El Dragón Negro, fundador de la Casa Blackfyre es por lejos mi favorito de todos los hijos de Aegon IV, pero no me malinterpreten, estoy del lado de Daeron II, pero si me pusieran a escojer, ninguno del bando ganador me encantaría más que Daemon. Pensé en poner Pretendiente o Rey pero recuerdo que seguramente se le otorgó el titulo de Principe, porque no se sentó en el Trono y si mal no recuerdo Ser Osgrey o un Septon lo llamó así.
Armadura, Atuendo 1, Atuendo 2
Descrito como inhumanamente hermoso y con un parecido al Conquistador, es de los hombres más hermosos de Poniente, usé vestimenta roja para hacer lo opuesto en colores al que vemos vestir a los Targaryen, aunque Rojo o Negro, un dragón es un dragón.
I firmly believe that Rhaenyra wasn't fit to be queen, not because she was a girl – that notion is just absurd. What people seem to have forgotten is that it's not one's physical attributes that determine their ability to rule, but rather their intellect, their morals, and their dedication to their kingdom.
Her most significant disadvantage was her father's incompetence. She would have had a better chance of reigning as queen if she had become Daemon's wife and he was named the heir. That arrangement could have been far more effective.
For those who argue that Daemon wouldn't be a good king due to his restlessness and chaos, I believe those qualities would have made him an excellent ruler. He wouldn't have allowed issues to fester for too long and would have actively worked to address them swiftly. Moreover, with two Targaryens and their pure Targaryen children in line for succession, there would have been no need for Viserys to remarry.
While I understand that Rhaenyra didn't want to marry, she had a unique opportunity to see her future kingdom. Instead of making strategic alliances and rallying supporters, she spent her entire tour sulking, akin to a child denied her favorite toy. Considering the era she lived in, where most women had no say in their choice of spouse, her insistence on picking her own husband seems somewhat unreasonable. Even her uncle didn't have that privilege. So why was she throwing temper tantrums?
Let's not even get started on the whole bastard situation, shall we? I mean, why would you even do that? Infidelity aside, the real problem was that the child didn't even remotely resemble you, let alone your husband. But here's where I think Daemon's true love for Rhaenyra shines through. He was willing to accept her bastards as future kings, which speaks volumes about his devotion. However, if we step into a more realistic scenario, imagine if Daemon returned from Pentos, saw Rhaenyra's children, and said, 'No way I'm bowing to any of them.' What if he decided, 'I won't bow to the Hightowers either. It seems I'll need to form a third party and claim the throne for myself, making my daughter the queen.' How different things could have been!
I can almost accept all the points above, but then her father passed away, her brother usurped her crown, and she allowed Otto Hightower to leave Dragonstone alive. I mean, seriously, what was she thinking? That man was the source of 80 percent of her problems, and she just let him go. There was a moment when I wished Daemon had said, 'I'm going to deal with him now and ask for forgiveness later.' That was one of those times.
If none of this had happened, and she had simply been crowned queen, Rhaenyra would have been a second Viserys. She would have spent her time trying to fill Viserys' shoes, just as he tried to fit into Jaehaerys' shoes.
-so this got a little bit out of hand, but these are just my opinions, so please don't judge me too much-
incendium ; Words: 43,770 Works: 3 Complete: Probably ; by AmazingAngie
incendium [defined as]:
1. A fire, inferno, conflagration; heat; torch.
2. (heat of) passion, vehemence
Series Summary:
Daemon killed his brother for the crown, and he had every intention of doing the same to his niece.
She was the only obstacle in the way of what he had always wanted, and he would not let her stop him
But then, she didn't want to stop him.
For it seemed what she had always wanted to be his queen.
series tags: Canon Divergence, Fratricide, King Daemon Targaryen, Uncle/Niece Incest, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Death Threats, Consent Issues,Threats of Rape, Abuse of Authority
After the assault of Caraxes flames and Daemon’s command, he was certain no other Targaryen remained.
He was wrong.
There was one other.
One Daemon had met.
One Daemon had doted on.
One who had called him kepa
A girl of seventeen now, he thought her half mad, risking death by his hand when fully capable of escaping by her own fire breathing beast.
But the girl desired something other than freedom, and she wished to be what Daemon desired, too.
🔥 innocentis 🔥 9k words
bonus tags: Loss of Virginity, Painful Sex, Size Kink, Breeding Kink, Belly Bulge, Somnophilia, Minor Bloodplay
Summary:
It pleased him that their first kiss was filled with the metallic taste of the other’s blood.
It pleased him to know the taste of her in this way.
He wanted to know the taste of her in every way. He would greedily drink saliva from her mouth, release from her cunt, perspiration from her skin, milk from her breast—and this, blood, was no exception.
If she had a wound, his tongue would happily lave at it as if it were her folds, unwilling to waste the flavor that wept from her, for no matter the source, it would belong to him, her husband.
And in return, she was his. His niece. His queen. His love. Only ever to be shared with his heirs, while they grew inside of her.
🔥 premō + cruciābilitās 🔥 17.9k words
bonus tags: Threats of Violence, Bloodplay, Forced Voyeurism, Semi-Public Sex, Marking, Bruises, Scarification, Forced Orgasm, Overstimulation, Painful Sex, Size Kink, Rough Sex, Dubious Morality, Non-Linear Narrative, look they are very happy just also fucking deranged
Summary:
It was not just her fierceness that made him think her a dragon, but this, too. For it seemed impossible for anything less than a fire-breathing creature to have a core that burned the way hers did.
Burned for him, he reminded himself, hips arching to help her take him. She was still so small, not yet stretched enough to the fit the length inside of her—at least not without some struggle.
Not that he minded—he thought her struggles only made it more fun, and with how her cunt leaked in time with the salty tears on her cheeks he was quite certain she felt the same way.
But others did not understand their King and Queen, nor the marks that newly married and mated dragons bore. Each bruise was given in adoration and served as a reminder of their ardor when the other was absent, not out of abuse, no matter what the man guarding their door claimed.
They would make them understand, for changing the way they loved each other was not an option.
🔥 You can read them all on Ao3 HERE! 🔥
(and some of my favorite quotes will be below the cut!)
[from infernus aestimatus]
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He would hardly call that bloodthirsty—the only time he truly enjoyed the metallic taste on his tongue was when it came from a woman's cunt, the flavor of their broken maidenhead, taken by his cock as he took his pleasure from their folds.
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“A queen lacks a throne.” He warned.
“Is that not the purpose of the king’s lap?” She responded, with little hesitation.
“Would you take such a seat during court? While subjects and nobles looked on?” He wondered, prepared for her to emphatically say no.
“I sat at my father’s feet for years, and many claimed it an honor just to fill his cups. I see little reason to feel shame for filling the king’s lap, should such close proximity not be even more honorable?”
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She bristled, “Would you dare question a princess on the matter of her maidenhead?”
“If they are bold enough to demand marriage, I have little doubt they could demand a man’s cock long before they have a marital bed of their own to lay in.”
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Her nails were longer and sharper than his own, when they dug into his flesh it stung, the film of scar tissue piercing easily beneath them. He was certain dark red crescents would be left behind, adding texture and color to the weakened skin that still bore evidence of prior trauma.
“It brings me great comfort that you did not go without suffering while you were away from me, uncle.”
It took him a moment to process her words, and then he couldn’t help but laugh.
Her nails dug in harder, and he hissed. When was a woman last brave enough to make him hurt?
When had he last let one?
He could not recall. But he was letting Rhaenyra do so now, even enjoying it. For he’d enjoy any attention at her hand, he thought, no matter if it left blood behind.
“Was being away from you not suffering enough?” He finally asked.
“I would not know, as you did not write to me.” She said, sounding caught between anger and sadness over this fact.
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“I think you have gone without the presence of an available Targaryen man for too long. Only then would a woman of your breeding find desire for a brunette.” He spat, rather disgusted by the thought of dark hair so much as touching her milk colored flesh—it was wrong, for a Targaryen to want anything other than their kin.
“Your mind lacks the creativity that is a Targaryen man’s form.” He insisted, his fingers working down the front of his doublet.
She shook her head, “Whose fault is that, uncle?”
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“It’s very hard.” She muttered, her eyes focused down but wide enough he could see the surprise and interest in her gaze.
She looked up at him for just a moment, amusement on her face once more, “It is Valyrian Steel in a way, is it not?”
He hummed, “Forged in the womb of a highborn Targaryen lady.” He agreed.
Her hand reached for the length then, her fingers brushing it so gently—it tickled more than feeling good, but any touch from her was stimulating. “To be wielded by a Targaryen too, I assume.” She said, softly, “But you have sullied it by allowing the hands of whores and smallfolk to use it, have you not?” She said, her fingers stroking a bit more firmly while she looked back to his face.
“I suppose.” He admitted, letting out a gasp as she squeezed her fingers around the head of his length.
“I need salvation then, don’t I? I cannot be punished, not as king, but I shall happily purify myself in your eyes, and those of your gods, through frequent baths in the waters of my niece’s cunt.” He said, the final word harsh.
Her grip was harsh then, too.
[from innocentis ]
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She had spent hours learning every scar that marred his skin, licking them, nipping at them, finding out what hurt and what felt good and what he’d allow her to do.
Anything.
In return, he had yet to go a day since they wed without sucking on her breasts as if he was her babe and not her husband. Even if they did not yet leak for him, the comfort of their ruddy tips between his lips was bliss.
Afterward, they were all swollen and sensitive and she made the prettiest little whimpers when he pinched and twisted them.
“Are they not mine to torture? I am your husband.” He had told her once.
She used the same words against him the following hour when her teeth sunk into his sack, making him gasp and swear because fuck it fucking hurt.
Still, she had a point, he supposed.
He didn’t stop his ministrations, of course not, he simply told her to torture him in ways that wouldn’t impact his ability to sire children.
The next day, her teeth tugged on his own nipple—pulling away for just a moment to tell him—to warn him—that if he ever angered her, her teeth would ensure his torsos' symmetry.
He responded with a filthy kiss.
It seemed the only appropriate way to show his affection and adoration which remained unwavering, if not intensified for the insanity of her promise. His little niece—his little wife, threatening to tear the nipple from his flesh with her teeth if he dared wronged her.
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Her cheeks were flushed, likely more from drink than arousal—a pretty shade of pink across her face, matching the shade of her parted lips and rosy nipples. As if her body coordinated the tones specifically for his pleasure—and gods he was pleased by her, every inch of her was perfection, as if she had been crafted just for him and his desires.
Perhaps she was, though he doubted his brother had known what his seed was making at the time of Rhaenyra’s creation. That his spend would turn into the most precious gift for his younger brother.
But then, she wasn’t given to him by his brother—no, Rhaenyra had given herself to him. She’d been in a robe, not red ribbons, but the function was the same when she returned to her chambers to await his arrival. She planned to flirt her way into a crown of her own, or at least a circlet that would sit on her finger as a mark of his ownership.
She’d succeeded. Through her good looks, charm, and promises of how she would bear him heirs.
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“I’m too sleepy to practice more,” she muttered, her eyes fluttering shut and blonde lashes sitting prettily atop her cheeks.
He hummed, “That’s okay, we can practice while you sleep.” He promised, curling himself around her while their loins remained pressed together.
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[ from premō + cruciābilitās ]
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She interrupted him often, but she was never a nuisance, for he rarely wanted to do anything more than he wanted her. It was a good thing too, given her thoughts on the matter—which she shared on an afternoon interlude in the council room he had emptied given the urgency of their shared desire.
“You were my uncle before you were their king—are my needs not more important than your subjects?” She had teased, seated on the table before him with her skirts rucked up. His lips had left her cunt after she came, kissing down her thigh and to the edge of her stocking before pulling away. She made no move to cover herself, knowing the scent and sight of her pretty cunt—still slick with his saliva and her come—would be enough to lure him into fucking her.
When she was exposed such an outcome was inevitable.
Truly, when she was in his presence at all it was inevitable.
Perhaps her youth had rubbed off on him when she ground herself against him, for his desire drove him to distraction in a way it hadn’t since he was six and ten.
“Am I not also your king?” He shot back, only for her to shrug as if this did not matter.
“Being a king is temporary, uncle. But the title—that of uncle, it came before the crown. And after the crown has been passed on to our son, when you are king no longer and our bodies are nothing but ash, you’ll still bear an even more important title than that.”
“What might that be?” He asked, leaning in closer and stroking her dangling stocking-clad calves.
“Husband. My only husband. So you must be kind to me, for not even your death would allow you to escape me.” She said, her lips twisting into a smirk. Whatever thoughts lived in that pretty head of hers were enough to make her smug. He liked her this way, but he liked teasing her, too.
“What about your death? I have disposed of wives before, you know.”
She laughed, joyous and unconcerned as if he had intended to humor her, “You have slaughtered livestock, uncle. Just as any hungry man would if they stumbled across an unmarked flock.”
“And your father?” He asked, making her breath hitch, “Would a hungry man kill their brother? Burn him and his men while he slept?”
She narrowed her eyes but didn’t try to escape his grip, no, her hands reached for him, cupping his cheeks and meeting his gaze. When she finally spoke, it was without any fear or disgust.
“No. A hungry man would have little use for his kin reduced to embers. But one must burn the plague-infested corpses if they wish to cease the spread of disease and rid the city of what is rotten.”
It was his turn to grin, “I am a hero, then? Saving the city?” The thought was nearly comical given what he had done, but he would happily be perceived as such if she wished to see him as one.
“Mhm.” She said, her hands falling to his shoulders for leverage while she ground down, making him hiss at the weight against his cock.
“Do heroes not slay dragons?” He asked, the last word coming as a gasp as she freed his length from its confines, stroking the underside and rubbing the head as if it was her pet and not his cock.
“Not when the hero is also a dragon—fierce, hot, pulsing with the desire to spill over, and ruddy with the blood that fills it. Then he would be more inclined to fuck than fight.” She said, taking her own words as a suggestion.
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She was his. He could make her feel whatever he desired, and at that moment, he desired a tight hole for his throbbing cock and a punishing pace that would likely make a whore weep from the force of it.
Rhaenyra was no whore.
She was young, and lacking experience. Lacking the ability to hide her arousal just as she lacked the ability to quiet her cries. He hoped that never changed, he liked her vocal—whether it was moans or screams or cries or cursing. He never wanted her to hide her sounds from him, from anyone, no matter the circumstance—there was no situation where a king and queen should feel shameful for the sounds their coupling made.
He felt a tinge of shame after, though, just at his cock was tinged pink from the way his vigor wounded her. Too deep and hard and fast for his little wife. When she rolled over she was sniffling and her face was red, both from her tears and from being denied.
He touched her poor cunt, and she winced but didn’t pull away, “Does it hurt terribly?” He asked, his thumb stroking the neglected little bundle of nerves that sat above her swollen slit.
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“I was not trained to be queen, nor was I taught to be heir. My education was on what it was to be a wife, what it was to be deserving of a husband and helpful to him.” She said, one hand curling around his neck while her fingers tangled in his hair.
“I will be a good wife to you, uncle. I shall do what you ask of me. I shall take what you give me. But I shall not be bullied or seen as lesser. Whatever you command from me, be it fidelity, love, or…carving your initials into my skin, I shall do so while taking it as a promise that you will do the same.” She said firmly.
He blinked, trying to clear his head and process her words.
Why would she choose this moment to tell him such?
“Do you understand?” She asked, pressing her thumb to his bottom lip, the scar she had put there on their wedding day tingled beneath her touch.
“Perfectly.” He said.
And then she began to move.
Her cunt was tight enough to cling to his soft length, and her grinding motions made every oversensitive nerve come to life, his hips jerking as if trying to buck her off, but lacking the leverage to do so—only serving to increase the contact between them when his arse crashed back against the seat.
When their lips parted it was out of necessity—for he was gasping in surprise and pain in a way that prevented them from truly kissing.
She offered little sympathy, even when she spoke oh so softly, “Does it hurt terribly, husband?”
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“I think you quite capable of what the rumors say.” He said, for he was an honest man, even when he spoke to the king. It was why Daemon liked him more than those who had nothing but praise for him. Those who lacked any opinion or criticism when speaking with him grew accustomed to lying to him. It was those men who would betray you, for they held too much fear and not enough respect.
“But,” Harwin continued, “I think perhaps, your wife is capable of such things too. She does not cower as a victim would or hesitate to approach you. She does not fear your touch—from what I’ve seen it is quite the opposite. If you are a beast or monster, then I offer you congratulations on finding a suitable mate.”
It pleased him that not every guard or man kept for their muscle was incapable of being rational. This man could see the truth of their relationship, at least. Or rather—see the truth of what Rhaenyra was—a beast, but a beautiful one, like a dragon.
He grinned, “Pity you cannot serve as commander and Kingsguard at once, I would much rather you remain outside of our rooms than my wife’s chosen pet.”
Ser Harwin didn’t quite smile but he looked amused, “I do not think I could honor the vows required.”
Daemon laughed, “Nor could I. White would be stained with blood, drink, and seed before the ceremony even ended.”
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“I have not been acquainted with a cock other than yours, husband.” She said, shifting her hips against the growing length that settled so nicely between her thighs. “Unless you count the occasional crows of a rooster.” She said with a giggle, “I like yours much better than those, uncle, even if it has proved similarly intrusive to my morning rest.”
He couldn’t help but smile, she was so cute. Her moods were so intense yet so fleeting—sometimes there was just a second between a laugh, a moan, and a scream. She kept him guessing, despite the fact he had known her as a girl and knew her now for all the similarities they shared.
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She was still young—making up for inexperience with ardor. Like a young snake that could not control the quantity of venom it released, to new to biting its victims to know what was required and what was excessive. She was a dragon in her first heat, and as her mate he wore the evidence of her passions with pride.
It was all the more reason he wouldn’t let people see Rhaenyra as a victim—much less his victim. She was just as capable as he was of being violent or abusive, though he thought her neither, not when he adored her and the ache she inspired—whether it was in his cock or the healing marks her fingers left behind.
Tags: AU - Cinderella, King Daemon, Throne Sex, Loss of Virginity, Mentions of Child Abuse, Minor Character Death, Touch Starved
She was too distracted by him to realize the time, until it was nearly midnight.
She heard the clock tower ring, and dragged her hand from his grip. Fingers fell to her skirts hiking them up as she ran — uncaring of how she looked now, simply terrified that this disguise of beauty would fall away.
She didn’t want him to see her, the real her. She wanted to be remembered as this magical version of herself by at least one person. Perhaps the ghost of this could haunt him, while the reality could only disappoint him.
AU: In which Rhaenyra is Cinderella, Alicent is the evil stepmother, and Daemon is not Prince Charming.
Rhaenyra didn’t remember her mother. Or, perhaps she should say she remembered very little of her. She knew she had been kind and beautiful — with long blonde hair much like her own. Her father had claimed she was his greatest love, second only to Rhaenyra herself.
But her mother had died.
Her father had cradled her in his arms, soothed the bad dreams, and promised that unlike Aemma, he would never leave her behind.
But he had lied .
He had abandoned her. In his life, and then, in his death.
The first was almost a greater blow, for the decision he made in life was not one she would ever forgive nor forget. A mere two years after her mothers death, he wed Alicent — a wealthy widow from town. Alicent had high standards, and made sure Rhaenyra knew that she did not meet them. They took an instant dislike to each other, but Rhaenyra didn’t think it was her fault, for Alicent seemed to dislike everything.
Well. Everything except her own daughters. They were twin girls, Aegaetha and Helaena. The younger of the two — Helaena, could be sweet at times. They shared a love of animals, and had something resembling a friendship while her father lived. She had thought once of her as a sister.
But those days were brief, for Alicent and Aegaetha did what they could to poison her. Helaena no longer spoke to her, though at least she did not make things worse for Rhaenyra either. She didn’t gleefully step on her toes, or fingers when she was cleaning. Not the way the rest of her hateful family did, and oh, how they hated.
They hated this home. Hated this furniture. Hated how frequently her father was gone. Hated the inconsistent income. Hated her. They did not hide this fact, alternating between being cold while her father was home, and cruel when he was out of town.
She did not physically beat her, but he was often berated. Her clothing was drab, and out of fashion — and she mocked her for that, even though Lady Alicent controlled the books, and simply refused to put coin towards Rhaenyra’s wardrobe.
When her father questioned her state, Alicent praised her — saying she had no desire for new clothing, when there are so many people who could not even afford what she had. Alicent never failed to remind her of her luck. How her place in this house was one that needed to be earned, a privilege that could be taken away.
She had already taken so much. Her room, for the twins. Her clothing — what was stylish, was altered to fit them. Her books, for reading was unladylike. Her paints, because she lacked talent (when Rhaenyra thought she was much better than her daughters).
But perhaps what she missed most of all, was her confidence. It had crumpled under the weight of Alicent in her home. Every flaw was not just pointed at, but picked at until it bled.
It wasn’t just her interests that were criticized, it was her appearance too. Her body was curved, like her mothers had been — but very different from Alicent’s, and she was criticized for that too. Told that the existence of her figure made her look like a whore and she acted like one whenever she went into town, by flirting and looking at any man who walked by.
It wasn’t true! But her father believed her. And soon Rhaenyra was barred in the house, with only her two cats for company. She could still wander the forests, and follow trails on her pony, but Alicent attempted to stop that too. Saying her interest was masculine, and that much time outside would make her tan and then no one would wed her.
Rhaenyra thought, by the time her father died, she was too broken for his death to even serve as a blow.
That was when the cruelty truly began. Alicent no longer had to pretend Rhaenyra was a daughter to her. Captive in her care, not allowed to leave the house, It was only the staff who remained to witness her treatment. And even that was soon stopped, as they were dismissed and the duties were passed to Rhaenyra.
She had protested at first. Refusing the tasks, and refusing to leave her rooms. But soon she grew hungry, and Alicent threatened to deny food. So she had started working for her keep, and the work seemed to never stop.
Her life now revolved around chores. Her light hair became dull and was tinged dark from dust and soot. Her fingers, once that of a lady, were now callused and split from harsh cleaners. Her once impeccable nails were fractured, jagged from her daily efforts.
She had grown thin, from expending more than she ate. Yet her arms were muscled, from the labor. It was an unattractive pairing she found herself resenting. But she had little time for herself, and little clothing to dress herself in. Soon being clean became a thing of the past, being pretty was a far away luxury.
If she had shreds of her confidence left, she’d realize it was because she was so effortlessly pretty that inspired Alicent’s poor treatment. For jealousy was an ugly thing, and Alicent was an ugly person. She couldn’t raise her daughters up, for they were lacking both looks and personality. So she sought — and succeeded in, putting Rhaenyra down instead.
Still despite the years of mistreatment, Rhaenyra remained strong — and there was still a small spark left in her. All it took was an opportunity for it to ignite .
She heard it from Alicent’s own mouth — the woman gossiping amongst her similarly vapid friends. Speaking of how one of their daughters was sure to seduce the prince. “We belong in a palace.” Alicent said, confident, and the rest of the ladies politely tittered in agreement.
But Rhaenyra knew her Step-mother wasn’t joking. She knew how much the woman liked being waited on hand and foot. It was part of how she found out — hearing the words about the ball from her lips while serving the ladies tea.
She hated this the most, found it worse than even scrubbing the floors or fireplace. For in front of others she struggled not to feel embarrassed about the state of herself. She was grimy from the week's work with only hand baths in the evenings. It was more filth than she could hide, or sneakily scrub away from herself.
So she kept her eyes downcast, poured tea, and listened.
And what she heard…it was a chance.
She worked on the gown at night, by a single candles’ light. She was altering one of her mothers old dresses into something new. She took the lace from one and used it to trim another, stitching together silk and mesh with threads from her mending kit. Silk from two skirts was seamed into one, longer now — with a train!
It took weeks, but compared to the labor she exerted during the day it was a refreshing chance. Mending was one of her favorites of the chores, for at least she could do it in her rooms, away from the casual cruelty of what remained of her family.
She didn’t tell them of her plans, but she didn’t expect their objections either. The ball was held by the King, and it was a command for all eligible subjects to attend. Even if they despised her, she didn’t think they would defy their king simply to deprive her of an evening!
But then, she did not realize how they were threatened by her. How easily her curves and pretty face could catch the attention of others. There was a reason Alicent kept her locked away, and it was because her daughters — though their skin a shade darker, paled in comparison to Rhaenyra’s beauty.
She had been compared to an angel as a girl, with her long white locks that turned light gold with time. Pretty purple eyes, that seemed to darken depending on her mood. She had been a spirited baby, cheerful, and happy. Always in her mother or fathers arms, and loved by all.
As a girl she picked wildflowers and passed them to townsfolk — often given tokens of thanks in exchange. She treasured the trinkets, whether they came from strangers or her father. For she loved things, and being surrounded by them. They offered her comfort, when the people who she loved could not.
For her father was often away on his travels, and her mother was in the grave.
Still, even after tragedy had struck her family she remained sweet. And as her soft face grew defined, her body grew soft curves. And soon it was more than just her smile that caught people's attentions. Soon eyes followed her, and they never forgot her.
Most townspeople assumed she simply moved away after her father passed. It would not be so odd for her to be shipped to a different place — a place where their memory was not so strong, where she wouldn’t be stifled by the fact they no longer existed. Or perhaps they thought her gone too, in the ground and entombed alongside those who parented her.
She was spoken of though, even still. For she had a smile and charm that lingered, long after she had — or people thought she had — left the city.
She didn’t know this, but the tiny part of her that hadn’t been stomped on, or snuffed out, craved to feel noticed once more. To show people her sweet smiles, gods, to just have something worth smiling over! It was why she had grown eager for this event.
Eager to wear her dress, and dance, and maybe meet someone who could save her.
But Alicent wanted to take this from her too. She accused her of stealing even though the trunk of her mothers things belonged to her! She called her dress dated and dowdy, before ripping the sleeves and delicate lace. The dress was irreparable, and for once, she felt like she was too.
She watched them leave in their pretty new dresses. Corsets laced tight, though not tight enough to hide the girls girth. Alicent had a slim form, but had clearly not passed it on to her daughters. No, they grew wide from the breads and jams Rhaenyra was forced to prepare for them.
She crumpled in the door frame, a tear slipping down her face as she watched them go.
She returned to her rooms, cuddled with her cats but did not change her dress. Even in this state, it was the nicest thing she owned. She may not be able to play princess in public, but she could do it in private — at least for an hour or two. And then she would prepare the twins sheets, and tomorrow's yeast, and…she fell asleep, thinking of what was to be done.
She thought she was still asleep, when she next awoke. For someone was in her rooms, and surely it had to be a dream — or an illusion? She rubbed her eyes, and took a deep breath — trying to clear her head before looking up again.
The woman was still there. Rhaenyra pinched herself, cursing under her breath at the pain, but the vision before her remained.
The woman was strange — her skin seemed to shine with an ethereal glow, and Rhaenyra swore she could see through it. It shouldn’t have been possible, but she was almost sure that if she reached out to touch the woman, her hand would hit air — not flesh.
But she looked so real. Perhaps she was an angel? Though she wasn’t as beautiful as Rhaenyra would have expected an angel to be. Though she had the hair of one; honey colored locks, that fell in waves nearly to her waist. Her eyes were different colors, her nose was crooked, and she wore nothing but a simple chemise that hung loose on her thin frame. It made her look small though her expression showed she was anything but meek.
The woman stood in front of Rhaenyra’s mirror, which looked out of place on the barren walls of her room. It had been magnificent once, with its sculpted gilded frame and grand height — taller than most men! But now the gold foil crumbled, and the glass inside it was cracked. It had been left up here, broken and forgotten, just like Rhaenyra herself.
Rhaenya realized, from her place sitting on the floor, that the woman did not have a reflection. She could see herself in the mirror, through the woman standing before her. Tendrils of smoke seemed to swarm, but not distort her reflection.
The woman came closer to Rhaenyra — her steps sounded like wind, her feet bare and quiet against the splintered wood floor. The woman kneeled before her, and then a hand reached out to her, glowing and warm as it stroked her hair.
She watched the tendrils of smoke grow heavier, as her hair transformed into something spectacular — glossy curls, partially pinned up and held back with what had to be diamond pins. They sparkled, even in the meager moonlight, speaking of their quality.
A thumb brushed her lips, then, and they were left stained a deep red. A palm touched her cheek and she couldn’t help but close her eyes, leaning into the touch — for even if it wasn’t real it was the kindest she had experienced in years.
When the heat of the hand faded, she opened her eyes — and hardly recognized the face that stared back. Eyes were heavy with kohl, skin pale, and cheeks rosy. Now she looked like an angel, and it was as if she had absorbed something from the woman—leaving her looking ghostly in the glow of the moon.
She stood, quick steps carrying her to the mirror as she examined her face — touched it to make sure it was real. She pressed a finger to her lips, and laughed when it came away smudged with red.
This was real, even if the woman wasn’t. She spun then, to see the woman no more than a pace away. Close enough that she could reach out and touch her shoulder — trace fingertips down her arm, before turning Rhaenyra’s hand in her transparent one. She watched as the skin seemed to soften from the touch, and nails turned another shade of deep red. Rings suddenly weighed down her hand with ounces of sparkling metal.
She looked up at the woman, her mouth open in awe. She wanted to thank her, but before she could, the woman was embracing her. She felt the tendrils around her — the heat of smoke preparing her, and when she looked back in the mirror her breath caught.
The dress was glorious, a red confection with a bodice that clutched her chest, and skirts that spread from her waist and fell to the floor. It was made from hundreds of layers of tulle, light as air but blanketing her in their beauty. It glistened when she shifted, ruby colored rhinestones trailing across the outer layers and making the entire thing sparkle.
She was amazed. Her waist looked so small — and her bust so generous, and the color. She had never seen such a rich hue. It matched her lips, and made her skin seem to shine. She looked so pale, but so alive. She turned again, wanting to thank the stranger — but there was no one there.
She heard something whisper, ‘until midnight, my dear’ and then everything around her disappeared.
She blinked erratically as her eyes adjusted to the darkness — she was in a room, but it wasn’t her room. Her eyes wandered up, and up, and up — the ceilings were tall, and grand. She saw thick molding, and sculpted crowns encircling elegant candelabras.
The room was dim, the only light coming from the moon outside. She was in front of a window she realized, or next to one, her figure partially distorted by the curtain. The room seemed to be a bedroom, and a large one at that — with fancy oak furniture and thick velvet cushions.
Wherever she was, it was a place of opulence — luxury beyond what her chateau could provide. She bit her lip nervously, before remembering it was painted red. Her tongue licked at her teeth, hoping to remove any evidence that may have transferred.
She fiddled with her rings instead, as she decided what to do. But before she could come to a conclusion, she was interrupted — a door opened and light poured in. She squeaked, wincing at the startled noise as she quickly tried to collect herself or come up with some sort of explanation.
It was a maid. A maid who looked more exasperated than horrified by her presence there. “ Another?” She asked with a sigh, Rhaneyra wasn’t sure what to do, so she just nodded. “At least you're dressed .” The maid said with another sigh before turning in the frame and making a gesture to follow her.
She trailed behind the woman who was mumbling as she stomped through the well lit hall. Something about how the ‘ man is almost forty, he should be able to restrain himself!’ But she tried her best to ignore the murmurs, for It was impolite to eavesdrop.
She was easily distracted though, by the murals, tapestries, and elaborate woodwork. It was the grandest place she had ever been, and the lush carpets felt soft, even beneath her heeled feet. She wondered if she was leaving imprints in them, like muddy footprints on a wooden floor. She looked behind herself nervously, relieved to see nothing but yards of smooth red tufting.
Maybe, if she was lucky – and tonight she seemed to have more than just luck on her side — no one but this maid would find out that she had been in some man's bedchambers! Not that she had much need of a reputation now, but still.
They walked for what felt like hours, but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Still, Rhaenyra thought it a wonder that the maid didn’t get lost. Her pace was deft, and hard to match given the long hem and weight of her dress, and so she found herself nearly running to keep up—tripping in her heels several times, despite her efforts to be careful.
But it was worth it, because then they were there — at the ball! The place she had dreamed of for weeks. There seemed to be people everywhere, men and women dressed in their best. Collars were high and nicely pressed, and gowns wide and elaborately trimmed. Still, she did not feel plain in hers — for it sparkled, and the rich color stood out amongst a crowd of pastels.
She avoided whispering her name to the announcer, before taking her place in line and following a stream of hopefuls down the grand steps.
She felt eyes on her the moment she descended into the ballroom, the announcer silent making the sound of her heart pounding all the louder in her ears. The stares felt heavy, but she refused to let them weigh her down. She held her shoulders high while she walked, caring little for the way chatter seemed to stop as she passed by. Let them look, for tonight she was worth looking at. She had been restored to the person she had been before her father died. Before Alicent came into her life.
She wanted people to see what she could be. What she could look like. She even wished Alicent could see her now, for an insult could not come to the lips of someone who had a chance to look at her. She was glorious, and all these people knew it.
They seemed to flock to her, trying to engage her in small talk that she didn’t know the manners for. She stayed quiet, and tittered responses when she had to. She was delighted, when a handsome man asked her to dance — saving her from the society ladies, who made her squirm.
Though she found that in this man's gaze, she wanted to squirm for an entirely different reason. She knew who he was, how could she not? Targaryen’s were known for their looks — their unique features, that seemed to redefine what beautiful was, while completely encompassing the word. Striking, was what came to mind, as his purple eyes pierced hers.
He was younger than she expected, for a prince. But she supposed he was nearly twenty years the King’s junior, quite the scandal their father had stirred. He was slim and had soft features, slightly rounded, not chiseled like she had imagined, but still very handsome.
His grip was gentle, a palm at her waist, a hand at her shoulder. They seemed to glide together, like smoke from a flame — going in circles, lazy loops in which they found themselves growing closer. He guided her well, with his soft hands, making her feel secure in every movement. Soon she was smiling, enjoying herself for the first time in — gods, forever.
She felt as light as the air around her, so…buoyant, and gauzy, as if she was living this evening through a lens. But gods she never wanted it to end, she thought she could live a better life in this man's arms, and die a better death.
She was grateful, when he didn’t let go of her after the dance ended. His palm still felt light on her waist, but present all the same, as he escorted her from the dance floor. He made it clear she was on his arm, and no one else dared approach her. It made her feel warm, how quickly this man had taken to her. How quickly her body seemed to take to him.
She was too distracted, by him, and his charming grin, to feel the other set of violet eyes on her.
She followed him past the balcony and through the gardens and they talked and talked, about everything and nothing and the wonderful and the horrible. It was delightful to have some company of her own age who wasn’t rude or demeaning. He was kind and handsome and she quite wanted to kiss him.
She was too distracted, by him, to realize the time, until it was nearly midnight.
The last words, before they parted were his, “Do not go — not before I get your name!” He said, clutching her hand.
She heard the clock tower ring, and pulled her hand from his grip. Like all of him, it was gentle, she pulled from it easily. Fingers fell to her skirts hiking them up as she ran — uncaring of how she looked now, simply terrified that this disguise of beauty would fall away.
She didn’t want him to see her, the real her. She wanted to be remembered as this magical version of herself by at least one person. Perhaps the ghost of this could haunt him, while the reality could only disappoint him.
She stumbled, losing a shoe and kicking off the other. She kept running, and before she disappeared the last thing she heard was from the Prince’s lips was a cry, and then,
“I’m Aegon Targaryen!”
Daemon had seen a lot of pretty women in his life. He’d had his fair share of them, too, hundreds — if not thousands. Life had been kind to him, in both looks and social standing. He was desirable as a man, and impossible to resist as King. Not that women ever tried. He had never forced a woman into his bed, though some did require more encouragement than others.
They always gave in, they always came, and they always left craving more of him.
He liked to think he could tell. That he knew enough about a woman’s mind and body to read what she craved. Enough that he knew, when she desired what he did. Sometimes the desire for it was buried beneath expectations of their station or other responsibilities — but these could be set aside.
The only thing he wanted buried was his cock within their cunt, and if he had to be patient to get that, he could be.
What mattered is that he always got what he wanted.
And…he wanted her.
He was confident he could offer her more pleasure than she’d find with his brother. The boy was just that; a boy. Daemon had given him whores, and heard their reports. His cock may harden but he was soft with them. Sweet. One woman had said. “ Like he was trying to please his mother and not a lover.” She had said, with a giggle. Another had called him meek, “Like a mouse, afraid of pussy!” She squealed before Daemon had her.
No, his brother was too hesitant, too tentative to inspire much in women. He may have wanted this girl for himself, the one with silver hair and fair skin and no name. But he wanted her the way a girl wanted for a pony. He would brush at her mane, and admire her. But leave her care up to others. And most importantly…
He would not ride her.
She would be stabled and unsatisfied with his brother, a shame for a girl as beautiful as her.
But…she would not pick mere pleasure over a proposal from a prince. No woman would refuse such an offer.
He would have to offer a better proposal. Why would one be a Princess when they could be Queen?
Morning After
She heard whispers of it under her sister's breath. The mysterious girl that showed up to the ball, without a name and wearing an elaborate red gown. Helaena tried to include Rhaenyra as best she could in the conversation, “I wish you could have been there.” She said, and it even sounded genuine from the sweeter of the two girl’s.
“The way the prince looked at her…Oh I could tell it was love at first sight!” She said with a sigh. “I wonder when they will get married.” she sounded dreamy, but her sister Aegatha was not as enthusiastic, “He wouldn’t marry a girl with no name!” She insisted.
Alicent spoke next, “He would marry a girl of means, though, and no peasant could afford such a thing.”
Rhaenyra chewed on her lip nervously, a habit that had replaced rotating her rings. For her favorite rings disappeared one by one until her fingers were left empty. When she had asked of them, Alicent said her cleaning routine would have ruined them, anyway.
Then, she knew they had not just been stolen. They had likely been sold.
Resentment bubbled at the memory, as Rhaenyra politely nodded before pouring their tea. Breakfast was an assortment of biscuits, jams, and honey. Rhaenyra would likely pick at whatever stale crumbs were left after her morning chores.
The bitterness tasted like bile at the back of her throat. The hatred for what she had been reduced to made her want to vomit. Made her want to expel whatever part of her had allowed this to happen. Made her wish her father was alive, so she could hate him instead. How had he let this woman into their lives? Not just let her, but welcomed her. And now she was reduced to a servant in what used to be her home.
They didn’t know that she was the girl from the ball. The one the prince wanted to marry. She wasn’t sure if they had seen her, but if they had, well, then they hadn’t seen her. Alicent and her daughters didn’t look at people, they looked at what people had.
Even then, Alicent said the Prince would marry a girl of means, but her girls could hardly be considered such a thing. She was not above lying to get a place in the castle, though. What Alicent craved above all else was a place near — if not on the throne.
The King was of a similar age to Alicent. Rhaenyra was surprised Alicent didn’t pursue him herself. She certainly thought highly enough of herself, forcing Rhaenyra to treat her as queen of her own castle. When the reality was closer to a twice widow of a decaying chateau.
Day After
The Prince had started a search for the mysterious girl. Funded by the King himself, desperate to find his brother's match. Her sisters, and she assumed, all of the townspeople, spoke of the King’s kindness. The loyalty to his brother, for him to show such desperation to find a girl that was not his own.
She should be flattered, she thought. She should be excited — at the possibility of being a princess.
She had liked the Prince. She had danced with him and laughed with him and wanted to kiss him. But now…
It seemed the Prince had not seen her either. There was little description of her face and features, no, they had a shoe. Is that all their night came down to, for him? The pretty disguise that magically transformed her into something spectacular. Could he not recall anything but her clothing? Could he not recall her?
Not even her eye color had impacted his memory, and yet he claimed to love her. She thought, perhaps, a marriage to a man like that would be a different sort of prison than the chateau. She was something pretty to put on a shelf, something he wanted for himself.
She warmed at that, she hadn’t been wanted in so long. But was that truly a better life?
She chewed on her lip. It was hard to imagine a worse life. She would eat better, and likely sleep better in the palace. She would have to leave what little remained of her mother, of her happy childhood behind. But there was no hope left here, no hope of happiness between these walls. Not anymore. Not without Aemma. Not with Alicent.
She would go to the palace. She had no proof, but she hoped he would remember her face — even if he couldn’t describe it, surely he would know it was her? How could he not, when he claimed to love her?
Week After
She waited. She planned the day — she would go when Alicent and her sisters would be at tea — a whole week after the ball, she was hopeful by that time the seas would have slightly calmed. She had her best dress pressed, and she thought given the time, there would no longer be thousands of potential princesses pounding at the palace gates.
She would appear, she would petition the guards, refusing to leave until the Prince saw her. He said he wanted to see every maiden, it was not such an impossible thought, that he would see her too.
But when the royal banners approached the chateau, the look in Alicent’s eyes was knowing. Rumors had spread — the girl had long silver hair that seemed to shine golden in the candlelight. No one knew her eye color, just that it was unusual. The girl was unlike anyone the prince had seen before.
Perhaps because she had been locked away.
Alicent was smart enough to put the pieces together. Smart enough to shove her towards the attic when the Prince approached. Smart enough to shut the outside latch — trapping the girl in the house's highest walls.
But, Alicent did not think of her window. Rhaenyra had never leapt from it, too afraid of death if she fell — but now she was more afraid of staying. If Alicent knew she had snuck out, knew the prince wanted her. She would…she would kill her, or worse.
The Prince wanting Rhaenyra over her own daughters was a sin Alicent would not forgive her for.
But for once, Rhaenyra refused to suffer it.
The chateau had been poorly maintained since her fathers death — her chores only pertaining to the quality of life inside its walls. While the ones outside of it, had crumbled. The loose stone was terrifying to cling to, turning to dust between her fingers and causing her to slip. But she refused to fall.
She looked down, cringing at the height, but determined to find proper footholds for her bare feet. She was weak from lack of food, but strong from overwork. The muscles in her arms held as she worked her way down, until she collapsed outside the house in an overgrown patch of garden.
It had been her mothers garden once, she thought, as she reached out to feel the velvety petal of a rose. The thicket had turned ugly from years without any maintenance, but its potential for beauty still shone through – quite like Rhaenyra herself, perhaps.
She knew she could not stay there, amongst the roses, for they may feel soft but like Alicent they had thorns. And she had not come from such a height to be stopped without reaching the palace.
The palace was miles away. She knew the way, and knew it would be treacherous — taking most of the day. She would have to stay off the road, out of sight until she could appear before the Prince. Petition him to take her hand, to take her, even if she was not what he remembered.
For it seemed he wasn’t what she remembered, and yet she was still desperate to be with him.
Or, perhaps, just desperate to be out of Alicent’s grasp. She would rather cling to a husband than know the pain of that woman’s cruelty.
Alicent would realize she was missing, Rhaenyra knew. She would check her rooms after the Prince left — likely come to them flushed, excited by the thought of punishing her. She shivered at that, the memories of her hands and sharp nails grabbing at her. Slapping her. Gripping her. Refusing to let go of her, despite how much she hated her.
If she was lucky, she would never see Alicent again.
She was lucky, she thought to herself as she paced the room. It was an office, with a grand desk and huge window that looked out into — well, it appeared to be a rose garden. How fitting.
She hadn’t been here for long.
The guards hadn’t denied her at the door, but they had been skeptical. Her lips were once again chapped, her hands and nails cracked. Her dress was grimy, and she knew she looked a far cry from the beauty of that night. She had been traveling side roads for hours, and even her usual poor state was turned into something worse by fatigue and fear.
Then the luck came, and the maid recognized her.
“Let her in.” She beckoned to the butler, which was surely improper? A maid making demands of a butler? And he listened! Backing away from the door and letting her through its intimidating archway.
“You look a mess.” The woman said, making a tsking noise. “Usually he pays the poor ones. What happened?” Rhaenyra blinked at her, uncertain as to what she meant. “I-I don’t know.” She said, truly, so stunned by the women’s questioning that she was unsure of how to respond.
“I’ll take you to his office, tell him to correct this oversight.” The maid said. She was so bold, Rhaenyra should have realized she wasn’t a maid at all.
Later, Rhaenyra would remain unsure of the women’s place. She seemed content to live her life in the place of a maid, but had the respect of even the heads of the palace. For she knew all there was to know about everyone — getting on her bad side would follow a sure trip to a bad life. And so people bowed to her, listened to her, even though she was a woman, even though she was in service.
They called her the master of whispers, a title that made the woman grin. A grin that spoke of so many hidden secrets, one could scarcely imagine how one person had come to know them all.
Rhaenyra thought the woman, Mysaria, might be a witch. Might be magic. She had known magic, that night of the ball. The night they had first met. Perhaps she had facilitated it?
She was too focused on following the woman — who Rhaenyra thought was far more mysterious than herself — to notice the portraits she passed.
If she had, she would have recognized a true witch. For the ghost of one Alyssa Targaryen had visited her earlier that same week. The pretty hair, and mismatched features were impossible to miss, if someone wasn’t so flustered and distracted.
She nearly slammed into the woman, when she stopped at a door. It was opened, she was pushed through it, and ordered to stay there before Mysaria the — maid? Disappeared.
She looked around the room, biting her lips nervously. She felt all the more unclean, being in such a pristine space. She wondered if she would ever adapt to this, if she would suit living a life here. Would grandeur become the norm? Would being waited on fix a decade of being forced to wait on others?
Would she always feel so out of place here?
She had just settled her gaze on the garden when the door opened.
She thought the Prince would come for her, but it was the King. He looked surprised to see her, as he brushed past her and took a seat in the grand chair behind the desk. His fingers were steepled, as he looked at her. And he looked… every bit the royalty he was, she thought.
If the Prince had been younger than she expected, this man was older. The beginning of lines marred his face, but they did not seem like faults for they just brought attention to his striking features. He had a soft mouth, but she knew of his reputation, only hard words would come from it. It was paired with a sharp jaw, and large nose — but everything was balanced, and beautiful.
And his eyes. They were the color she had only seen in her own mirror. A deep purple, like an enchanted pool so foreign and unique she was desperate to swim in it. She settled now, for just staring, knowing she was being rude but being unable to care. Because he was so handsome.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” He said, leaning forward, “Which is odd, since Mysaria seems insistent I’ve bedded you.”
His eyes stared at her, seeming to take in her form. She shivered in his gaze, it was not warm it was… hot. It burned in a not entirely pleasant way, like he was seeing through her flesh and into her soul. She didn’t like it, it felt invasive, but there was no way to avoid it.
So she stood. And he stared.
“But I have seen you before. You’re my brother’s Mystery girl.” He said, and she swallowed — the sound audible in the room, which was quiet except for the crackle of a fire.
“I’m sorry, I shall not call you my brother’s girl, truly, an inaccurate statement. You are merely the girl my brother is looking for.”
He stood then, walking closer to her. “You look different.” He said, until he was so close she had to tilt her head to see his face. “But I do not use clothing to recognize a woman. Not when such things are so unnecessary.”
She whispered, “Unnecessary?” The first thing she had spoken in his presence. He laughed, and it wasn’t a kind sound. His grip wasn’t kind either, as he tipped up her chin. “A woman has little need to be clothed in my presence.” He explained, and she shivered again at the implications of being nude before him.
He leaned in, closer, until she was taking steps back trying to get away from his form. She failed — eventually hitting a bookcase and giving him the opportunity to use his body as a cage to keep her there. She was now all too aware of the vulnerable position she was in. Precariously balanced on the edge of what was proper to do with a man, even if that man was the King.
When he kissed her, he definitely tipped the scales.
It was her first kiss — at least her first from a man. She had kissed boys as a young girl, when she pretended they were getting married. Or he was a knight, and she was a maiden. But that had been child’s play, quite literally, compared to this.
His lips were warm, his breath hot inside her own mouth. His grip on her jaw was firm, but not painful. He was commanding her, with his touch and his tongue and she felt herself slipping under his spell. His lips felt so good against her own, she couldn’t help but return it — seek out his mouth with her tongue. Nip at his lip, as he had done to hers. Taste the moans that he offered in response to her ministrations.
But this was… wrong.
He was a stranger!
And…”I’m to marry your brother.” She cried against his mouth, hands pressing at his chest.
She tried not to focus on how her fingers clung to his lapels, her body wanting to pull him closer even as she tried to push him away.
But the King, he laughed, and the sound was still cruel.
“Would you rather be with a man who finds your face enchanting, or one who only searches for your foot?”
She gaped at that, and his fingers stroked at her cheek. “I’m not marrying the prince?” She asked, quietly asked as a question— their lips were still so close. She could just lean forward and close her eyes and… no!
Her lids had grown lazy, but they snapped open as she tried to pull away.
“You’re not marrying the prince.” He confirmed, tilting her head back and pressing his lips to hers once more.
She told him still, it was wrong.
“This is for a man and wife to do,” she panted, as his teeth nipped at her neck.
“Don’t worry.” Was all he said. And then,
“We’ll be married soon.”
He released her, after a time, stroking her face softly before calling out sharply. A maid appeared, as if by magic, head bowed to her King. He spoke quickly, words Rhaenyra could understand but was too tired to truly listen to. She felt groggy from the stress and exertion of the day. Felt confused, from the way the King spoke of her — from the way he kissed her.
The maid took her arm, touch gentle compared to that of the Kings. She spoke kindly to her, patting at her hair before pulling her from the study. Rhaenyra felt like a child, trailing behind her, trying to find the energy to keep up with her but barely managing.
She felt drained, so much so that even the sight of a bath did little to excite her.
The gleaming tub was positioned in front of a fire, and steam rose from the fragrant water — swirling with the nearby smoke on its way to the high ceilings.
She was distracted by this, for a moment, eyes following its path before the maid pulled her closer. The maid was forward, unlacing her dress swiftly and not asking before pushing it towards the floor. The woman patted her side to get her to raise her arms, and then the chemise was stripped off too.
She felt a bit like a pony, having its saddle removed and being brushed down from the day. But she had no fur to protect her, and she shivered a little, embarrassed by the state of her fatigued form. But the lady had no concern for modesty, taking her hand and helping Rhaenyra step into the tub.
The water was warm, almost too warm — it burned, and it melted her down like the wax of a candle, bringing her body closer to the heated surface until she was fully covered by it. Her face was the wick, remaining exposed and looking up at the ceiling.
She closed her eyes, wishing she was a candle, for then her worries would melt away too.
Even unable to escape concern for what to come, she had to admit this was bliss. Everything seemed better with her body submerged in the steaming water. Muscles were soothed by the heat, her body truly relaxing for the first time in…years, she thought. She was always last to bathe — the water was tepid by the time she stepped in it, usually too tired from the day's work to reheat it for herself.
Hot water like this was a luxury she was unaccustomed to — as were the scented oils. They danced on the surface of the bath, disrupted only by the water dripping from her chin. It was enchanting, she thought, and distracting enough to her tired mind that she did not realize — or attempt to stop the maid, until she was already tending to Rhaenyra.
The maid was thorough, rubbing her with honied soap that felt creamy as freshly churned butter against her skin. She could feel its nectar seeping into her flesh as it bubbled, softening what it could and leaving behind a delicious film across the surface of her body.
She blushed, as the maid worked the soap into her breasts — fingers moving lower, even going as far as scrubbing between her toes! It seemed highly unnecessary, but she did not want to dirty their sheets, either. And she knew the maid was only doing her duties — if Rhaenyra denied her, she may well be punished.
Rhaenyra knew all too much of what that could entail.
So she sat still, enjoying the hot water and trying to ignore the feeling of hands on her. She did a good job of it, until the maid's fingers moved to her hair — massaging her scalp and making her moan, because she had never felt something so wonderful before.
She was embarrassed, when the maid repeatedly washed her hair — three times with the rose scented soap, before it was entirely clean. But she could not be bothered by it, when it felt so delectable. The scratch of nails on her scalp made her shiver, as she found herself leaning into the woman's touch.
When her hair was free of debris, the maid used her fingers to detangle and distribute oils through it. When the worst of the knots were split, an ornately carved bone comb was used. Rhaenyra wasn’t sure how long it took, but it seemed an age before her hair was completely tangle free and floating around her. Now it was disrupting the oils on the surface.
It was delightful though, to feel the gentle tug on her hair as someone — for the first time in years took care of her. She had forgotten what that felt like, and now she was greedy for it.
She left the bath shortly thereafter, the maid helping her out of the tub before drying her off with soft towels. She was helped into a chemise and sat at a vanity, while the maid worked to braid her hair. Rhaenyra was too tired to protest any of it, too tired to even ask questions. She just let the maid tend to her, and luxuriated in being tended to, for the first time in years.
She looked a bit unrecognizable, after the bath and the woman’s kindness. Her cheeks were rosy and face clean in a way it hadn’t been since she was a child. Eventually her silver locks were plaited, and the maid's hands brushed her shoulders. “Let’s get you some food, and then to bed with you.”
The food was decadent — warm rolls with butter, and meats tender enough to cut with a fork. The sides were hearty, sprouts and ham glazed in honey leaving it savory and sweet. She thought she could eat a dozen plates, it was so good, but even the one left her feeling overly full.
She nearly cried when she had to deny dessert, too afraid her stomach would protest the rich food that already filled it. The maid looked sympathetic, promising she could have custard tomorrow. But Rhaenyra was so tired she wasn’t sure tomorrow would ever come.
She was too tired to notice that she had been in these rooms before.
Too tired to realize that these rooms were the King’s own chambers.
She was too tired to wake, even when he slipped in bed beside her.
After years of living in the attic, where the temperature ranged from almost unbearably humid to terribly cold, waking up feeling warm and comfortable was the most wonderful thing.
The feeling of being well rested was almost better than the feeling of being clean, of being, full. But the combination of the three…god. She felt like so much more than herself. She felt like she had as a girl, gleeful and hopeful — like she could do anything.
Who knew that a night's rest and soft sheets would transform her so! She’d think it a dream, but not even those were so wonderful. Alicent had deprived her of the comforts required to restore her. She realized that now, how she had taken everything from her.
She was going to get it back.
She was going to marry the King.
She just…hadn’t expected to bed him yet.
She wasn’t prepared for his arms to wrap around her waist, for her back to be pulled to his front.
She let out a startled yelp, in fact, fingers immediately clawing at the grip he had on her waist. He laughed at her, letting out a chuckle at her surprise, before pulling her all the closer to him, uncaring of her protests.
“Is something the matter?” He asked, voice nonchalant and clear given that his mouth was mere inches from her ear. “This is indecent.” She whispered, fighting the embarrassment and anger that pooled in her gut.
“Sharing a bed with your betrothed is indecent?” He asked, but his voice was knowing.
She huffed, trying to turn in his arms but finding herself held too tightly. “ Yes.” She said finally, hoping the emotions were clear in her tone.
“Well then, why were you in my bed?”
She gaped, the nerve of this man, “I didn’t know it was your bed!” She cried, obviously she never would have slept here if she knew. But this was where the maids took her — where he told the maids to take her.
“ Why did you send me to your rooms?” She asked, mad at herself for how high her voice was — gone was the gleeful and hopeful girl from that morning, but now she truly sounded like a whiny child.
He hummed, one of his hands slipping lower — disturbingly close to the hem of her chemise. She reached down, grabbing his hand, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. It continued its pursuit, until it was buried between her legs, with only the thin linen between his palm and her mound.
“You know why I sent you here.” He said, pressing himself all the closer to her. Close enough she could feel his length at her back and the feeling was so foreign she wriggled in his embrace, but he just moaned, and then she blushed and went completely still.
“As my wife, you'll sleep in my rooms. Do more than just that, in my bed.” He said, his fingers slipping further between her thighs.
“I am not yet your wife.” She cried, and he laughed again. “You will be in a few hours.” He insisted, and she gaped, that was so soon. “Th—then you can wait a few hours!” She said, and he sighed before reluctantly rolling away.
A part of her missed the warmth and weight of him against her, there was something comforting about it, even if she fought it. Her body graved the embrace and touch it had gone so many years without. She just wasn’t ready… yet. She was pleased that he seemed to respect her wish, even though his nose was wrinkled and his face a picture of frustration.
If he would respect her in this — when she was nearly naked, in his bed, and at his mercy, then perhaps he would be a respectful husband too. She hoped so.
How quickly she had adjusted to this. Yesterday she had been convinced she was to wed a prince, but now that thought made her a bit sick. He seemed so young now, so… soft. Still, she had fancied the man, and he had scoured the city for her! It inspired her to ask after him, which Daemon…did not take well too.
“He won’t be a problem.” He said, as he emerged from the covers — she squeaked and turned away quickly, because he was naked! And he seemed entirely too casual about being in that state! Was this what he expected from her? She couldn’t even imagine wandering around their rooms nude. Ugh. Royalty were supposed to have decency, damn it!
“There has been upset in the Stepstones. Your dear prince will tend to it and return in a fortnight.” She could feel him approaching her, even if she couldn’t see it. Just like she could feel the press of his chest — his still bare chest, against her back.
“You’ll be Queen by then.” He said, his lips nearly touching her skin as they whispered. She shivered, she wasn’t sure if it was from the sound of his voice or his words. Perhaps it was both. She craved him just as much as the position he’d give her. She had been weak for so long, being in a place of… power, even if it was over a Kingdom and not her husband, seemed too compelling to resist.
She’d trade her old life for that. She’d trade her body too. She would warm the King’s bed if it meant warm meals and warm rooms during the harsh winters.
This life would be kinder to her, she was sure.
She just hoped the King would be kind to her, too.
She didn’t see much of the King, on the morning she was supposed to wed him. Well, except for when she had woken up and seen entirely too much of him. Thinking of that made her blush, and her embarrassment just made her blush harder. The ever attentive maid was giving her an odd look, as she lathered oil into her rough skin and attempted to buff and polish her splintered nails.
She did a remarkably good job, and Rhaenyra wasn’t sure whether it had to do with the maid's talents or the quality of her… potions, because they seemed too effective to be anything other than magical mixtures rather than simple creams, at least to Rhaenyra. Some of them were liquids that smelled delightful, and a bit was dabbled here and there until she smelled delightful too.
After the maid stepped away, Rhaenyra could see her reflection for the first time, and she thought—slightly awed, that she almost looked like a princess.
She hadn’t realized she said as much, until the maid laughed. “My lady, you’ll be no princess, you’ll be queen.” She said, patting her shoulders affectionately. She shivered slightly at that, still unused to the casual touch.
Though perhaps, she would need to adjust quickly, given the intimacy that would be expected after marrying the King.
That was a topic the maid seemed perhaps not eager, but certainly prepared to speak on as she dressed her. The garments were lacy and delicate and expensive, speaking of the wealth of their owner. When she asked who they belonged to, the maid merely looked puzzled, “They are yours, my Lady.” She said politely, as she did up the hooks of the corset.
Rhaenyra hadn’t worn one in years — outgrowing her old ones and Alicent insisting they didn’t need to be replaced, for no one would see her. Her stomach often ached without the support, and her breasts which had grown since then felt heavy. It was almost a relief, to be laced into the garment — like a comforting embrace. A familiarity from when her father was alive. But gods, she looked different as the maid tightened the laces. She’d never seen her waist so small, her bust so… pert. The cleavage was nearly indecent, her skin looking fair even against its pearlescent colored satin.
The dress she put atop it did little to hide her bosom, the wide collar dipping low at the front and baring far too much cleavage. She was grateful it didn’t require a hoop, at least, her father had died before those were the fashion and she did not envy her stepsisters for wearing the steel contraptions. Instead, several layers of fluffy starched petticoats trimmed with lace were tied at her waist. She liked the freedom of movement it offered, and had the childish desire to swirl in the mirror and see her skirts flare.
The dress was of red velvet, not what she would expect from a wedding — but the maid warned her it would not be a normal ceremony. “A proper wedding would take months to plan — many Lord’s and Lady’s would attend, the alternative is a…” She trailed off, taking a moment to find her words.
“It’s a Valerian tradition, much more intimate. But it's strange .” She said, leaving it at that, “I’ve never witnessed the ceremony before, I shouldn’t speak about it.” Her face almost looked sympathetic, before she distracted herself with the hooks sewn into the back of her velvet gown.
The maid clapped excitedly when she was finished, “You look like a Queen now, my Lady.” Rhaenyra was prepared to disagree, for it was impolite to accept such a grand compliment. But when she looked in the mirror she couldn’t help but agree, she did look like a Queen. She would try to have confidence in that, and not fear what to come.
Though it was hard not to, as the maid sat next to her on the soft mattress. “Do you know what is expected of you tonight?” Rhaenyra blushed, looking down at her palms — marveling again at how smooth they seemed. To be honest, she didn’t know much of what was expected — her mother had passed long before she was of an age to learn such things. And Alicent had never expected her to wed, never seen a need to inform her. If anything, she made crude comments about how Rhaenyra should already know, as if the curve of her flesh meant her morals were shapely too. It was insulting, but so was most of what Alicent said — or rather, spat, in her direction.
She didn’t want the maid's pity, didn’t want to tell her that. So she simply shook her head, too embarrassed to even look up. But the maid was kind, taking her hands in hers and smiling softly. In that moment, with her blonde hair, the maid quite reminded her of her mother. This was comforting to Rhaenyra, as the older woman spoke of what was to occur.
There were words such as pleasure mixed amongst penetration, and it all sounded scary and uncomfortable and a bit terrible. But she promised it wouldn’t be, that the King would be kind to her. She wanted to argue, for he did not seem a terribly kind man. But he had honored her refusal that morning, perhaps there would be some honor in this too.
“Do you understand now?” The maid asked, and Rhaenyra nodded.
Tea was brought then — and little pastries, and Rhaenyra ate so many she feared her corset would have to be loosened. It seemed as time passed it was harder to take deep breaths, but the maid looked sympathetic when she said so, responding by saying it was nervousness.
Rhaenyra didn’t think so. She had lived a nervous life, teetering on the edge of not knowing what was to come but knowing it would be cruelty. This was different. It was…anticipation, perhaps. But still with a sense of mystery — she was reminded of swimming as a child, being afraid to jump in, but excited too.
It was odd. Perhaps how one should expect to feel on their wedding day, but not how she expected to feel given the circumstances. Maybe it was a sign from the gods — from her godmother, the fairy who had visited her, that this union would be something good.
And maybe, if what the maid said was true, it would feel good too.
Still, her stomach rolled as she was led to the door — down a hall, of what seemed to be miles of that soft carpet. “The King is expecting you in the throne room.” The Maid said softly, as she escorted her down several flights of stairs and to an elaborate doorway.
“It will just be you, the King, and the Septon.” She promised, giving her hand a final pat before turning away. Rhaenyra mourned the loss of the woman who reminded her so much of her mother, the woman who had been so kind to her. But she was determined on this day, too, and so she turned the knob and thrust the throne room doors open.
The King was sitting, poised on a throne made from a velvet that seemed to match her gown and his fine suit. He looked every bit the King he was, with his good posture and intimidating stature. His gaze was exacting, as it fell on her — and his smile made her think he was pleased by her. The thought made her smile a bit too, already finding some hope in his happiness in her. He stood, and she stumbled trying to curtsey quickly. He waved her off, insisting that, “Soon we shall be equals my wife.” When he was close enough to take her hand he pulled her to him, seeming to delight when she stumbled and found her hands purchased on his chest.
“So eager.” He teased, tipping her chin and pressing a gentle kiss onto her lips. “Shall we proceed?” He asked, but it did not seem a question. She nodded anyway, and heard the steps of another person approaching — the Septon, the maid had said.
She took a deep breath, turning to see the highly decorated godly man who stood before them. He held a leather bound book in one hand, and alarmingly, a knife in the other, which he passed to the King. She felt her stomach roll again, wondering if today would not end in a marriage but end in a death. “Fear not,” The King said, seeming to sense her thoughts. “We shall both bleed for each other today.”
It was strange how that calmed her, knowing that he would be on the same end of the knife as her. But she still worried, biting at her lip before he caught it with his thumb. “Please.” He said, and his eyes were locked with hers but his words spoken to the Septon who opened his book and began.
She didn’t recognize the words, but the Septon spoke in a foreign language — words fast and strange. She was grateful to find her vows in English though, as she was told to repeat after him. They were short, and hers spoken in a shaky voice. Daemon was confident in this, as he was in seemingly everything. His words were clear as he pledged his life to her, and promised to care for her.
Time seemed to swirl, as the Septon spoke again — and then there was a ring pressed onto her finger, and lips pressed against hers.
When he pulled back, the King smiled. She didn’t realize it was an apology until after she felt the knife against her lip. She gasped, jerking back, but the blood had already spilled — she was horrified, all the more so when he held the blade to his own lips. It was not a deep knick, but still! Bloodletting! At a wedding! It was obscene, and indecent, and then his lips crashed against hers and she found she had few complaints that could not be quieted with a kiss.
When it ended, she licked the blood from her lips, and he grinned. Then like a madman the knife was against his wrist, and there was a goblet — and she drank a mixture of wine and blood and gods, maybe she was mad too, because it tasted sweet and made her greedy for more of him.
The ceremony ended after they drank. The Septon nodded before politely leaving through the doors Rhaenyra herself had come through minutes earlier. He kissed her again, and her head swam — she was not sure if it was from the wine or him, but she was unable to focus on anything — even his lips. She was grateful when he pulled back, but he did not go far — his hand clung to her arm, the grip tight and commanding. There were no witnesses to see the way he dragged her to his throne, and certainly no one there to hear the rapid beating of her heart.
He sat on the throne, and she swallowed — feeling awkward standing before him, unsure if he expected her to bow or kneel. But instead, he pulled her into his lap. Light kisses were pressed down her back and the exposed skin of her shoulder, while fingers held her waist like a vice.
The grip eased, as his lips intensified, nipping at her flesh and laving at it with his tongue in a way that warmed her core. While his mouth wandered, his hands were precise — undoing the little hooks at the back of the dress and pulling it away from her chest.
She barely noticed when his hand dove under the velvet, untying her petticoats and stroking fingertips against the corset lacing. She felt a little breathless now, once again wondering if it was the corset but she was beginning to think it was just him. He made her this way, flushed, and speechless. Struck dumb by his lips, and happy for it.
It was embarrassing, how little she thought of propriety, as her dress was pulled down — as she was pushed to her feet and the layers were yanked to the floor. The King moaned at what was exposed, his fingers gentle as they stroked across the top of her bust. Reverent, she thought, in his approach to touching her flesh.
It was quite like she was a delicate piece of china and he was being careful not to break her.
The thought made her giggle, for a man of his wealth did not have to worry about breaking teacups.
Still, his hands were gentle as they stroked down her sides. It made her feel a bit tingly, how his hands grasped her waist — fingertips nearly touching around the laced figure that she could scarcely believe belonged to her. He turned her, in his grasp, and she inhaled sharply as his hands began undoing the crossed ribbons that lay across her back.
She wondered how many times he had done this before, for he knew to loosen the garment before removing it. She thought a less experienced man would go straight for the hooks — but not him, and she felt his fingertips slipping beneath the tightly woven twill before pulling the lengths of ribbon through the eyelets. She could hear herself breathing deeply now, even though he had barely touched her! And soon she would not have the corset to blame, for his fingers roamed to the clasps and it fell from her flesh.
She turned in his grip again, his thumbs brushing the globes of her breast — nipples peeking through the fine cotton she had been dressed in. She wouldn’t remain dressed in it for long though, for he stripped her of that layer too. She closed her eyes, feeling embarrassed at being exposed to him — still fully clothed and on his throne.
“Open your eyes.” He commanded, and when she did he was just… leaning, hand perched under his chin as he gazed at her. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said, before curling his finger in a gesture that made her step forward. His hands returned to her waist then, pulling her form into his lap.
She felt indecent, back pressed against his chest — legs spread over her lap, exposing herself to the vacant room. She shivered, but she wasn’t sure why, she wasn’t cold, if anything she felt so warm. It radiated from her stomach, what had the maid said? The heat of her womb! It needed to be soothed by his seed, she said.
But he seemed not to have such intentions, at least not yet, for it was his fingers that wandered to her folds not his… cock. They stroked the outer lips, gently at first, before slipping between them — eased by moisture that she wasn’t entirely sure how came to exist there. But still, she was grateful for it as he slid a finger inside. They moaned in tandem as he did, at the stretch. It was wonderful, she thought, not awkward at all. And then there was a second finger and that stretched too, and made her squirm a little because it was a less pleasant fit. But as it curled inside of her, as his wrist moved between her thighs, it seemed to improve. Until it was good. Until it was better than good, and she was moaning in earnest as fingers thrust into her folds over and over.
Then his thumb brushed something and that was it, she was shaking and fisting his robes trying to ground herself for surely she was going to float away! But she didn’t, and in a few moments she came back to herself, panting but stable on the King’s lap. Was this what the maid had spoken of? The release? She thought it only came when the man did, but it seemed it was not so. Perhaps she had been right, and her husband was kind, for he had certainly made her feel good.
She was a bit breathless, as she came back to herself, his fingers still playing with her wet folds.
They were still damp, as his fingers squeezed her breasts, and she arched against his palms — pressing further into them, while rocking back against his chest. She felt so surrounded, by the King, by her husband, and they hadn’t even… done it yet.
But they were going to, she realized, as he reached beneath her — freeing the length of flesh she had felt hard against her bum. She was grateful for the positioning, that she couldn’t see what was going to enter her, she feared the sight of what would split her open. For truly it would, the maid had said so — that she may bleed when he entered her. That her body would give a final protest as he broke past what shielded her womb.
But after that…she promised it would feel good.
Though she couldn’t imagine how, not now, not with the press of his length against her — for it felt large, far larger than two fingers, and she wasn’t sure how he was going to get it to fit. His fingers were back, prying her open until she was stretched wide enough for his girth. She keened, as his cock slid alongside his fingers, before those were quickly pulled from her and the rest of his length was pressed in.
She thought she might have screamed. She was pretty sure she reopened the gash on her lips, tasting blood — and when she looked down she saw blood too, but her husband did not seem discouraged. His fingers roamed back to that place, that little nub atop it all, and when he rubbed that her body seemed to both tense and relax.
It did not take long, of him touching that spot to make her forget the hurt of his cock. Her body eased its entry, like it had his fingers — growing wet until the slide was not so dry, not so painful. And again, like his fingers, soon it was not painful at all. Soon it felt good, and there were lips on her neck and fingers playing with the lips of her cunt, and she could feel every thrust and she could feel so much.
She pressed her hand to her stomach, sure she would be able to feel his cock, for she seemed to feel everything. It was overwhelming. It was exhilarating. She wanted it to end. She never wanted to escape it. She was conflicted and she was — coming.
She gasped when she came, and her King groaned as he followed — the tensing of her muscles forcing his release to come swiftly.
They were both panting in the aftermath, and he moaned when she pressed on her stomach — clenching down unintentionally on the softening member inside of her.
He slipped out soon after, and was tucked away before she was turned — so she had still not seen what had invaded her. She felt what it had left behind though, the seed that sated her wombs hunger. She felt wet and warm and sleepy and it was so easy to lay her head on his chest — the velvet of his suit matching that of her discarded dress.
His hands wandered as she dozed, over her waist and breasts. And he whispered sweet things to her, too, little promises — most of which she wouldn’t remember. Some of which she wouldn’t want to remember, for he swore he’d have her like this in front of an audience. His little wife writhing on his lap while he attended to courtiers. How he never wanted to sit on his throne without being seated in her cunt. How he wanted to breed her here, and fill her with heirs that one one day wear his crown.
She was born to have children, he thought, with the generous dip of her waist and wide hips.
No — she was born to have his children.
And he was born to have her.
He thought she would be a good queen.
But she would be an even better wife.
It was funny to think how his brother had been concerned with the fit of a shoe when she was so obviously fit for a King.
