not trust restraint. He does not believe patience wins wars. He has not studied the slow deaths that follow victories.
You have. So you sit at the table, unwanted but undeniable, threading your influence where it will hold. You do not rush. You do not provoke. You let the court acclimate to your presence the way one acclimates to a new weight, resenting it at first, then adjusting, then relying on it without admitting that reliance aloud.
Aemond watches this happen with a kind of silent disbelief. You are beneath his rank. A woman. A scholar without a chain. And yet you remain, day after day, eroding the certainty of the room not with force, but with foresight. He tells himself he does not care. The lie settles poorly.
Because when plans are drawn now, he finds himself calculating not only how to win, but how you will dismantle him if he is careless. When silence falls after a heated exchange, his attention flicks, unbidden, to see whether you are watching, whether you are already three steps ahead. He does not yet bring plans to you privately.
The longer you sit at the council table, the more the room learns what to do with you. Not acceptance, never that, but adaptation. Men who once pretended not to hear you begin to angle their bodies toward you when you speak. Lords who used to scoff at numbers now ask, begrudgingly, for your ledgers. Scribes begin leaving copies of raven reports at your place without being told. Even the guards at the chamber doors stop hesitating before they step aside. You become, in the way that matters most at court, inevitable.
The irony is that you do not grow louder to achieve it. You grow quieter.
You offer less opinion and more structure. When disagreements rise, you do not try to end them. You simply pin them to the table with consequences. Your mind does not chase glory, it chases failure points. Wars, you have learned, are ruined by what people refuse to count. So you count. You count grain and horses and oarsmen, you count days and distances, you count the number of mouths a city can feed before it turns on itself. You count the cost of burned fields in the Reach and the cost of a rumor in the Riverlands. You count the political debt of each decision, because debts are paid whether men acknowledge them or not.
It becomes obvious, to anyone who is not blinded by pride, that the council needs you. Ser Criston Cole especially does.
The Lord Hand is a man made for clean gestures and swift violence, for closing distance with steel. He is not made for supply chains. He is not made for the slow work of keeping men alive after they have been marched somewhere. In the beginning, he treated your presence as an insult the King had issued against him, another way the court had been rearranged without his consent. He tested you in small ways. He asked questions as if he expected you to stumble. He assigned tasks that were meant to bury you. But you did not stumble and you did not drown. You returned with answers that were too exact to be dismissed. You did the work without complaint and without softness, and then you asked him, calmly, why his garrisons were eating through stores at a rate that would leave them starving in a fortnight. He did not like that question. He liked even less that you were correct.
Over time, he begins relying on you the way men rely on a tool they do not respect but cannot afford to lose. He calls for your assessments when ravens arrive from the Crownlands. He asks, tight-lipped, whether the roads can bear wagons through the coming rains. He listens when you point out that a victory gained in three days can be lost in thirty if the men who won it come home to empty granaries. He still calls you “lady” sometimes, as if your title offends him, but he does not attempt to remove you. He cannot. The King’s decree remains, and your usefulness has become too publicly entangled with the council’s functioning to cut you away cleanly.
Aemond Targaryen does not adapt. He remains hostile in the manner of a man who believes hostility is strength. His contempt is not shouted. It is curated. He offers it in pauses, in a lack of acknowledgement, in the way he speaks over you when he can and ignores you when he cannot. When he addresses you, it is often as if he is addressing a nuisance in the room rather than a mind at the table. You learn the pattern quickly: he tests you publicly because public tests keep his superiority intact. They are not about truth, they are about hierarchy.
He begins doing it more openly as your influence grows. If you correct a lord’s misunderstanding about river travel times, Aemond asks whether you have ever ridden those rivers yourself. If you note the number of ships the Velaryons can field, he asks whether you are guessing or if you have spoken to anyone who actually commands fleets. If you point out that burning a port destroys tax revenue for years, he asks whether you have ever paid soldiers from an empty treasury. Each question is shaped to remind the room that you are a woman from a small house with an education borrowed from men, seated here by decree rather than blood.
You answer each time the same way. Not defensively. Not pleading. Not angry. You answer like a ledger answers. With reality. It makes him furious in a way he tries to conceal. He cannot tell whether you are arrogant or simply correct, and he hates that he cannot force the distinction. Arrogance can be punished. Correctness must be endured.
The council begins to change anyway. Men start looking to you after he speaks, not because they love you or respect you, but because you have become the measure of whether a plan is survivable. You have made yourself the voice of what happens after the swords are put away. Aemond speaks in dominance, in decisive strikes, in dragonfire, in fear. You speak in the slow violence that follows, the kind that does not sing and does not look heroic in songs.
One morning, the ravens arrive carrying news that makes the room tighten.
Dragonstone.
Not a dramatic announcement, not a proclamation of victory, but a set of reports layered together like thin sheets of ice. Rhaenyra’s court consolidating. Names whispered across the Narrow Sea. Discontent in the Crownlands, the kind that spreads when lords fear picking the losing side. Fishing boats disappearing along the bay and rumors of Velaryon sails moving like shadows. The possibility, spoken carefully, that Rhaenyra means to tighten her hold on the Gullet, strangle the capital’s trade, and force King’s Landing into hunger without ever needing to march an army to its walls. The room leans forward. Ser Criston’s hand tightens around the table edge. The Master of Coin speaks too quickly about stores and prices. Alicent’s face remains composed, but her fingers move once, tightening around her ring.
Aemond is still as stone, and then he speaks as if he has been waiting for the chance. “We take Dragonstone,” he says.
The words land like a blade on wood. Direct. Clean. Everyone’s eyes flick to him, because he is the Prince with the largest dragon, because he has the kind of certainty men mistake for inevitability.
“We cut the head from the snake,” Aemond continues, voice cool. “Rhaenyra is not a queen without Dragonstone. She is not a threat without her seat and her court. We strike first, before she gathers more lords and more ships. We fly. We burn their defenses. We end it.”
He speaks of dragonfire the way some men speak of weather, as if it is a force that can be directed without consequence. Ser Criston nods immediately, hungry for a decisive action. A few lords murmur agreement, relief visible on their faces at the idea of a clean solution. Even the air in the chamber seems to lift with the promise of something simple.
You let him finish. Then you interrupt. Not rudely. Not theatrically. Not with a challenge. You do it the way a maester interrupts a lord’s fantasy with a fever chart.
“If you fly to Dragonstone with Vhagar,” you say, voice level, “you will not be meeting an undefended castle.” The room stills in that peculiar way it does when your voice enters, because your voice has become the cold water thrown on warm ideas.
Aemond’s eye cuts to you, sharp as a drawn dagger. You continue without reacting to it. “Dragonstone sits on rock and sea. Its garrison is smaller than King’s Landing’s, but it is entrenched, familiar with the terrain, and loyal by proximity. More importantly, it is protected by dragons.”
Aemond’s jaw tightens. “You think I fear dragons.”
“I think you are counting only the ones you can see,” you reply, quiet and devastating. “And I think you are forgetting that dragons do not die like men, and they do not kill like men. If Vhagar engages another dragon over Dragonstone, there will be losses even if you win.”
Someone shifts uncomfortably. The unspoken truth is heavy: dragons killing dragons is not the same as burning soldiers. It is a different kind of catastrophe.
You slide a parchment forward, already prepared, as if you had known this plan would be proposed the moment Dragonstone was mentioned. Your numbers are neat. Your handwriting clear. There is nothing emotional in it. Only calculation.
“Casualty projections,” you say, and the words alone make half the table bristle. Men dislike the idea that their deaths can be anticipated. “If we commit a direct strike, we lose the element of uncertainty. Dragonstone will call its dragons to the sky. Even if you kill one, even if you kill two, the capital will have to explain why the realm has fewer dragons afterward.”
Aemond’s eye narrows. “Explain.”
You look at him as if the question is strange. “To the lords who are still undecided. To the smallfolk who whisper that dragons are gods. To the Faith, which has never loved dragons but fears them as much as it resents them. A battle in the sky over Dragonstone will be seen from ships and shore. It will become a story the realm repeats. If Vhagar returns wounded, or does not return at all, the story becomes a rallying cry for your enemy.”
Aemond leans forward slightly, controlled anger tightening his posture. “So we do nothing.”
“I did not say do nothing,” you reply. “I said this plan costs more than you are admitting.”
He turns his head a fraction toward Ser Criston, as if appealing to the room’s appetite for dominance. “We can end her. Now.”
You do not raise your voice. You do not become defensive. You do not match his heat.
You dismantle the plan by continuing to speak in facts.
“If you fly to Dragonstone and burn it,” you say, “you may kill Rhaenyra. You may also kill her sons, her supporters, and anyone inside the castle walls, including hostages we have not yet identified. That means you remove any possibility of negotiated surrender from the board. You replace a war with a blood-feud.”
You glance briefly at the map, then back to the table, not to him. “If Dragonstone is burned, the Velaryons will not be cowed. They will be unleashed. Their fleets will harden their blockade. The Gullet will close. King’s Landing will feel hunger within weeks, not months. Bread riots follow hunger. Plague follows riots. The capital cannot eat pride.”
A lord opens his mouth as if to protest. You continue before he can.
“Supply failure,” you say, tapping the parchment. “Our grain stores can support the city for a limited time if trade slows. If trade stops, we become dependent on overland routes through the Crownlands, which are vulnerable to raids. If we send armies to protect those routes, we thin our defenses elsewhere. If we rely on the Reach, we rely on lords who have not yet declared.”
You pause, letting the shape of it settle. In the pause, you feel the shift. Men leaning toward you now without meaning to. Waiting. Aemond feels it too.
His voice sharpens. “You speak as if you know what I should do better than I do.”
“I speak as if you will have to live with what you do,” you answer, still calm. “And I speak as if the realm will too.”
His control snaps at the edges, not in a scream, but in a sudden, biting force.
“You presume much,” he says, and there is contempt in it now, unmasked. “You sit at this table because the King ordered it, not because you have earned the right.”
You do not flinch. You do not defend your worth. You let the insult slide off like rain.
“The King ordered it because he requires results,” you reply. “Not pride.”
A sharp intake of breath is heard from someone near the end of the table. Ser Criston’s gaze flicks between you and Aemond as if he can smell blood.
Aemond’s eye is bright with anger. “You speak of backlash and stories,” he says, voice tight. “As if fear does not win wars.”
“Fear wins battles,” you say. “It does not keep cities fed. It does not keep alliances stable. It does not keep men loyal when winter comes.”
You do not look at him as you say it. You look at the room. That is what makes it unforgivable to him. You are not challenging him like a rival prince. You are correcting him like a flawed calculation.
Ser Criston shifts, uneasy. A lord clears his throat. Another says, cautiously, “What would you propose instead.”
And there it is.
Not what would the Prince propose. Not what should we do. What would you propose.
Aemond hears it like a slap.
You answer because it is asked, not because you want to humiliate him. “We bleed Dragonstone without making martyrs,” you say. “We fracture their support. We isolate their fleet. We quietly turn lords before we force them to choose in public. We strengthen our granaries and our roads. We prepare the capital to endure a blockade before one tightens. We send agents to find the weak points in their court. We make their war expensive without giving them a single glorious moment to rally around.”
Aemond’s gaze burns. “Agents,” he repeats, with disdain. “Whispers.”
You meet his eye then, finally, because the contempt has become pointed enough that the room can feel it. “Wars are not won by one glorious strike,” you say, voice still even. “They are won by the accumulation of small advantages and the avoidance of catastrophic mistakes.”
He looks like he wants to stand. Like he wants to shove the table aside and prove dominance with force because force is the language he trusts. But he cannot. Not here. Not with the room watching. Not with the Hand listening more to your numbers than to his certainty.
He snaps, finally, in the only way he can while keeping his mask.
“You are very confident for someone with no dragon,” he says.
You do not smile. You do not rise to it. “And yet,” you reply softly, “my counsel is not the thing that will burn our stores.”
The silence afterward is thick enough to choke on.
Then, one by one, men begin speaking around Aemond rather than through him. They ask you about roads. About grain. About the likelihood of the Velaryon blockade tightening. They ask what houses might be swayed with marriages, with coin, with promises. They ask, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, for your probabilities.
Aemond sits very still.
He does not speak again for a long while, not because he has nothing to say, but because he can feel the way the room has shifted. He can feel how your calm has become an anchor the council leans on. He can feel, with a clarity that makes his stomach tighten, that you have begun to change the way power moves in this chamber. It is not just that you are present. It is that you are effective.
So when the summons comes without ceremony, you knew it mattered.
The page finds you not in the council chamber, not in some bright corridor where eyes linger and whispers bloom, but in the quieter arteries of the Red Keep where servants move like shadows and the stone remembers every secret pressed into it. He is a boy trying very hard to look like a man delivering royal business. He keeps his gaze fixed somewhere above your shoulder as he speaks, as if looking directly at you would make him complicit in whatever message he carries.
“The prince requests your presence,” he says. Then, as if that alone is insufficient reason in a world of rank and pride, he adds quickly, “He says it is for efficiency.”
Efficiency. The word would be amusing if it were not so sharp. Aemond Targaryen does not summon people for efficiency. He summons them to remind them of what he is. He summons them to test whether they will bend. The excuse is a thin cloth laid over a blade.
You do not ask which prince. There is no need. The keep has its own pulse, and you have learned to feel when something moves against it.
You follow the boy through corridors lit by low torches. The hour is late enough that the castle has begun to exhale, but not so late that it is asleep. In King’s Landing, sleep is a luxury purchased with ignorance. You walk with a steady pace, the hem of your gown brushing stone worn smooth by centuries of conquest and collapse. Your hair is pinned back simply. You carry no jewelry that might clink or announce itself. You are not here to perform. You are here because ignoring a prince, even one who resents you, is an invitation to be made expendable.
The door you are brought to is guarded by two men whose faces you recognize from the training yard. They do not salute. They do not speak. They look at you as if trying to decide whether you are prey or plague.
The boy knocks once, then retreats as if he wants no part of what happens next. A voice from within, low and controlled, grants entry. You step inside.
The room is lit by candles and nothing else. No bright hearth, no roaring fire. Just points of flame trembling in the drafts, their light catching on parchment and ink and the edges of carved map-stones. Shadows lie thick in the corners, turning the ceiling into a vault of darkness. The air smells of wax, leather, and smoke that has nowhere to go. A map of Westeros lies spread across a heavy table, weighted by daggers and stones as if it might try to escape. Another map, smaller and more detailed, shows the Crownlands and the seas around Dragonstone, its lines marked in ink. There are notes in the margin in a handwriting you have learned to recognize as the Hand’s. There are other notes, sharper and more impatient, in a different hand.
Aemond stands on the far side of the table, sleeves rolled back, his posture rigid with intent. His hair falls straight and pale over his shoulders, almost luminous in the candlelight. The patch over his eye looks darker here, a deliberate void. His remaining eye fixes on you the moment you enter, and it is not the gaze he wears at council. There is no court mask in it. No polite restraint. This is the look of a man alone with a problem he cannot crush in public.
He does not offer you a chair. He does not need to. You do not wait for permission. You approach the table, set your hands lightly on its edge, and look down at the map as if this is any other meeting.
“What is it,” you ask, voice quiet.
Aemond’s mouth tightens at the lack of deference. “You made a spectacle of me,” he says. The statement is blunt enough that it would have been shocking from anyone else. From him, it lands like a stone thrown to see if you will flinch.
You do not flinch. You lift your gaze to his face, calm. “I corrected a plan.”
“You undermined me,” he snaps, the word sharpened by the absence of witnesses.
“I prevented a mistake,” you reply, and there is no pride in it, only refusal.
Aemond’s fingers curl against the table edge. He looks like he wants to strike something, and that something keeps being you. “Dragonstone should burn,” he says. “It will burn.”
“You can burn stone until your dragon’s throat aches,” you answer, clinical. “The island does not die. Men do.”
His eye narrows. “Men are expendable in war.”
“Then you do not understand war,” you say, and you say it gently, which is worse. “You understand battle.”
The air between you tightens. Candle flames tremble as if reacting to the pressure. Aemond moves, circling the table with the slow precision of a man deciding how close he can get without making it obvious that he wants to. He stops at the corner near you. It would be polite for him to keep distance. He does not. His shadow falls across the map, swallowing half of the Crownlands in darkness.
“Speak carefully,” he murmurs. You do not step back. You do not shift away from him. You simply look down, point to the inked lines near the Gullet, and continue as if his threat is a weather report.
“The Velaryon fleet,” you say. “If you provoke them into a glorious defense, you give them the one thing they need. Unity. As I stated before their blokage will tighten. Then the capital starves. If you want to punish Rhaenyra, you punish her ability to feed herself, to move men, to court allies. You do not give her a martyr’s sky.”
Aemond’s jaw flexes. “You speak as though you are one of her,” he says, and now the accusation is no longer about plans. It is about loyalty.
You lift your eyes to his. “I speak as though I can count,” you answer.
He leans in, and you feel the heat of him, the closeness of his body in a room too quiet. He is tall, taller than most men, and he uses it often as an unspoken pressure. His presence is physical dominance given shape. In council, it makes lords straighten and fall silent. Here, he expects it to do the same to you. It does not. You remain exactly where you are.
Something in his expression shifts at that. The smallest crack in the assumption that women shrink when a man looms. His eye flicks over your face as if searching for fear and finding none. He does not know what to do with a person who refuses to perform intimidation for him.
“You are bold,” he says, voice low.
“I am accurate,” you reply.
The candlelight catches on the edge of his mouth as it tightens, not quite a smile, not quite anger. He steps closer anyway, until the space between you is narrow enough that you can see the faint pulse at his throat, the tension there. He smells like leather and smoke and something cold, like steel left out in rain.
“You think accuracy protects you,” he says.
“I think accuracy is the only thing that does,” you say softly.
Aemond’s hand lands on the table near yours, not touching you, but close enough that the intention is there. His fingers are long, pale, and still. The control in him is almost frightening, because you can feel the violence beneath it, the rage written into his bones like a second language.
“You forget what you are,” he says, and the cruelty in it is measured. “A woman. A lesser house. A scholar without chains. Your place is borrowed.”
You do not react outwardly. You have lived with men reminding you of what you are since you learned to speak. Their words have never changed the truth of your mind.
“My place is ordered,” you correct. “By royal decree.”
“A decree can be revoked,” Aemond says, and now his voice holds promise. “Your position can be… removed.”
You lift your chin slightly, the smallest refusal. “Then remove it.”
His eye flashes. “Do not tempt me.”
You lean forward a fraction, closing the distance in your own way, not yielding, not aggressive, simply making it clear you are not a creature to be chased. “You misunderstand,” you say. “I am not afraid of losing this.”
The admission hangs between you like smoke. It should not be said. It is too honest. Too dangerous. Aemond stares at you as if the words have offended him in a way he cannot name. “You have everything to lose.”
You shake your head once. “I have already lost what mattered. I was denied a chain. Denied the life I trained for. I was brought here because the Iron Throne needed my mind, not because it respected my existence. If I am removed, I return to obscurity. I have survived worse. You, however, would still have to face the consequences of your own choices.”
Aemond’s lips part slightly. He looks almost startled, not by your words alone, but by the calm way you deliver them. It is not humility he can crush, not bravado he can duel. It is conviction without worship.
His voice sharpens. “Whose side are you on?”
The question is sudden and personal, the kind of thing he would never ask in council where answers become weapons for others. Here, he wants to pin you down. He wants a name, a banner, a faction. He wants to make you predictable so he can destroy you or use you.
You meet his gaze fully, unwavering. “My own.”
His brow furrows as if you have spoken in a foreign tongue. “That is not an answer.”
“It is the only honest one,” you say. “I am not Green. I am not Black. I am not here to protect your family’s pride or your sister’s claim. I am here because the realm will burn if you all treat this like a game of banners and bloodlines.”
Aemond’s nostrils flare. “Careful,” he warns.
You do not lower your voice. You do not soften it. You keep it quiet, which is far more cutting. “I care for the smallfolk,” you continue. “For the ones who will starve when you close the Gullet. For the ones who will burn when dragons fight over their fields. For the ones whose sons will be dragged into armies to die for a succession dispute dressed up as righteousness. They do not get to sit at council. They do not get to speak. But they pay the price of every plan you men make.”
His eye is bright now, anger and something else threaded through it. “You speak as if you pity them.”
“I do not pity them,” you reply. “I respect them.”
Aemond goes very still. In the candlelight, he looks carved from something harder than flesh. His face is controlled, but his eye is alive with conflict. He has been raised on dominance, on hierarchy, on the belief that power is taking what is owed. Your refusal to be afraid of him, your refusal to pick a side, your refusal to romanticize dragons and war, it strikes at something he keeps tightly locked.
He leans in again, closer than necessary, and you feel the air change, feel the tension sharpen into something that is not solely about strategy. It is not romantic, not yet, but it is intimate in the way two people become intimate when they are the only ones in a room telling the truth.
His voice drops. “You speak to me as if I cannot destroy you.”
You look at him steadily. “You could,” you say. “But you will not.”
The certainty in your voice is not arrogance. It is observation. You have watched him enough to know the shape of his violence. Aemond is not Aegon. He does not take without thought. His rage has rules. His cruelty is deliberate, not careless. He wants obedience, not chaos.
Aemond’s eye flickers, like the statement has landed somewhere he did not expect. “And why are you so sure.”
“Because you are not a barbarian,” you say quietly. “You are a man with fury and discipline. A man who wants to be seen as righteous even when you are brutal. You will not force yourself on me. You will not strike me in the dark. You will not do what your brother does. You will threaten. You will loom. You will test. But you will not cross certain lines because you need to believe you are better.”
The air is razor-thin. Even the candles seem to burn quieter. Aemond’s breath is steady, but you can see the tension in his throat. He looks at you as if you have stripped him bare with words, as if you have reached into him and touched something he keeps hidden. His hand on the table tightens, the knuckles whitening.
“You presume to know me,” he says.
“I presume to observe,” you reply.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You can feel the heat of him, the dominance he has used all his life meeting something it cannot bend. The clash is immaculate, sharp enough to draw blood if either of you steps wrong. Then Aemond turns his gaze to the map as if it is safer than your face. His voice, when he speaks again, is lower, more controlled, but not less intense. “If you are on your own side,” he says, “then you are dangerous.”
You nod once. “Yes.”
He looks back at you. “And you admit it.”
“Dangerous is not the same as disloyal,” you answer. “It is simply… honest.”
Aemond’s mouth tightens again, and for a fleeting second, you think you see something like reluctant respect trying to form and being strangled before it can breathe. He steps back half a pace, not yielding, not retreating, simply creating space because the air between you has become too charged and he is not ready to name why.
“Go,” he says finally, voice clipped.
You do not rush. You gather your papers calmly, as if you have not just stood unflinching under a prince’s shadow. As you turn toward the door, you pause just long enough to speak without looking back.
“If you want efficiency,” you say, “stop planning like a man who can afford to lose.”
You leave before he can respond. Behind you, in the candlelit silence, Aemond Targaryen remains by the table, staring at the map as if it has betrayed him, not because your numbers were wrong, but because something far worse has happened. He has realized you are not intimidated by him. Not by his rank. Not by his dragon. Not by his body in the dark. And the realization does not make him feel powerful. It makes him feel outmatched. However nothing quite stays peaceful in the Keep, you learn that too quickly, nothing stays private for long, not even simplest of appearances.
It begins with something small and stupid, the way most dangerous things do. A servant glimpses you slipping through a corridor at an hour when respectable ladies are meant to be behind doors, hair unpinned, prayers whispered, bodies tucked away from the world. The servant has nothing to do with war councils or ravens or grain stores. The servant has only eyes and boredom and the desperate hunger of court life for something to chew on. The servant sees you leave a door you were not expected to be near, and the servant remembers, with a thrill that is half fear, that the prince had entered that same door not long before. That is all. That is enough. By morning, the story has already grown unrelated branches.
It moves through kitchens first, through laundry rooms and stairwells where girls whisper over linens and men trade rumors like coins. It slips into the guardrooms, and the guards do what guards always do, which is to pretend they do not gossip while doing it with the seriousness of generals. By the time you step into the corridor outside the council chamber, you feel it without anyone needing to tell you. The air is wrong. Eyes flick and dart away too quickly. Smiles that were once merely stiff become pointed. A pair of ladies pause mid-conversation when you pass, their voices dropping as though you are contagious.
You are a council member. You are an appointed specialist. You have the King’s decree behind you and a record of work that has already saved the city from small disasters men never notice until they become big ones. None of that matters to people who think with their hungers instead of their minds. Because you are still a woman.
And the court, like most places built by men who fear being outmatched, has only two stories it likes to tell about women who hold influence. Either they are saints, or they are whores. Either they are obedient, or they are dangerous. Either they were placed there by fate, or they clawed their way in by opening their legs.
You hear the first whisper as you pass a tapestry in the lower hall. It is not even aimed at you. It is two servants speaking carelessly, thinking the stone and the cloth will swallow their words.
“She was with him,” one says, voice thin with excitement. “Late. I saw her.”
“And the prince,” the other breathes, reverent as if speaking of a god. “They say she has him twisted.”
You do not stop walking. You do not show that you heard. You keep your pace even and your face composed, because reacting is how rumors sink their teeth deeper. But your mind does what it always does. It catalogs. By midday the story has climbed into silk.
You hear it in fragments from the edges of conversation as you move through the keep, the words disguised as innocent concern. A lady of the court remarks, too sweetly, that the council must be very… stimulating. A knight in the corridor gives you a look that is not contempt exactly, but disgust flavored with curiosity. You catch the way men’s mouths tighten when you speak in council, as if they are measuring whether the authority in your voice is real or borrowed from a prince’s bed. It escalates quickly. It always does. Once a rumor has a direction, people push it further because the court is addicted to endings. They do not like uncertainty. They do not like a woman who does not fit their categories. So they decide for you.
Some say you are Aemond’s paramour. That you have been placed at the council table because he wants you near, because you warm his bed, because you are being rewarded for obedience. Some say you are a spy for Rhaenyra, using your body and your mind together, the way men always fear clever women do. Some say you are manipulating him, destabilizing him, turning him away from the righteous fury they want him to embody. And the cruelest whisper, the one that makes your teeth tighten behind your calm, is spoken by those who resent you most: that you are incompetent, that you are only tolerated because you spread your legs in the dark and call it scholarship.
It would be laughable if it were not dangerous. Because in a court like this, perception becomes policy. A rumor can isolate you faster than any decree can protect you. It can sour your access, make scribes hesitate before handing you reports, make guards decide they do not have to step aside as quickly. It can give men permission to discredit your work, to shrug off your numbers as pillow-talk. And if you are discredited, the realm pays for it. That is what makes your anger precise rather than hot.
You do not go to Alicent with the whispers. The Queen Dowager would not be surprised, and she would not be kind. She would treat it as a lesson, perhaps even as a test. You do not go to Helaena, because Helaena lives in a world where words knot into symbols, and you will not drag her into filth. You do not go to Ser Criston, because Criston Cole would hear the rumor and take it as proof that women do not belong on councils, and his approval is a currency you refuse to purchase. You do what you always do. You wait for the room to reveal what it intends to become.
It happens in council, two days after the night Aemond summoned you. The chamber is full and tense, maps spread, ravens’ messages read aloud. There is talk of Dragonstone, of fleets, of lords who must be courted or coerced. The mood is sharp, but there is something else under it, a current that crackles whenever you and Aemond are in the same space. People glance between you too often. They listen not just to what is said, but to what is not.
A lord, emboldened by gossip, makes a small comment, too small to be accidental. He says something about “private consultations” and lets his eyes slide toward you with a smile that is meant to make you feel stained. The table stiffens. A few men hide their amusement. Others pretend to look away, which is its own form of participation. You keep your face blank. You do not dignify it with reaction. Aemond does.
He turns his head slowly, and the movement alone makes the room quiet. His remaining eye fixes on the lord with a coldness that feels like stepping into deep water. His voice is not raised when he speaks, which is what makes it brutal. He does not shout. He does not perform anger. He simply cuts.
“If you speak of my council again with that tone,” Aemond says, calm as a blade, “I will have your tongue removed and feed it to my dragon.” Silence drops like a stone. The lord goes pale, mouth opening and closing, suddenly aware that he has mistaken a prince’s restraint for softness. Aemond continues as if he is correcting a minor error.
“You will not stain her name to entertain yourselves,” he says, and there is no softness in the defense, no gentleness meant to preserve you. It is possession of order, not protection of you. “Her seat at this table is the King’s command. Her work is mine to judge only in matters of war. If you cannot speak of her without sounding like gutter men, then you will not speak.”
He lets the words sit long enough to bruise. Then he turns back to the map as if nothing has happened, as if he has not just reminded the entire room that princes can end lives for less than a rumor. The council resumes, but it resumes differently. Men are cautious now. The whispering does not stop, of course. It never stops. But it shifts shape, turning from gleeful certainty into nervous curiosity. Some now think you must truly have power over him if he is willing to threaten a lord for you. Others resent you more, because they believe you have somehow reached into him and made him unstable.
You sit through the remainder of the council without a flicker of expression, but inside you are cold with the insult of it. He did not defend your competence. He defended his own control. He shut it down publicly in the language he trusts: violence. He made it about his authority, his temper, his right to decide what is spoken. He did not once say the simplest truth, the one that would have ended the filth cleanly. That you have never been his.
You do not confront him in public. You are not foolish. You know the court feeds on spectacle, and you will not give them one. You wait until the evening, until the keep quiets, until the candles burn lower and servants slip away into the shadows. You send no page. You do not ask politely. You move through the corridors as if you belong to them, because you have earned that much through sheer necessity.
You find him where you expected: not in a feast hall, not among flatterers, but in a quiet chamber lit by candlelight with maps laid out like wounds. He is alone, as he often is when he is truly thinking, shoulders squared, posture rigid even when there is no one to witness it. He looks up when you enter, and you see the immediate hardening in his expression, the reflex of a man bracing for conflict because conflict is the only intimacy he understands.
“You,” he says, as if the word itself is an intrusion. You shut the door behind you. The click is soft, final.
“Yes,” you reply. “Me.”
Aemond’s eye tracks you as you cross the room. You stop at the edge of the table, same position as before. The map between you feels like a barrier and an excuse. Candlelight flickers over his face, emphasizing the sharpness of him, the tight control that keeps his rage from spilling out.
“I heard you made a point today,” you say.
His mouth tightens. “I ended a distraction.”
“You threatened a lord,” you correct, voice even.
“He deserved it.”
“You did not do it for me,” you say, and the statement is not a question. It is a blade placed gently on the table.
Aemond’s eye narrows. “Do you want consolation?”
“No,” you answer immediately. “I want clarity.”
He lets out a small, cold breath. “You will not get softness from me.”
“I did not ask for softness,” you say. “I asked for you not to undermine my authority while pretending you are protecting it.”
The slightest shift runs through him, irritation sharpening. “Undermine.”
You lean forward a fraction, hands flat on the table. “You shut down the rumor as if it were an insult to you,” you say quietly. “As if my name is yours to defend by threatening men with dragons.”
His gaze holds yours, unblinking. “It is my council.”
“It is not,” you reply, calm enough to be infuriating. “It is the King’s. And I am not yours.”
Aemond’s jaw flexes. “You are seated here because of a decree.”
“Yes,” you say. “And because I do the work.”
His eye flashes. “They were speaking filth.”
“They were speaking filth because they believe filth is the only reason a woman is listened to,” you say. “And you, Prince, reinforced that by making it about your temper instead of my merit.”
Aemond’s mouth curls, the barest hint of something sharp and ugly. “You want me to announce to the realm that you are competent.”
“I want you to stop giving them stories to build,” you say, voice still low, still controlled. “You could have said one sentence. You could have said, ‘She is here because she is useful.’ You could have said, ‘She sits by the King’s command and her counsel is heard because it is correct.’ That would have shamed them. Instead you threatened them, and now they will whisper that you threatened them because you cannot bear to share what you take.”
Aemond moves then, stepping around the table. He closes distance the way he always does when he feels cornered, using his height and proximity as if it is an argument. His shadow falls over you. His presence is heat and pressure and a kind of contained violence that most people would interpret as a warning. You do not move. He stops close enough that you can see the tension in the muscle at his jaw, the flare of anger in his eye.
“You think you understand this court,” he says, voice low. “You think one sentence would have ended it.”
“It would have ended it properly,” you reply.
“You want to be respected,” Aemond murmurs, and the word respected sounds like something he tastes and dislikes.
“I require my work to be trusted,” you correct. “There is a difference.”
His expression hardens. “And yet you are upset because men speak of you as men speak.”
You do not flinch. “I am upset,” you say, voice quiet as steel, “because men speak of me as if I am a thing. And you, in your pride, chose to remind them you can destroy them instead of reminding them I can outthink them.”
Aemond’s nostrils flare. For a second, the rage in him is visible, bright and immediate, like dragonfire behind the ribs. He leans in further, too close now, and the air tightens. Your breath catches, not from fear, but from the sudden awareness of how near he is, how controlled the violence is in him, how it brushes the edge of something else without either of you naming it.
“You wanted honesty from me,” he says softly, dangerously. “Here it is. They will never respect you as they respect me.”
You hold his gaze, unblinking. “I do not need their respect,” you say. “I need their obedience to reality.”
Aemond’s mouth twitches, a near-smile that is not kind. “You speak like a man.”
“I think like someone who intends to survive,” you answer.
He inhales slowly, and when he speaks again, his voice is colder. “You told me yourself. You are on your own side.”
“Yes.”
“Then stop pretending you care what they whisper,” he says.
You laugh once, quiet and humorless. “I care because whispers become knives,” you say. “And knives end in blood. If they can make the realm believe I am here by virtue of my body rather than my mind, then my counsel becomes optional. And if my counsel becomes optional, your council becomes reckless again.”
Aemond’s eye flickers at that. It is not agreement. It is recognition. He hates recognition when it comes from you. He leans back half an inch, just enough to speak without brushing your breath. “You want them to see you as inevitable,” he says.
“I am inevitable,” you reply softly. The statement hangs between you, arrogant on the tongue, but you do not say it like pride. You say it like a fact. Aemond’s gaze drops, briefly, to your mouth, then snaps back up as if angry with himself for the movement. His hand flexes at his side. The space between you feels charged, not like affection, not like tenderness, but like two storms pressing against the same wall.
“You accuse me of pride,” he says, voice low. “And yet you are the proudest person I have met.”
You tilt your head slightly. “No,” you say. “I am simply unwilling to pretend I am small to soothe men who fear being outmatched.”
Aemond’s eye burns. “Careful.”
You step closer, just a fraction, reclaiming space the way he does, mirroring him without apology. “Or what,” you ask quietly. “You will feed me to your dragon as well?”
His breath catches, the smallest hitch. For a heartbeat, the room feels like it might tilt. Like this argument might become something else, something physical, something furious and intimate, something neither of you are prepared to name. It nearly does.
You can see it in the way his gaze darkens. In the way his shoulders tense. In the way the air seems to thicken around the two of you, candlelight trembling as if it senses a shift. Aemond has rage written in his bones, yes, but rage and desire are cousins in men like him, tangled and indistinguishable when the world goes quiet. But he does not touch you. You do not touch him.
The moment is fleeting, sharp enough to cut, then breaks on discipline rather than softness. Aemond steps back, not because he is yielding, but because he refuses to lose control in a way that would prove you right about him. His voice, when it comes, is clipped.
“You should be grateful I ended the rumor.”
You stare at him, calm returning like armor. “And you should be grateful,” you say, “that I do not require your protection to remain standing.”
His eye flashes, and you see resentment deepen, not just at your presence, but at your effect. You make him feel observed. Measured. Not worshipped. Not feared. Measured. You turn toward the door, because you have said what needed to be said, and because staying in this room with him any longer would be a different kind of risk. Behind you, his voice follows, sharp as thrown steel. “You have a talent for making enemies.”
You pause, hand on the door. You glance back just enough to let him see your face. “You’ll find out soon enough that I have a incredible talent for surviving them,” you reply. And you leave.
