Im looking for face claims for fem!jace, fem!luce, and aged up fem!joffery.
For jace- someone with more chiseled features and preferably someone on the taller side who gives off extremely noble and respectable vibes
For luke- I'm pretty I'm gonna go with hailee steifeld mostly because in the 2013 Romeo and Juliet movie she's giving the exact vibes I'm picturing for this story. Very sweet and innocent but with the fact she does really age I can use Dickinson for inspo when I need a more fierce image in my mind but if you have someone better pls comment it
For joff- this is the one that's been giving me the most trouble because I want someone who I can picture as a menace. That's not afraid to threaten the king or her pompous uncle but I can also see as very genuine and caring to her young brothers and idolizes her older sisters
Pls if you have suggestions tell me them I genuinely need this to help me to finally start writing what I have planned
After so much heartbreak and angst on House of the Dragon (with much more to come). I just want some head canons that make me smile.
Here is one I have been holding on to for a while:
Daemon is an incredibly overprotective father but not for any of his blood kids. He is not worried about Rhaena or Baela, they are Laena’s daughters it is more likely that they choose their love interest and they will most likely call all the shots.
In contrast Daemon is incredibly worried about Jace, Luke, and even Joff. They are all so pretty and charming. They take after Rhaenyra so much, and while he loves Rhaenyra he knows what she got up to when she was young. He also knows that what happened between him and Rhaenyra when she was young is not something he would want happening to his boys. He absolutely doesn’t want some roguish man coming in and kissing his boys in brothels offering to take them as their spouse.
Daemon has never felt more stressed when his family meets Viserys’ Hightower brats and he sees the way they look at his boys. He has multiple heart attacks when he sees the one eyed brat (Aemond) and the drunk lecher (Aegon) make eyes at his sweet stepsons. He very much wants to take Aemond’s other eye for the way he is looking at Luke and punch Aegon in the mouth for the way he is smirking at Jace. He can’t deal with this he is going to lock his stepsons up on Dragonstone until they are 50 or until the Hightower brats die whichever comes first.
Daemon has never felt like such a hypocrite. He swears that Viserys has somehow orchestrated all of this to get back at him for the brothel incident ….. and possibly the wedding incident too. At least Daeron is away in Old Town away from Joffrey……… Until Viserys brings him back to the Red Keel to torture his brother. King Viserys has so few amusements and seeing Daemon slowly go bald from seeing these roguish princes of the realm try to seduce his children is the best gift he has ever received. He can die happy now knowing Daemon’s karma has come at last.
Here, I'm going to continue my thoughts on what the OGs think about the ship parallels when they look at lucemond and jacegon.
Alicent feels a deep sense of grief when she sees the looks filled with yearning exchanged between Jacaerys and Aegon. She knows how this ends. Jacaerys will ultimately choose duty over love and break both his own and Aegon's heart in the process. She never thought she would feel any sort of kinship with one of Rhaenyra's bastards but here she was. Seeing Jacaerys repeating her mistakes. She should have taken Rhaenyra up on her offer that day. But what is the point of crying over spilt milk. Nothing remains only longing for something that never was.
And while she mourns for Rhaenyra's heir and her son, when she looks at Aemond and Lucerys, she despairs. She knows this song and dance. Has sat in the first row when it was happening at court the first time. Now she watches it playing out again right in front of her. She thought she had raised Aemond better than for him to try and emulate that despicable man but maybe watching him stalk his nephew like prey, she has to accept that her son is a Targaryan and not even her influence can curb his impulses. If only that little bastard would stop encouraging him. Not behaving like prey being stalked at all. He is the poisonous kind of prey. Beautiful and dangerous, and she worries for Aemond for he might think himself the hunter while walking straight into a deadly trap.
Rhaenyra watches Jace and Aegon dance around each other, and her heart aches with sorrow. Sometimes, she dreams of the carefree days of her youth yet to be marred by the tragedies of life and betrayal, but she also has accepted reality. For dreams are dreams, and they will not change a thing. She knows Jace. He takes duty too seriously. Not rarely does she wish he would lighten up at least a little, but she also does not wish for him to get his heart broken over a fruitless tryst with her useless brother. Maybe Baela was not his first choice, and looking at her and Helaena, neither was he hers, but they are close enough as friends that they will at least not be unhappy together. Aegon will just have to grow up just like Rhaenyra herself had to.
There is another relationship that troubles her much more than Jace and Aegon's yearning for each other. Jace would never do something impulsive that may compromise her claim to the throne, but her brother, Aemond, might. She knows the look he throws at Lucerys all too well. She enjoys it when Daemon directs it at her every time. But Aemond is a different beast from Daemon entirely, and no matter how similar the situations may be, there has never been that much bad blood between Daemon and herself. She worries for Lucerys and worries what her brother's intentions may be. Though, one look at Lucerys tells her that this situation might exceed her control, and she asks herself if this is how her father must have felt when he witnessed Daemon and her own dance.
Daemon does not care either way for Aegon the Spare. From what he has heard, the boy is no threat on his own. A lazy hedonist, nothing more. He does care for Jacaeys, though. He watched the boy grow up into a steadfast and honourable if, unfortunately, much to a serious young man who may actually benefit from getting it wet occasionally. For all Daemon cares, Jacaerys can do what he wants as long as it does not dishonour Baela in any way. If Jacaerys wants to take that pathetic little Prince to bed, then he shall. Daemon knows that Jacaerys would not make a mess of things he is much too meticulous to give their enemies ammunition.
Speaking of messes. He does not have to look too far to find one in the making. He knows he is not supposed to have a favourite son, much like he should not have a favourite daughter, but Daemon is at the end of the day only human, no matter what he likes to believe himself and if he could have one it would be Lucerys who reminds him so much of Rhaenyra when she was young. All the fire. All the sass. Unfortunately, he also knows what effect this kind of behaviour has on young, hot-blooded, Targaryan men. That does not mean he is sympathetic. No, he would like nothing more than to run Dark Sister through Aemond Targaryan's other eye just for the way it keeps following Lucerys wherever he goes. If One-Eye was not so unpredictable, Daemon would welcome it. Having access to the biggest living dragon would be an enormous boon for their side, but he cannot yet believe the devotion in Aemond Targaryan's gaze and as such he would prefer to keep him as far away from Lucerys as possible. This must be how Viserys felt watching Rhaenyra and himself all those years ago, and ultimately, much like Viserys back then, Daemon has no choice but to watch closely and hope that it does not blow up in their faces when the two collide. He has seen the provoking smirks Lucerys has sent One-Eye's way. Much like Rhaenyra, the boy is defiant and bone headed and does what he wants, and where Daemon likes those attributes in Rhaenyra in Lucerys, they drive him up the wall.
Finished this picture for my silly omegaverse fic I'm writing. It's here on AO3 if you're curious.
Also here's a sneak peek of the next chapter wip:
Aemond watched him in silence, a familiar tightness to his lips.
“I just want to have one day when I can simply go and be in peace without everyone losing their minds over it,” Lucerys grumbled, trying not to sound so childish. “Let’s go then. If we’re lucky my family won’t have begun to hunt you down as well. Yet,” he added gloomily.
Lucerys tried to walk past Aemond to Arrax, but he was stopped by the blonde grabbing his bicep. His grip was steady as ever, his hand almost covering the entire circumference of Lucerys’s arm.
“What?” Lucerys asked with a growing irritation, standing still until Aemond forced them to face each other.
He held Lucerys by his chin and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to his lips, closing his eye and staying near to breathe him in for a moment.
“If you’re going to fly off forever, this is your last chance," Aemond said. "After this, I won’t let you go.”
Since we still have no Daeron casting, but filming starts quite soon, I've found and quickly coloured an experimental sketch of Daeron, who looks more like his mother😅💙
Summary: Alys Rivers, the bastard whore who has plagued your arranged marriage to Aemond from the very start. But every woman has her limits, and you have reached yours. In a harsh ultimatum, you finally get her banished. But from whom was Aemond to seek pleasure now?
Warnings: SMUT 18+; targcest; mentioned infidelity; profanity; degradation; intense sex scene; fingering; breeding kink; angst; mentions of murder; canon mean Aemond
Words: 11.1 k
Notes: The reader is Targaryen with white hair (mentioned as Daemon's daughter), no other description is mentioned. If you do not like this content, do not engage with it.
𐔌 . ⋮ aera .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱
Alys. It has always been Alys Rivers—the baseborn witch of Harrenhal, whose allure captured the heart of Aemond Targaryen.
In the noble life, it was hardly an anomaly for a highborn Lord to indulge in the pleasures of mistresses and whores, particularly a Prince of the realm. Yet Alys was no ordinary concubine. She had trapped your husband's affections long before you had even graced his side as his wife, and now her ghost continued to haunt you in the halls of the Red Keep. Her presence plagued not only your marriage but threatened the very fabric of your family.
You could endure the role of the resentful wife, having inherited your father's indifference—Daemon taught you all too well that a woman's worth was often measured in the fickle affections of men. However, misfortune struck when you bore a daughter. A daughter, born in a time that could not be worse, coinciding with the moment Alys also delivered an heir to your husband—a bastard boy with black hair.
You had given the Prince a sweet, delicate child with the striking features of Valyrian heritage and silver-gold hair; you had hoped that his devotion would grow anew with this gift of lineage. Oh, how mistaken you were.
In the wake of your child’s birth, Aemond turned his back upon you—a move both cold and calculated. Once you had fulfilled your purpose as a wife, you found yourself and your precious daughter cast aside as though you were no more than commoners unworthy of his regard. After the difficult experience of childbirth, your husband’s visits reduced to a mere whisper of presence. He had no further reason to seek your bed.
Meanwhile, Alys basked in Aemond's undivided admiration. He lavished her and their bastard child with affection and attention, caring for that boy of hers with an affection that often seemed to eclipse the rightful love he should have shown your trueborn daughter. The irony was not lost on you.
As your daughter's first name day drew near, you could feel the rage within you reach its climax. That wench had enjoyed the delight of your husband's affections for nearly two years now, and your patience had frayed to its end. It was far past time that you seized control of your fate—and the fate of your daughter—whether your husband would consent or not.
Fights were all too common between you and Aemond. You refused to remain silent while he insulted your dignity and that of your precious daughter. His bold displays with his mistress, treating her as a cherished lover, were a constant insult, especially as he neglected his rightful heir and wife.
Once again, he had opted to waste an afternoon with his two bastards instead of honouring the presence of his legitimate daughter. Fuelled by resentment, you strode intentionally into the gardens, ready to confront him and demand the respect your daughter deserved.
"How dare you act this way after showing such disgust for Jacaerys and his brothers?" You hiss, your gaze boring into him like a dagger.
You take a step closer, and your smaller frame does not diminish the threat you pose. "Now you go and bed a baseborn harlot, and she bears your son, no less!" You spit out venomously.
Your voice rises to a scream as you get right up in his face. "Treat me however you wish, but if you continue to treat our legitimate daughter with disregard..." you growl, your words dripping with barely contained rage. "I will gut your whore and feed your bastard son to Cannibal, make no mistake. And our precious girl and I will watch him scream as he burns."
You lean in close, your breath hot against his ear as you whisper the promise, your tone low and deadly. "Do not test me on this, Aemond. I am not some meek little maiden to be trifled with. I am a Targaryen, the daughter of the Rogue Prince, and I will stay true to my words. Choose your actions wisely, or face the consequences."
With that, you push past him roughly and storm off, your heart pounding and your mind already plotting your next move. This cannot stand. Your child will not suffer at the hands of that vile creature - not if you have anything to say about it.
Aemond's eye narrows dangerously at your threats, his jaw clenching as he takes a menacing step towards you. The violet of his good eye seems to darken, swirling with anger and desire.
"You dare threaten me, wench?" he growls, his voice low and menacing. He grabs your arm roughly, yanking you back towards him. "I am a prince of House Targaryen, and you will show me the respect I deserve!"
His grip on your arm tightens painfully as he leans in close, his hot breath ghosting over your face. "Your daughter is a pitiful whelp, just like her mother. She's lucky I acknowledge her at all."
"As for that 'baseborn harlot'..." he sneers, his lips curling in disgust. "She provides me with pleasure that you never could. At least she knows how to obey her prince."
Suddenly, his hold on you shifts, one hand sliding down to grab your ass possessively. "Perhaps I should remind you of your place, wife. Maybe then you'll learn to keep that sharp tongue of yours in check."
You push Aemond away forcefully, your eyes flashing with rage and defiance. Your slender fingers dig into his chest as you shove him back.
"I find no pleasure in feeding a dog that gets his treats from someone else," you scoff, your voice dripping with disdain. The corners of your mouth curl up into a smirk.
Your long white hair whips around your face as you turn your head, a mocking laugh escaping your lips. You step closer, your form exuding an aura of dangerous grace. Leaning in, you purr, "If you dare show Alys in court... trust me, her little powers have nothing on fire. After all, witches burn, my dear husband."
You pull back, your gaze boring into his with unwavering intensity. Your hand reaches up to stroke his cheek, a falsely tender gesture that belies the threat beneath your words. "Choose your actions carefully, Aemond. A Targaryen princess is not so easily cowed."
Aemond's eye narrows at your defiant words, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He grips your wrist tightly as you stroke his cheek, his nostrils flaring in barely restrained anger. Suddenly, he spins you around, slamming you against the nearest tree trunk. His body presses against yours, pinning you in place as he leans in close, his voice a menacing whisper.
"Careful, little girl," he hisses, his breath hot against your neck. "You may be a Targaryen, but I am still your husband. And husbands have the right to punish their wives when they misbehave."
His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip possessively. "Perhaps I should remind you of your duties. You're here to bear me, sons, not make empty threats."
Aemond's lips brush against your ear, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr."And if you think I'm afraid of your father's reputation, you're mistaken. I've faced dragons, little dove. What makes you think you can threaten me?"
He nips at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Now, why don't you run along and tend to your brat?"
With a rough shove, Aemond steps back, his eyes gleaming with a mix of anger and desire. He adjusts himself, his posture strong and commanding as he looks down at you. "Remember your place, wife. Or I might just have to take drastic measures to ensure your obedience."
You walk away without another word, a cruel plan already taking shape in your mind. You stride purposefully towards the kitchens, your long white hair flowing behind you.
Inside the bustling chambers, maids scurry about, preparing dishes and tending to various tasks. But your sharp gaze locks on Lyra, one of your servants. You approach her discreetly, pulling her aside.
"Lyra," you whisper urgently, your light violet eyes boring into hers. "I need your help with something important. Tonight, before Aemond retires, ensure that his bastard drinks Hemlock tea. Not enough to kill him, but to make him very ill. And keep this between us."
You press a purse heavy with coins into her hand. "You'll be handsomely rewarded for your service."
With that, you turn and leave as abruptly as you arrived, your mind already turning to the sweet revenge that awaits.
The maid's eyes widen in shock at your whispered instructions, fear and curiosity dancing across her features. She nods silently, a small, nervous smile playing on her lips as she watches you leave, clutching the promise of reward.
Satisfied that your plan is in motion, you make your way back to your chambers. But as you step inside, you're greeted by an unexpected sight - Aemond, lounging on your bed, a smug grin on his face.
"And where have you been, my dear?" he drawls, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "I was beginning to worry that you'd run off with another lover."
You glare at him, your violet eyes flashing dangerously as you cross your arms over your chest. "Unlike you, I don't parade my lover through the castle halls. And unlike you, my lover is a Lord, not some bastard."
You spit the words at him, your voice dripping with loathing. Rolling your eyes, you let out a mocking laugh. "Going through the motions of being a doting husband must be so tiring for you. Why don't you run along and spend some quality time with your precious little Alys? I'm sure she's waiting for you eagerly."
Tonight, he'll learn the foolishness of undervaluing you. He'll see that you meant every word and that if he continues to neglect your daughter, his bastard son will pay the price.
You incline your head, a fake smile playing on your lips. "Well? Are you going to leave, or do I need to call the guards to remove you? I wouldn't want to cause a scene. You might be a prince, but I'm a princess, and my guards listen to me."
Aemond's face darkens at your words, his jaw clenching as he rises from the bed. He stalks towards you. His movements are predatory until he's standing mere inches away. His good eye bores into yours, filled with a mix of anger and intrigue.
"Careful, little dove," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You play a dangerous game. You think you can manipulate me with your words and your petty threats?"
Suddenly, his hand lashes out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer. His other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing you to maintain eye contact. "I am a dragon rider, a prince of House Targaryen. I've faced worse than you and your little schemes."
Aemond leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "But by the gods, I admire your spirit. It's been far too long since anyone dared to challenge me like this."
He pulls back slightly, his gaze intense as it roams over your face. "So tell me, my feisty wife, what do you propose we do about this... tension between us?"
Your smirk widens into a wicked grin as you deliver your parting shot. "Well then, seeing as you've repeatedly said how I 'fail to pleasure you', I suppose I'll simply have to take matters into my own hands."
You raise an eyebrow, your eyes gleaming with mischief. "My guess is you'll scurry off to Alys' quarters, forcing her to cater to your every whim. And while you're busying yourself with your precious whore..."
You pause, letting the anticipation hang in the air between you.
"...I'll be here, enjoying the company of my lover. We'll fuck on every surface of this room until I can't walk or speak. Until the only word I can remember is his name as he brings me to ecstasy again and again."
You lean forward, your voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "Have you ever stopped to consider that perhaps the problem isn't me, but you? That maybe a man who appreciates my skills, who shows me the respect and appreciation I deserve, might find me to be quite satisfactory indeed?"
You toss your head back and chuckle, the sound tinged with bitterness. "But then again, I doubt a man like you would ever understand the concept of mutual pleasure or satisfaction. You're far too focused on your desires to bother with mine."
With that, you turn on your heel and stalk towards the door, your long white hair swishing behind you. You pause and glance back over your shoulder, motioning for him to leave.
"Enjoy your evening, my lord. I certainly intend to."
"You think your little lover can satisfy you more than I can?" he mocks. "You forget, wife, that I am a man who has taken cities and slain men. I don't need to be grateful for anything." He strides over to you.
Suddenly, he spins you around, pressing your back against his chest as his arms wrap around you in an iron grip. His lips brush against your ear as he whispers, "But perhaps you're right. Perhaps I haven't been... attentive enough in our marital duties."
One hand slides up from your waist, cupping your breast roughly through your gown. "Let me show you what a real dragon can do, little dove. I'll fuck you so hard, you'll forget your name, let alone your lover's."
Aemond's teeth graze your neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. "What do you say, my wife? Shall we put your claims to the test? Or are you all talk and no action?"
"How do you know he isn't a 'dragon' as well?" You question him, your tone dripping with disdain as you break free from his grasp.
"If you had been a good husband and father, you'd have at least three children by now. But you decided to bed a bastard whore instead. Who has provided you with only one son, with black hair and no dragon. He is no Targaryen. He is a Rivers. And he always will be."
You fix him with a cold stare, your eyes flashing with barely contained rage. "I will have your son, do not worry your empty head... but only once the whore is gone from King's Landing."
Aemond's face contorts with rage at your words, his good eye blazing with fury. He advances on you, backing you up against the wall with the sheer force of his presence.
"You dare speak of my son that way?" he snarls, his voice low and dangerous. "He is the son of a Targaryen prince, and that makes him a prince as well. More than you can ever claim for yourself."
His hand shoots out, wrapping around your throat as he leans in close. His breath is hot against your face as he continues, "Perhaps I should remind you of your place, wench. You are my wife, and you will bear me more children, whether you like it or not."
Aemond's grip on your throat tightens slightly, not enough to cut off your air entirely, but enough to make breathing difficult. "As for Alys... she stays where she belongs. By my side."
He releases your throat suddenly, shoving you away from him. As you stumble back, he straightens his waistcoat, his posture regal and commanding. "Consider this a warning. Keep your tongue in check, or face the consequences. I am not a man to be trifled with."
You let out a loud, mocking laugh as Aemond released you from his bruising grip. "Oh, Aemond," you say, your voice dripping with disgust. "The very notion that I would fear you is hilarious. Believe me when I say that I am the last person who would be frightened by your empty threats."
Your eyes flash with a wicked gleam as you fix him with a knowing smile. "As for your precious whore, Alys... her days of bearing your bastards are numbered. Her last birth nearly killed her. Her womb is weak, Aemond. She won't survive another pregnancy."
You take a step closer, your voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "Now, I suggest you leave my chambers."
Your hand rests on the hilt of the dagger at your belt, a silent threat hanging in the air between you. "Run along, my dear husband. Go play with your mistress and your bastard child. Just remember..." you hiss, your eyes narrowing. "You underestimate me at your risk."
With a dismissive wave, you turn your back on him. "Out. Now."
Aemond's face contorts with rage at your words, his good eye blazing with a mix of anger and... respect? He takes a stepforward, his hand reaching out as if to grab you again, but stops himself. After a moment of tense silence, he speaks, his voice low and menacing.
"You think you're clever, don't you?" he growls, his jaw clenched tight. "Playing your little games, threatening my mistress, my son..."
Aemond's eyes roam over you, a predatory gleam in his gaze. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I have been too lenient with you. A dragon needs to be handled firmly, after all."
He steps closer, his hand reaching out to grasp your chin, forcing you to meet his intense stare. "I will deal with Alys myself. She is mine, and no one threatens what's mine."
He turns to leave, pausing at the doorway to look back over his shoulder. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot. Consider this a warning - cross me again, and you'll regret it."
With those ominous words, Aemond strides out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the lingering threat of his presence.
With shaking hands, you ring for your maid as soon as Aemond leaves your chambers. When she arrives, you issue your orders in a clear, even voice, though inside your heart races with anticipation and trepidation.
"Double the dose of hemlock in the son's cup tonight," you instruct, your tone bearing no argument. "Leave him teetering on the brink of death's door."
As the maid scurries off to fulfil her mistress' dark command, a wicked smile plays across your lips. They will never suspect that you alone hold the key to saving Aemond's precious bastard from a slow, agonising demise.
And what a neat little trap you've set for your dear husband. Poison his son (but not to kill him, you're not that cruel), give him an ultimatum, and then dangle the antidote before him like a carrot. All he must do is love you, truly love your daughter, and you shall release him from his desperation.
As the day wears on, you find yourself unable to focus on anything but the impending confrontation with Aemond. Every fibre of your being is tense, waiting for the moment when your plan will come to fruition.
Evening falls, and you're seated in your solar, pretending to read a book, but your mind is miles away. The sound of approaching footsteps catches your attention, and you look up to see Aemond bursting into the room, his face pale and eyes wild with panic.
"Where is he?" he demands, his voice frantic. "Where's my son?"
You set aside your book, a cruel smile playing on your lips as you stand to face him. "Oh, Aemond. So concerned for your bastard, are you?" you taunt, relishing the fear in his eyes.
"He's ill," you continue, feigning concern. "Very ill. The maids tell me he's been vomiting all evening and can barely keep anything down. It's a shame, really. He's always been such a healthy boy."
You take a step closer, your voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Of course, I have something that could help. A special remedy passed down through generations on my mother's side. But..." you pause, letting the tension build. "I'm not sure I want to share it. Not until you give me what I want."
Aemond's face contorts with rage and desperation, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "What do you want?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Name your price, and it's yours."
You stare at him, your violet eyes locking with his sapphire one. The moment has arrived, the power is yours. What will you demand of the man who has wronged you for so long?
Your frame radiates an aura of controlled rage as you speak, your voice low and deadly.
"Send. Them. Away," you enunciate each word carefully as if speaking to a slow-witted child. "Alys and your bastard by dawn's light. They will never set foot in this city again, and you will never breathe their names aloud. If you fail to comply, I will ensure that your precious 'son' suffers a fate worse than death."
You pause, allowing the weight of your threat to settle over him. When you continue, your voice is dripping with scorn. "I will not be made a fool by a man who cannot control his urges. Your prick may wander where it pleases, but your illegitimate offspring is a reflection upon me. This...this abomination will be removed from sight."
Your lip curls in disgust as you look upon Aemond, the realisation of your words sinking in. "Do this, or face the consequences. The choice is yours but choose wisely. I am not a woman to be trifled with."
Aemond's face contorts with rage at your ultimatum, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he struggles to contain his anger. After a moment, he speaks, his voice low and menacing.
"You think you hold all the cards, don't you?" he growls, taking a menacing step towards you. "You think you can threaten me and expect me to bend to your will?"
"Fine. You want Alys gone? She'll be on the first ship out of Blackwater Bay come morning. But know this - if anything happens to my son, if he so much as sneezes out of turn, I will rain down hell upon you and everything you hold dear."
Aemond leans in close, his breath hot against your face. "And as for your little 'reward'..." he hums, a dangerous smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I hope you enjoy it. Because it's the last taste of victory you'll ever have over me."
Aemond is not a man to be underestimated, and you know that he will not forget this transgression easily. But for now, you have what you want. Tomorrow, Alys and her bastard son will be gone.
With a cold smile, you rise to your feet, your form exuding an aura of controlled power. Your striking eyes lock onto Aemond's as you reveal, "Give me your son. I know how to help him."
In your years at court, you've secretly studied botany and alchemy, learning to cure even the deadliest poisons, along with the knowledge of your mother's ancestors. This wisdom is your secret weapon, one that you've kept hidden until now.
You step closer to Aemond, your long white hair cascading over your shoulders as you tilt your head to the side. "Let me be clear, Aemond. I am the only one who can save your bastard son. Whatever your son has contracted seems to be fatal, but with the right ingredients and a skilled hand, he can still be saved."
"You have two choices. You can continue to play this game of power and risk losing your son forever, or you can hand him over to me. Alys might have premonitions of the future, but that is useless right now, isn't it?"
Your voice drops to a dangerous whisper as you lean in close, your faces mere inches apart. "What will it be, Aemond? Choose wisely, for your son's life hangs in the balance."
Aemond stares at you for a long moment, his face an unreadable mask. Then, slowly, the tension drains from his shoulders, and he nods once, sharp and decisive.
"You win," he says, his voice heavy with reluctance. "My son is yours. Do what you must to save him."
Without another word, he turns and strides from the room, leaving you alone with your triumph. You allow yourself a moment of satisfaction before setting your mind to the task at hand.
You make your way through the castle, your heart pounding with anticipation and a hint of fear. You know what you're doing, but there's always a risk when dealing with poisons and cures. As you enter the nursery, you find the bastard child writhing in pain, his small body wracked with convulsions.
Ignoring the concerned looks of the maids, you set to work, mixing various herbs and tinctures with practised ease. You feed the concoction to the child, holding him steady as he chokes and sputters. It's a long, gruelling process, but eventually, his breathing begins to even out, and the colour returns to his cheeks.
Exhausted but triumphant, you rise from the bed, stretching your stiff muscles. Aemond enters the room then, his face etched with worry and gratitude. You hold the black-haired boy gently in your arms, cooing as you set him on the bed, caressing his hair as a mother would.
Aemond stands in the doorway, watching as you carefully tend to his son. His expression is a mix of relief and bafflement, his single eye roaming over the scene before him. He takes a hesitant step forward, his voice is soft and uncertain.
"He's... he's going to live?" he asks, his usual bravado stripped away, leaving only a concerned father.
You look up at him, your gaze is steadfast as you meet his stare. There's a moment of charged silence between you, the weight of your actions hanging heavy in the air.
"Yes," you finally respond, your voice carrying a hint of triumph. "Your son will live. But only because I chose to save him."
Aemond's jaw clenches, a flicker of anger crossing his features before it's replaced by a grudging acceptance. "Thank you," he mutters, the words difficult for him to say.
He moves to the bedside, gently taking his son into his arms. The boy stirs, his small hand reaching for his father's face. Aemond's expression softens, love and pride evident in his eyes as he gazes down at the child.
"You did well," he says, glancing up at you briefly before focusing his attention back on his son. "I... I underestimated you. Perhaps there is more to you than I realised."
It's not exactly a declaration of love or devotion, but for Aemond, it's as close to an apology as you're likely to get. You incline your head slightly, acknowledging his words without comment.
You smooth the damp cloth across the boy's feverish brow, your fingers lingering on the soft skin of his cheek. You'll never know it was I who made you sick, little one. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. And neither will Aemond know.
You pull back, your violet eyes hardening as you look at Aemond with a stern stare. "I've changed my mind on one thing," you say curtly, tucking the quilt snugly around the child. "The boy can stay... if you treat our daughter with the same affection as you have him. If not..." your voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "He will be sent away to Harrenhall."
"This is the best offer you will get from me," You say, your voice laced with finality. "Your beloved son's fate rests in your hands."
Without waiting for a response, you turn and stride from the room, your heels clicking sharply against the stone floor. The game has changed, and now, you hold all the cards. Let's see how long Aemond's pride can withstand the weight of his new reality.
Aemond watches you go, his jaw clenched tight as he struggles to contain his anger and frustration. He knows he's been beaten, and by his wife, no less. It's a bitter pill to swallow, but he's not a fool. He knows when he's been outmanoeuvred.
Over the next few months, a strange new dynamic settles over the castle. Aemond is more attentive to you and more concerned with your opinions and desires. He's trying to make amends to ensure that you don't turn against him again.
For your part, you remain aloof and distant, content to let Aemond squirm under the weight of your power. You spend your days tending to your duties, meeting with advisors, and always keeping a close eye on the bastard child.
Your daughter, meanwhile, seems to thrive under the new arrangement. She and her brother have grown closer, and you often catch them playing together with their maids, their laughter echoing through the halls.
One evening, as you're preparing for bed, Aemond enters your chambers without knocking. He's dressed in his riding leathers, his hair still damp from getting caught in the rain. He looks tired, but there's a new light in his eye.
You gasped sharply as Aemond burst into your chambers without warning, your heart leaping into your throat. The flimsy silk of your black nightgown clings to your curves, leaving little to the imagination, as the oppressive summer heat makes the sheer fabric stick to your skin.
"What do you think you're doing, barging in here like that?" You demand, your voice is icy despite the flush creeping up your neck. Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you try to conceal your breasts and hardened nipples from his bold glare. "What brings you here at this late hour, husband?"
Your tone is crisp and unwelcoming despite the warmth pooling low in your belly at the sight of him. You've trained yourself to maintain this frigid facade, never letting him see how his presence affects you. But deep down, a part of you yearns for his touch, his approval, even as you keep him at arm's length.
Aemond's single eye rakes over you hungrily, taking in every inch of exposed skin. You refuse to let your posture falter, even as desire simmers beneath the surface.
"Well?" You demand, arching a brow imperiously. "Unless you have an urgent matter to discuss, I suggest you leave me to my privacy."
Your voice wavers slightly, betraying your unease. You're acutely aware of how thin the silk is, how easily he could shred it away with one tug. The thought sends a shiver down your spine.
Aemond's lips curl into a slow, wicked smile, and you feel your knees go weak. Gods, what is he doing to you? You are a princess of House Targaryen, and yet in his presence, you feel like nothing more than a mewling kitten, desperate for his attention.
"This is highly inappropriate," you manage to grit out, even as your body betrays you.
Aemond's gaze rakes over your form, lingering on the curves of your body as they're revealed by the thin silk of your nightgown. He licks his lips, his desire is evident in the hungry look in his remaining eye.
"My apologies, wife," he purrs, his voice low and seductive. "I didn't mean to startle you. But I couldn't wait any longer."
He takes a step closer. "I've been thinking about you. About us."
His voice drops to a husky whisper, and he brings his face close to yours, his breath hot against your skin. "We've been at odds for too long."
Aemond stands even closer to you now, you can feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his muscles beneath his clothes.
"I know I've been an arse," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear.
You're conflicted as you stand before Aemond. You want to scoff at his attempt to win you over, but the raw desire in his eyes is unmistakable. He looks at you like he wants to devour you whole, and it both frightens and excites you.
Stepping back, you try to compose yourself, but the heat of the summer night seems to intensify, leaving you feeling hot and breathless. Aemond hasn't seen you like this in Gods know how long, not since you fell pregnant and he no longer needed to lay with you.
"Is that so?" You ask, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "You've been thinking about me, have you? Now that your mistress is gone and I'm finally good enough for you?"
You close your eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the way your heart races at his proximity. You've always found Aemond repulsive, his cruelty and infidelity driving a wedge between you. But seeing him dote on your daughter these past months has softened some of the ice around your heart.
"You're not fooling me, Aemond," you continue, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. "I know your games. But I'll admit, this newfound interest in me is... intriguing, to say the least."
Aemond's lips curl into a smirk, his good eye glittering with amusement and desire. He takes another step forward, closing the distance between you once more.
"Intriguing, huh?" he purrs, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the delicate line of your jaw. "Well, maybe I'm just realising what I've been missing."
His other hand comes to rest on your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh through the thin silk of your nightgown. You can feel the heat of his touch, the promise of more to come.
"I've been a fool," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your throat. "I've let my pride and my lust cloud my judgment. But not anymore."
He pulls back slightly, his eye searching yours for any sign of resistance. But he sees none, only the flicker of desire that matches his own.
"You're a force to be reckoned with, my lady wife. Beautiful, intelligent, and deadly when crossed. How could I not be drawn to you?"
His lips find yours in a searing kiss, demanding and passionate. It's a kiss that speaks of pent-up desire, anger and passion.
As he pulls you closer, you feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against your stomach, a reminder of the power you hold over him. It's intoxicating, the way he wants you, the way he needs you.
But even as you melt into his embrace, a small part of you whispers a warning. Aemond is a master manipulator, and this could all be just another one of his games.
The worries in the back of your mind fade away as you feel Aemond's rough hands grip your rear, kneading the soft flesh. He's never touched you with such raw passion, such primal hunger. Reluctantly, you admit to yourself that you love it.
You whimper into the kiss, your hands tangling in his still slightly damp hair. You need him to know exactly what he's been missing out on all this time. You want him to regret every moment he spent with that whore in the tower.
Breaking away from his lips, you trail bites along the pale column of his throat, marking his skin with dark purple splotches. With your tongue, you soothe each spot, leaving no doubt as to who now claims him.
"Now the whole court will know that the prince has finally come to his senses," you murmur against his skin, "and bedded his beautiful lady wife."
Aemond groans, his hands roaming your body with a newfound urgency. He grips your hips, grinding against you, his hard length throbbing with need.
"Fuck," he growls, his voice ragged with desire. "I've wasted so much time, chasing after foolish fantasies. You're the one I should have wanted all along."
He tears your nightgown open, baring your body to his hungry gaze. His calloused hands cup your breasts, thumbing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. His mouth latches onto one breast, sucking and biting.
Your breath catches in your throat as Aemond's mouth closes around your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You gasp and moan, arching into his touch, craving more.
"So fucking perfect," he rasps, leaning down to take the other nipple into his mouth. He sucks hard, grazing the sensitive bud with his teeth.
Aemond steps back, his eye raking over your naked form. "Beautiful," he breathes, his gaze heavy with lust. "I've been a fool to deny myself this for so long."
When he releases your nipples, stepping back to admire his handiwork, you feel empty, aching for his mouth back on your sensitive flesh.
You stand before him, your torn nightgown hanging off your shoulders, exposing your breasts and stomach to his heated gaze. The fabric clings to your hips, the tear running down the front, barely concealing your most intimate place. You're flushed, your chest heaving with anticipation, waiting for his next move.
Aemond drinks in the sight of you, his eye dark with desire. "Exquisite," he breathes, his voice rough with want. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the path of the tear, teasing the edge of the fabric. "I want to rip this off and feast on you until you scream."
You shudder at his words, liquids pooling between your thighs. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling with need. "Don't tease me, Aemond."
He grins, a predatory, hungry look on his face. "Oh, I intend to, my lady wife. I intend to make you forget all about that mistress of mine."
In one swift motion, he tears the remains of your nightgown away, leaving you bare before him. His eye travels the length of your body, taking in every curve, every dip, every inch of creamy skin.
"What an idiot I’ve been," he groans, his hand reaching down to palm himself through his breeches. "Seeking pleasure in another when my own wife could put all of the whores in Westeros to shame."
He walks you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed, pushing you down onto the silken sheets. Aemond stands over you, his tall frame looming above you, his gaze burning into you.
"Then why did you?" You demand, your voice sharp with disdain. "I'm not the naive girl you married. I've become a woman since we last shared a bed."
Your legs fall open as you sprawl before Aemond, baring yourself to his hungry gaze. The cool air kisses your heated skin, raising goosebumps across your flesh. You need him to see what he's been denying himself, to foolishly chase after lesser women.
Aemond swallows hard, his eye roving over your body, drinking in every inch of exposed skin. "A woman indeed," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "A goddess."
"Do you have any idea how many lords and knights in this realm burn with envy?" You purr, your voice dripping with bitter amusement. "All because they'll never have a chance at a wife like me. Yet you, my husband, were too blind to appreciate the treasure right in front of you."
You arch your back, pushing your breasts up and out, an offering to the god of war. Your long white hair spills around you like a dark halo, framing your face. You can see the regret and longing in Aemond's eye as he drinks in the sight of you.
He moves to stand at the foot of the bed, his hand trailing up your calf, over your knee, and along your inner thigh. "I was blinded by lust, my lady wife. Blinded by pride, by jealousy, by my own need to prove something."
His fingers brush against your slick folds, and you gasp at the contact.
Aemond's fingers delve deeper, parting your folds, teasing your entrance. "I saw the lust in their eyes, the way they looked at you when they thought I wasn't watching."
Aemond's touch is electric, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. You moan his name, your hips bucking up against his hand, desperate for more.
Aemond chuckles darkly, his fingers continuing their maddening dance against your most sensitive places. "Did you like that, my dear? The way they stared at you like a piece of meat? The way they ached to have you?"
"Yes," you breathe, your chest heaving with each ragged inhale. "They made me feel desirable when my husband couldn't."
The words escape your lips before you can stop them, fueled by the hurt and anger still simmering beneath the surface. Your hips buck up desperately, seeking the satisfaction Aemond's teasing fingers deny you.
"Fuck," you snarl in frustration, your nails raking down his forearm. "Stop playing games and give me what I need."
You fix him with a defiant glare, your eyes flashing with challenge. "Unless you're too fucked up to perform now that you've realized what a prize you've been neglecting all this time."
Your lips curl into a sneer, a cruel twist of your mouth. "It would serve you right if I also paraded my lover around. Maybe then you'd understand— "
Your words are cut off by your cry as Aemond places a harsh slap against your sopping cunt.
The sound of your cry, of the wet slap against your flesh, sends a bolt of lust straight to Aemond's already throbbing cock. He's never seen you like this, so wanton, so uninhibited. It's intoxicating.
"You want to play dirty, do you?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Threaten me with your infidelity? You want someone to fuck you senseless, to claim this sweet cunt as their own?"
He rewards your crude talk with another sharp slap to your pussy, the sound echoing obscenely in the quiet room. You cry out, your back arching off the bed, a fresh flood of wetness coating his palm.
He plunges two fingers into your dripping channel, setting a brutal pace as his fingers pump in and out of you. His thumb circles your clit with a pressure that borders on painful. He leans down, his breath hot against your ear.
"You feel even better than I remember. Gods, if only I had known this tight little cunt was waiting for me," he growls, his fingers pumping harder, faster, stretching you open.
The bed creaks beneath you as Aemond moves, his fingers still pumping into your soaked cunt. You can feel every ridge, every callus as he drives into you relentlessly. It's almost too much, the sensation bordering on pain, but you crave it.
You try to form words, anything to snap back at him, but his fingers are relentlessly hitting your soft spot with each thrust, making you gush all over his hand. Your mind goes blank, lost to the overwhelming sensations. All that escapes your lips are incoherent mumbles and high-pitched whines.
Your brow furrows as you watch him abuse your tight pussy with his long fingers, pumping in and out of your dripping cunt with brutal force. "Fuuuck... Aemond..." you manage to gasp out, your voice ragged and desperate.
Aemond grins wickedly at your desperation, at the way you're clawing at the sheets, your hips bucking up to meet his punishing fingers. Your pussy clenches around him, trying to draw him deeper, greedy for more.
He curls his fingers inside you, rubbing mercilessly against that sensitive spot deep within. Your cries grow louder, more desperate, and he smirks at the sound.
"Fuck, you're so tight. So perfect. I could play with this pretty little pussy all night."
Aemond adds a third finger, stretching you impossibly wider. He curls them just so, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes. Your juices coat his fingers, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you.
"Fuck, look at you," he rasps, his eye drinking in the debauched sight of you spread out before him, his fingers buried in your cunt. "My perfect, filthy wife. So desperate for my cock."
You clamp your hand over your mouth, stifling the whorish moans that threaten to escape. You won't let him see how easily he can unravel you, how a few skilful thrusts of his fingers can have you writhing and begging like a common whore.
Your eyes screw shut as he pounds into you relentlessly, his filthy words washing over you, stoking the fire building in your core. You can't help the way your pussy clenches greedily around his invading digits upon hearing his dirty words.
It's humiliating, the way he can so easily turn you into a mewling, desperate creature with just a touch.
But gods, it feels so good. Too good. You squirm underneath him, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, begging for more even as you hate yourself for it. You are losing control, slipping further into the haze of lust with each passing second.
Aemond smirks as he watches you struggle to maintain your composure, the battle written plainly across your face. He can feel your pussy fluttering around his fingers and can hear the muffled moans vibrating against your palm.
"Shh, don't fight it," he croons, his voice a sinful purr. "Let go, my lady wife. Let me hear those pretty sounds."
He withdraws his fingers suddenly, denying you the stimulation your body craves. You whine in protest, your hips chasing after his hand.
Aemond brings his drenched fingers to his lips, tasting your essence with a low groan. "Delicious," he purrs, his eye glinting with wicked intent.
He brings his fingers back to your face, painting your lips with your juices before thrusting them into your mouth. "Suck," he demands, his voice brooking no argument. "Get them nice and wet for where they're going next."
As you obey, dutifully licking and sucking his fingers clean, Aemond works at the laces of his breeches, freeing his hard, aching cock. It springs forth, thick and angry, the head already glistening with precum.
"Look at what you've done," he growls, gripping himself in his fist. "You're mine. This cunt belongs to me."
Aemond's arrogant declaration snaps you out of your lust-fueled haze, and you roll your eyes at his audacity. "Do you think I'd forgive you that easily?" You scoff, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "It seems you don't know your wife very well, husband."
You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he grips his leaking cock. "This cunt belongs to me," you remind him coldly. "And if I recall correctly, you didn't even like this cunt in the first place."
You huff out a bitter laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. "You'll have to do more than just rut into me like a beast in heat."
Aemond's eye narrows at your words, a flash of anger sparking in their depths. But it's quickly extinguished by a wave of lust as he takes in the sight of you propped up before him, your full breasts heaving with each breath, your hair tumbling around your shoulders.
"You're right," he concedes, his voice rough with desire. "But I do now. And I plan to worship it until you scream."
He stalks towards you, his cock bobbing with each step. He grips your thighs, pushing your legs apart, forcing you to lie back on the bed.
"And I know you all too well, my lady wife," Aemond purred, his voice a dangerous rumble as he settled between your legs.
Aemond's hand snaked out, wrapping around your throat in a firm but not crushing grip. "You're a woman scorned," he growled, his eye boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart race. "Angry and bitter. But I intend to change that. Make you into a dutiful and docile wife."
His fingers tightened just a fraction around your throat, not enough to cut off your air supply, but enough to make your pulse jump in alarm. You tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding, keeping you pinned beneath him.
"After I'm done with you," he continued, his voice low and menacing, "you'll be as obedient as a puppy. You'll beg for my touch, crave my attention. And you'll forget all about your anger, your resentment. All you'll know is the pleasure I can give you."
He hooks his arms under your knees, pushing your legs up and back, folding you nearly in half. The new position leaves you completely exposed, your dripping pussy on full display.
Aemond takes in the sight with a low groan, his cock twitching in anticipation. "Look at you, spreading yourself open for me like a whore."
He lines himself up with your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your swollen folds. "Beg for it," he demands, his voice a dark command. "Beg me to claim what's mine."
He doesn't push inside, doesn't give you any relief, just holds himself there, teasing, tormenting. Your pussy clenches around nothing, empty and aching for his cock.
Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you struggle to regain your composure. Aemond's dark promises hang heavy in the air, making your head spin with desire and indignation. You try to remain logical as he presses your knees practically next to your ears, your most intimate parts completely open for him.
Despite the way your body aches for him, craving his touch, you force yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes blazing with defiance. "I think it's you who should be begging," you retort, voice steady despite the situation.
Through the haze of lust that threatens to consume you, the old anger still simmers, fueling your resistance. You won't let him break you so easily, won't let him reduce you to a mewling, submissive creature with just a few pretty words and a hard cock.
A twisted smile appears on his lips. He shifts his hips, rubbing the head of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. The teasing friction makes your hips buck up involuntarily.
"Oh, I'm going to enjoy breaking you," he purrs, his voice a dark promise. "Watching that fire in your eyes fade as I drive you to the brink of madness."
Aemond's smile widens, a predatory gleam in his eye as he watches you squirm beneath him. He knows your body's betrayal, the way it craves his touch despite your protests.
He places his hand from your thigh to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a silent reminder of his control.
"Last chance to beg, my lady wife," he growls, his voice a dark rasp. "Beg me to fill this greedy cunt, to make you mine again."
He applies just the slightest pressure, his cockhead nudging insistently at your entrance. Your pussy clenches, eager, aching to be stretched and filled.
"Or shall I just take what's mine?" Aemond's voice is a sinful purr, his eye glinting with dark promise. "Claim this sweet little pussy whether you want it or not?"
The heat of Aemond's cock pressed against your entrance sends jolts of pleasure racing through your veins. Gods, you need him to break you open and claim you as his. But your pride holds firm, refusing to let you beg like a common whore.
You stare up at him, your gaze defiant, even as your body betrays you with each quivering breath. "Don't pretend you don't want this," you bite out, trying to sound unaffected. "You're just torturing yourself."
It's difficult to sound assertive when he has you pinned, your legs pushed back towards your chest, completely at his mercy. Your pussy throbs, aching to be filled, to be stretched around his thick length.
Aemond lets out a dark chuckle, clearly amused by your feeble attempt at defiance. He shifts his hips, grinding his cock against your slick folds, painting your entrance with his precum.
"Torturing myself? Oh, my dear wife, you flatter yourself," he purrs, his voice a sinful caress. "I'm simply enjoying the show. The way your body trembles, the way your pretty little pussy leaks all over the bed, despite your best efforts to resist."
Aemond's lips curve into a wicked smirk, his eye glinting with mischief and dark promise. He rocks his hips, sliding his hard length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your arousal. Each pass of his cock brushes against your swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. You can't stop the moan that escapes your lips, your body betraying your desire.
"Fuck, listen to you. So loud, so desperate." Aemond growls, his voice rough with lust.
He pulls back, removing the delicious friction, leaving you empty and aching. You whimper in protest, your hips bucking, twitching, searching for his touch. But he ignores your needy movements, his focus solely on your face, drinking in your frustration.
"I wonder," he muses. "How long will it take to break you? How many times will you cum on my cock before you're begging me to fill you? To breed this fertile little cunt?"
Aemond's words are filthy and vulgar, and they send a shiver down your spine. You hate how much you love it, how much you crave his dirty talk, his rough handling. He owns you, body and soul, and you both know it.
"I'm going to fuck you now," he declares, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I'm going to take you hard and fast, just like a beast in heat. And you're going to take it like a good little wife because that's all you are to me. My property, my plaything."
With that, he lines himself up with your entrance once more. His cockhead nudges at your slick heat, teasing, taunting. "Open your eyes," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Watch as I claim what's mine."
You try to look at him, but your eyes are glossy and unfocused, clouded with the haze of lust. Then, with one hard, brutal thrust, he sheaths himself inside you, stretching you wide around his thick length.
Aemond groans as your tight heat envelops him, your slick walls clenching around his throbbing length. He stills for a moment, savouring the feeling of being buried inside you, your body stretched and full of his cock. Cursing himself for not fucking your tight wet heat earlier. For wasting time with his bastard mistress after your marriage.
"Ahhh!" You let out a kittenish scream as he filled you completely, your walls clenching around him, trying to adjust to his girth. It feels as if he is splitting you open, not even moving yet, but the stretch alone is enough to make you go mad.
Your eyes flutter, rolling back in your head as a wave of intense pleasure crashes over you. You feel so full, it's almost too much to bear. Aemond's cock pulsates inside you, hot and hard.
You can feel every ridge, every vein of his thick shaft as it throbs within you. He's so deep, buried to the hilt, his pelvis pressing against yours.
His hips twitch, a reflexive movement, driving his cock deeper still. The sensation is overwhelming and exquisite, and he has to grit his teeth against the urge to pound into you with abandon.
A moan tears from your throat, raw and primal, as your body struggles to accommodate his size. Your fingers scrabble at his back, your nails digging into his skin, holding on for dear life as he impales you on his cock.
"Fuck, you're so tight," Aemond groans, his voice rough with pleasure.
He starts to move, pulling out until just the tip remains inside you, then slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt. He sets a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours with each powerful thrust. The bed creaks beneath you, the frame shaking from the force of his movements.
"Take it," he growls, his voice commanding, demanding. "Take my cock, you filthy little slut. This is what you were madefor, to be used and fucked like a whore."
His filthy words and powerful thrusts make you lose yourself to the pleasure, your mind going blank as he fucks into you with wild abandon. You feel like a rag-doll, legs thrashing next to you as he uses your body for his pleasure, driving into you with a ferocity that borders on violence.
"Look at you, taking my cock like a good little wife," he praises, his voice a dark rumble. "So obedient, so eager to please me."
You let out a pathetic mewl, unable to form any words. Your cheeks burn with a mix of embarrassment and intense pleasure as Aemond's grip on your thighs remains unforgiving, pressing your knees into the mattress.
He abuses your sopping pussy with brutal thrusts, each one driving you closer to the edge. Screams of ecstasy pour from your parted lips as your brows furrow in pleasure. His thick cock stretches you impossibly wide, filling you to the brink as he claims your body with wild disregard.
Aemond smirks down at you, revelling in your wanton moans and the way your body submits to his brutal pace. He can feel your walls fluttering around him, your slick arousal easing his way as he pounds into your tight heat.
"That's it," he growls, his voice thick with lust. "My beautiful little slut wife."
Gods, had your pussy always felt this divine?
Aemond continues to pound into you relentlessly, his hips pistoning back and forth as he fucks into your tight cunt. Each powerful thrust drives the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping and moaning like a bitch in heat.
Your body is lost to the sensations, consumed by the feeling of Aemond's thick cock stretching you wide, filling you so completely. You're nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. Your only purpose is to take his cock and milk it for all its worth.
"Fuck, I love this cunt," Aemond growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his release. "Love feeling you squeeze around me, love how wet and ready you are for me."
Aemond's mind races as he fucks into you with abandon, his thoughts consumed by the exquisite sensation of your tight heat gripping his cock. He can't help but marvel at how your body yields to him, how perfectly you fit around him like you were made for his pleasure.
"I can't believe I wasted all those years fucking that Rivers whore when I could have been ruining this sweet cunt every night," Aemond growls, punctuating his words with a particularly harsh thrust. "Gods, you're so much tighter than her. So much better."
The degrading praise stings, igniting a fire in your gut despite the intense pleasure. "I hope you regret every second of it," you grit out through clenched teeth, your voice strained and shaky from his cock stretching you open. Each brutal thrust sends shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, making your back arch off the bed. You scream your next words, lost in a daze of lust and anger. "Would've had all of your heirs! Taken your seed into my womb every single night!"
The thought of carrying his children, of being filled with his seed night after night, sends a shiver down your spine. Why did he waste his time with whores when he could've been breeding me, claiming me?
"I was meant to be the mother of your heirs," you hiss, your nails raking down his back. "Should've been bearing your children, ensuring the Targaryen line."
The words are punctuated by gasps and moans, your body betraying you even as your mind rages.
"Regret it," I pant, your thighs shaking. "Regret wasting your seed on common whores when you could've been filling me."
Aemond throws his head back with a roar, your words stoking the flames of his lust. The thought of you swollen with his child, carrying his heirs, drives him wild with desire. He fucks into you even harder, his hips slamming against yours with bruising force.
"You would've been perfect carrying my babies. Dropping their siblings so I could fill your fertile cunt again and again." He snarls, his eye wild with passion.
The image plays out in his mind, a tantalising fantasy that makes his cock throb inside you. You, round and ripe with his child, your belly stretched and full. He, driving into your fucked-out hole, pumping you full of his royal seed, ensuring his line continues.
"I'll make it up to you," Aemond promises, his voice a dark growl. "I'll fuck a dozen babes into you, let your belly swell with my children."
The idea sends a thrill through him, his balls drawing up tight as he imagines it. He'll keep you barefoot and pregnant with his offspring, his cock buried in your pussy every chance he gets.
"You want that, don't you?" Aemond demands, his thrusts growing erratic, his climax approaching. "To be bred like a bitch, to carry my children? To give our daughter sisters and brothers?"
You squeeze your eyes shut, furious at yourself for desiring exactly that. To be round and heavy with his child, constantly full of his seed. But gods, you do want it. You want it so badly it hurts.
"Yes," you whimper, your vision blurring as your cunt clenches erratically around his thick shaft, drawing him in deeper.
You meet his gaze, your eyes wild and pleading. The unshakable, unfriendly wife he once knew is gone, replaced by a desperate, needy whore.
"That's it," he growls against your lips. "My little wife, begging for her husband to fill her up."
A shameful part of you hopes this new side of you will make him see you differently. Make him desire you, want you, maybe even love you. The thought is intoxicating, to be truly wanted by him.
Your cunt spasms around him, gripping his cock like a vice as you imagine it. He is constantly buried inside you every night, pumping you full of his seed, ensuring his heritage while you serve your true purpose.
Aemond's eyes blaze with triumph as he sees the desperate need reflected in your eyes. He knows he's broken you, reduced you to a quivering, wanton mess, begging for his cock and his seed. It's a powerful feeling, knowing he has this control over you, that he can make you crave his touch above all else.
He leans down, capturing your lips in a brutal kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth, claiming you from the inside out. His hips continue their relentless pace, pounding into your tight heat, driving you closer to the edge.
Aemond's cock twitches inside you, his climax building, his balls drawing up tight. He's close, so fucking close to spilling himself inside you, to marking you as his once and for all.
"I'm going to flood this pussy," he promises, his voice a dark, seductive purr. "Paint your insides with my seed, make sure it takes root. You'll be dripping with my cum, and everyone will know who you belong to."
The thought sends a shiver down his spine, his cock pulsing with need. He wants to ruin you, to claim you so thoroughly that you'll never crave another man's touch. He wants to fuck you into submission, to make you his in every way possible.
His filthy words, combined with the brutal, near cervix-pounding thrusts, finally push you over the edge. You throw your head back with a keening cry, your body wracked with violent shivers as you come undone beneath him. Tears stream down your face, your eyes rolling back from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it all.
Aemond groans as your pussy clenches around him, the rhythmic squeezing of your walls pushing him over the edge. His hips stutter, his thrusts becoming erratic as his climax crashes over him.
"Oh, Gods!" You sob, your voice high and broken.
Your pussy clamps down on his cock like a vice, rippling and fluttering as you ride out the waves of ecstasy crashing through you. At this moment, you are not a princess or a lady, but a wanton slut, put in her place by her husband's cock. And gods help you, but you love it.
"Fuck, yes!" he roars, his cock pulsing and twitching as he spills himself inside you, painting your walls with his hot, thick seed, your pussy clenching down on him like a fist.
Jet after jet of hot cum shoots from his cock, flooding your womb, painting your insides with his seed.
"Take it," he snarls, his hips jerking with each spurt of his release. "Take my cum."
Aemond's mind goes blissfully blank as he empties himself inside you, his whole world narrowing down to the feel of your pussy milking his cock, greedily swallowing every drop of his cum.
You whimper softly as Aemond's hot seed fills you, your insides warm and tingling from his release. You can feel it trickling out around his still-buried cock, the evidence of his claim dripping down.
He rocks against you, grinding his pelvis against yours, ensuring every last drop is pumped deep into your fertile core. The thought of you, swollen with his child, carrying his heir, sends a primal surge of satisfaction through him.
Your mind is blissfully empty, thoughts scattered in the aftermath of such intense pleasure. You gaze up at him with wide, glossy eyes, your lips parted in a breathless pant. The world around you fades away, leaving only him.
Aemond leans down, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He nuzzles your skin, breathing in your scent, the musky aroma of sex and sweat clinging to your bodies.
His softening cock twitches inside you, a residual shudder of pleasure rippling through him at the feeling of your cum-filled pussy clenching around him. He rolls his hips lazily, grinding against you, savouring the sensation of his seed sloshing inside you.
Aemond's lips curl into a satisfied smirk against your neck. He can feel your body, pliant and sated beneath him, still grasping his softening cock as if reluctant to let him go. The knowledge that he's thoroughly conquered you, reduced you to a quivering mess of pleasure, sends a thrill through him.
He pulls back slightly, his single eye raking over your face, drinking in the sight of you - cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes glazed with satisfaction.
You're a vision, a goddess laid out before him, and he's drunk at the sight of you.
Aemond's eye roams over your body, taking in every curve and dip, committing the sight to memory. Your breasts, heaving with each breath, nipples pebbled and begging for his touch. The sheen of sweat on your skin, glistening in the candlelight. The way your thighs are splayed open, your pussy still stretched and dripping with his cum.
It's a feast for the senses, and Aemond is a starving man.
The Queen Grief - King Aegon Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader
Summary : After the incident where your son was killed coldly, you were drowned in anger and also hated.
part II.
You were consumed by grief and rage, your heart aching as you watched the servants carefully lift your son’s bloodstained blanket. They were going to burn it, or perhaps throw it away, treating it like nothing more than a piece of cloth stained by death. The thought of it made you tremble with fury.
Your eyes shifted to the bed where your son had once slept, now soaked in blood—his blood. The memory of his innocent face, his little hands grasping the blanket you had carefully knitted for him, made your chest tighten with unbearable pain. You reached for the soft fabric, clutching it tightly to your chest as fresh tears began to fall.
The blanket, once a symbol of warmth and love, now felt like a cruel reminder of what had been stolen from you. You could almost hear his voice again, that soft giggle when you’d first shown him the blanket, the joy in his eyes when he wrapped it around himself, feeling safe in your arms.
“I made this for you, my sweet Jaehaerys,” you whispered through the tears, the words heavy with the weight of loss. “I promised I would protect you, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t protect you from them.”
The memory of his reaction, the bright smile and the way his tiny hands ran over the knitted fabric, was now a bitter and painful reminder of how brief his life had been. You clutched the blanket tighter, your sobs wracking your body, and you felt a deep ache inside you that could never be filled. The warmth of his presence, the sound of his laughter—gone. And in its place, only the cold, lifeless blanket and the bloodstains that would never wash away.
You collapsed onto the floor, your body shaking as you sat amidst the scattered toys that once filled your son’s room with joy. The small wooden blocks, the tiny figurines—each one a reminder of the life he would never get to live, the laughter and innocence that would never be heard again. Your tears flowed freely, and the pain in your chest became unbearable.
The sound of your sobs filled the room, louder and more desperate with each passing moment. Your heart ached for him, for the life stolen from you both. You cried out for the child you would never see again, for the dreams that would never come true. Your breath came in ragged gasps as the grief overwhelmed you.
Suddenly, you felt the warmth of Aegon’s arms around you, pulling you close, and his voice, cracked with emotion, whispered in your ear. “I’m here. I’m with you. I’ll never leave you.” His words were a comfort, but the sorrow in his voice matched your own, his tears mingling with yours.
You leaned into him, trembling with the force of your grief. The two of you clung to each other, crying together, mourning the loss of your son in a silence that spoke of shared pain. Aegon’s embrace, his steady presence, was the only thing grounding you in that moment, but nothing could fill the aching void left in your heart.
And so, you cried. You cried until your tears seemed endless, until the weight of the world felt too much to bear. Aegon cried with you, his own sorrow mixing with yours, and for that moment, it felt as though you were no longer alone in your grief. But the emptiness of loss still lingered, heavy and suffocating, as the two of you wept for the son you had lost.
After a long, silent weeping, Aegon finally made the decision to lift you in his arms. His steps were slow and steady, as though the weight of grief was pulling him down just as much as it had consumed you. Your body felt light in his arms, yet heavy with sorrow. Every step he took was an effort, but he kept going, determined to bring you some measure of comfort.
As he walked through the hallways, trying to escape the suffocating grief, a group of soldiers appeared before him. One of them, looking hesitant yet resolute, stepped forward.
“Your Grace,” the soldier said, his voice respectful but firm, “The Dowager Queen has commanded that the Queen has to meet her at her private solar, as per her instructions.”
Aegon’s jaw tightened. His eyes, filled with the same pain that tore at your heart, locked onto the soldier’s. His voice, cold and unwavering, rang out in the tense silence.
“No,” Aegon replied, his tone low but carrying the weight of his authority. “I will not hand her over. I will take her to our chambers.”
The soldier hesitated, glancing at the others, but none of them moved. They understood the King’s command. Aegon, despite the crown on his head, was not swayed by the demands of his mother, the Queen Dowager. His focus was entirely on you, his queen, his wife, the woman who was grieving the loss of their son.
With no further words, Aegon continued his path toward your room. The soldiers reluctantly stepped aside, not daring to challenge him again. The halls seemed eerily quiet as Aegon carried you with care, every step bringing him closer to a place where, for just a moment, there would be no responsibilities, no demands—only the quiet solace of being together.
When the door to your chamber finally closed behind him, Aegon gently laid you on the bed, his heart heavy but steadfast. He sat beside you, taking your hand in his, and in the quiet stillness of the room, he whispered, “I’m here. I will never leave you. You don’t have to do this alone.”
You clung to Aegon’s body, wrapping your arms tightly around him as if you could draw strength from his presence. The storm of emotion inside you seemed endless, the grief so deep you couldn’t see past it. His warmth was the only comfort in that moment, and you buried your face against his chest, closing your eyes, trying to escape the overwhelming pain.
Aegon held you close, his breath steady against your hair, his arms strong around you. After a long pause, he slowly closed his eyes, allowing the quiet of the room to wash over both of you. Then, with a soft and gentle touch, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment as if trying to convey all the love and sorrow he felt without words.
“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing, “I’m here, and I won’t leave you.”
Then, to calm you, Aegon began to hum softly, the familiar melody of a song you loved, one that had always brought you peace in moments of chaos. His voice was hushed, carrying the melody gently as he softly rocked you in his arms.
The tune, a song you’d always cherished, seemed to weave its way through the tension and heartache, slowly, gently pulling you back from the edge of your grief. His voice, full of love and concern, was the only thing you could focus on, and with each note, you felt a small measure of calm washing over you.
His arms around you were strong, a shield against the world outside, and in that moment, with his voice humming that familiar, soothing tune, you finally allowed yourself to rest, to close your eyes and let the pain ease—if only for a brief moment.
As the soft hum of Aegon’s voice began to soothe you, a sound from the doorway broke through the fragile peace. You opened your eyes, turning your head, and there she was—your mother, Alicent, standing with an air of composed determination. Her gaze swept over the room, lingering on the sight of you in Aegon’s arms, clutching the blanket that had once been your son’s.
Tears threatened to rise again as you held the bloodstained fabric closer, pressing it against your face, the faintest hint of your son’s scent still clinging to it. The weight of Alicent’s presence, however, was impossible to ignore.
Her voice was calm but firm, her tone leaving no room for argument. “His body will be taken through the kingdom,” she said. “The people must see the tragedy, must know who is responsible for the death of their prince. You- we will ride in the carriage directly behind him.”
Her words struck like a blade. For a moment, you couldn’t speak, the grief and fury warring within you. Slowly, you shook your head, lowering the blanket from your face. “No,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “I won’t do it.”
Alicent’s expression hardened, but there was something else there too—perhaps a flicker of understanding or even pity. “This is for the realm,” she pressed. “For your son’s justice.”
You sat up, Aegon’s hand resting protectively on your back as you faced her. “Justice?” you repeated bitterly, your voice rising. “Parading his body like a spectacle is not justice—it’s cruelty. It’s not for him, it’s for your politics.”
Alicent’s lips tightened into a thin line. She took a step forward, her gaze sharp but laced with concern. “It’s what must be done. The people need to see—”
“No!” you interrupted, standing now despite the weakness in your legs. “I won’t let his memory be used this way. I won’t ride behind him as if he’s nothing more than a tool in this war.”
Alicent stared at you, the tension between mother and daughter palpable, the silence heavy. Aegon rose beside you, his arm steadying you as he spoke, his voice low but firm. “She has made her decision,” he said, addressing Alicent directly. “And as her husband—and her king—I stand by it.”
Alicent’s expression faltered for a moment, her mouth opening as if to argue, but she said nothing. With a stiff nod, she turned and left, her footsteps echoing down the hall. You exhaled shakily, leaning into Aegon’s support, your heart still heavy but resolute in your refusal to let your son’s memory be tarnished.
The moment you heard the words—the news that your son’s head had been found and sewn back onto his small, lifeless body—you felt your knees weaken, but the urgency in your heart propelled you forward. You moved with haste, ignoring the calls of servants and guards as you hurried to where they had brought him.
When you entered the dimly lit chamber, your breath caught in your throat. There he was, your sweet boy, lying on a cold stone slab. His tiny body, once so full of life and laughter, now lay stiff and pale. The stitching on his neck was visible, crude and brutal, a reminder of the horror he had endured.
You froze for a moment, your mind unwilling to fully accept the sight before you. But then the wave of grief crashed over you, and you rushed forward, falling to your knees beside him. Trembling, you reached out, your hands brushing against his cold, lifeless skin.
Tears poured down your cheeks as you let out a broken sob. “My sweet boy,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “My Jaehaerys… please, wake up.”
You wrapped your arms around his small, fragile body. His coldness pierced through you, but you didn’t care. “Please,” you begged, your voice breaking. “Please come back to me. Just one more time. Hold me back. Call me ‘Mother’ again.”
Your sobs filled the room as you cradled him, pressing kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his tiny hands. You clung to him as if your love alone could undo the cruelty of fate. But no matter how tightly you held him, no matter how desperately you cried, his small body remained still and unresponsive.
The world felt cruel and empty as you wept, your tears falling onto his lifeless face. There was nothing left but the unbearable silence and the weight of your sorrow.
Through the haze of your grief, you forced yourself to lift your head. His face was peaceful, but his silence screamed louder than anything. The coldness of his skin cut through your soul like a knife.
You turned to the nearest servant, your voice cracking with desperation. “Bring me his blanket. The one I made for him. Hurry!”
The servant hesitated, unsure of how to act in the face of your anguish, but a sharp glance from you spurred them into action. As they hurried away, you turned back to your son, your tears blurring your vision.
“Jaehaerys,” you whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “You always loved that blanket. Do you remember? You said it made you feel safe. I’ll keep you warm, my love. I promise I’ll keep you warm.
Moments later, the servant returned, carefully holding the soft blanket you had poured hours of love into crafting. You snatched it from their hands, your fingers clutching the fabric as though it held the last pieces of him.
With trembling hands, you draped the blanket over his tiny body, tucking it in as though he were merely asleep. But the lifelessness of his form made your chest tighten further, and the tears came again in an uncontrollable flood.
You collapsed beside him, your hand resting on his covered chest, hoping against hope that you might feel it rise and fall, that somehow this nightmare might end. But there was nothing. No warmth, no breath, no heartbeat.
“I’m so sorry,” you sobbed, your voice breaking as you leaned down to kiss his cold forehead. “I couldn’t protect you. My baby, my sweet boy, I couldn’t save you.”
You stayed there, your body wracked with sobs, as you clung to him. The servants stood back, silent witnesses to a mother’s endless grief, as your cries echoed through the chamber—a lament for a life stolen too soon.
Your trembling hand reached out, brushing against the cold, pale skin of your son’s cheek. His once rosy complexion was now a stark, lifeless white. You traced his delicate features, your fingers lingering on the softness of his face, as though you could imprint the memory of him into your very soul.
Tears streamed down your cheeks, falling onto his still, small body. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the sound of your quiet sobs. Your heart ached with a pain so raw it felt as if it might tear you apart.
But as the weight of your grief pressed down on you, a fire ignited within your chest—a burning rage that pushed through the despair. You clenched your jaw, your hand still resting on his lifeless cheek, and whispered through your tears, “I swear, my son… I swear on your name, on your memory, on my very life—whoever did this to you will pay.”
Your voice grew stronger, more resolute, as if speaking the words aloud gave them power. “I don’t care what it costs me. Whether it’s my blood, my crown, or my life. I will avenge you, Jaehaerys. I promise you, they will suffer as you have suffered.”
The rage coursing through you felt like the only thing keeping you upright. It was no longer just grief—it was a mission, a purpose that would drive you forward no matter the cost.
You leaned down, pressing a trembling kiss to his icy forehead, your tears falling onto his skin. “Rest now, my love,” you whispered. “I will not let this injustice stand. I will make them pay.”
The vow settled into your heart, cold and unshakable, as you stayed beside him, your hand never leaving his face. Though your heart was shattered, your resolve was forged in steel, and nothing—not the gods, not death itself—would stop you from honoring the promise you made to your beloved son.
Your steps echoed through the long corridors as you made your way toward the council chamber. The fire of grief and vengeance burned within you, your mind consumed with thoughts of your son. Every step you took felt heavier, yet you pressed forward, drawn by the voices echoing from the chamber ahead.
As you approached, their words became clear.
“They were vermin, nothing more,” Aemond’s sharp voice declared, calm yet cutting. “The rats in this kingdom must know there is no tolerance for disloyalty or treachery.”
Another voice, one of the council members, spoke hesitantly, “But, the display—hanging them at the gates—some might see it as excessive.”
And then, you heard your husband’s voice, steady and resolute, with a dangerous edge that left no room for argument. “They killed my son,” Aegon said, his tone icy. “Excessive would have been feeding them to the dragons piece by piece. This kingdom will know what happens to those who betray the crown and harm my family.”
The words struck you like a hammer. You froze just outside the door, the image of the gates filled your mind—bodies dangling as a gruesome warning. Aegon had taken his grief and turned it into action, his vengeance swift and unrelenting.
You pushed the doors open without hesitation, stepping into the room. The council members turned to look at you, their expressions ranging from surprise to discomfort. Aemond stood to one side, arms crossed, his eye narrowing as he observed you. At the head of the table, Aegon sat, his face unreadable until he saw you.
You locked eyes with him, the air in the room thick with tension. “Is it true?” you asked, your voice trembling but firm. “Did you hang them at the gates?”
Aegon rose from his chair, his gaze steady as he approached you. “I did,” he replied without hesitation. “They took our son from us. They deserved worse.”
You searched his face, seeing the same pain and anger you carried in your heart. Yet, something about it unsettled you—the coldness, the finality of his actions. “And what justice have you found, Aegon?” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Does it bring him back?”
He reached for you, his hand brushing your arm gently. “No,” he admitted, his voice softening. “But it ensures that no one else dares to harm what’s ours.”
You looked down, the weight of his words pressing against your chest. Part of you wanted to rage, to scream at the futility of it all. Yet another part of you—the part consumed by your own need for vengeance—understood him all too well.
As the council chamber settled into a tense silence following Aegon’s admission, a sharp voice cut through the air. Otto Hightower, standing at the far end of the table, slammed his hand against the wood, his face twisted with fury.
“This was reckless, Your Grace!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Hanging the rat-catchers at the gates like common criminals? What will the realm think? What will this do to the crown’s dignity? Such actions—”
Aegon spun toward Otto, his eyes blazing with fury. “Dignity?” he snapped, his voice cold and filled with venom. “You think I care about dignity, Otto? They took my son! My son, who was barely old enough to speak his own name!”
The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Aegon stepped forward, his voice growing louder, trembling with both rage and pain. “Do you know what dignity means to me now? Nothing! Dignity didn’t save him. Dignity didn’t stop his head from being torn from his body. So don’t you stand there and lecture me about what is too far.”
Otto’s mouth opened as if to respond, but Aegon cut him off, taking another step closer, his presence commanding the room. “I am the king,” he growled. “And as long as I wear this crown, no one—no one—will harm what is mine without paying for it in blood. Do you understand me?”
Alicent, standing near the door, placed a hand over her chest, her expression a mixture of sorrow and alarm. Even Aemond, ever composed, shifted slightly where he stood, his single eye flicking between Otto and Aegon.
“You have lost sight of the bigger picture,” Otto finally said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Revenge clouds your judgment. This will have consequences.”
Aegon’s expression hardened further, his fists clenching at his sides. “Then let there be consequences,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “I’ll bear them gladly if it means justice for my son.”
You stood there, watching the exchange, torn between the grief that mirrored Aegon’s and the unease Otto’s words stirred in you. In Aegon’s eyes, there was nothing but pain and vengeance, a fire that seemed unstoppable. You reached out, gently placing a hand on his arm, grounding him for just a moment.
“Aegon,” you whispered, your voice soft but filled with emotion. “Let’s not lose ourselves completely to this. Not yet.”
He looked at you, his anger dimming slightly as he took in your tear-streaked face. With a deep breath, he turned away from Otto, his grip on control tenuous but holding—for now.
Unable to bear the tension any longer, you turned and left the council chamber, your steps hurried and uneven as the weight of grief pressed down on you. The echoes of raised voices faded behind you, replaced by the quiet hum of the corridors. You wrapped your arms around yourself, as if trying to hold your breaking heart together, and made your way back to your chambers.
When you arrived at your chambers, the sight that greeted you pulled you to a halt. The servants were moving quietly, laying out a gown of rich black and deep green across the bed. Beside it rested a matching hood, its dark fabric shimmering faintly in the candlelight.
These were no ordinary garments—they were the colors of House Hightower, the mourning attire of the queen dowager’s line, meant to signify grief and strength in equal measure. Yet, to you, they only symbolized loss, a cruel reminder of the funeral you would soon endure.
One of the servants noticed your presence and turned, bowing their head respectfully. “Your Grace,” they said softly, their voice carefully measured, “the Queen Dowager requested these be prepared for you. She thought they would honor both your son and your house.”
You took a step closer, your gaze fixed on the heavy fabrics. Your hands trembled as you reached out to touch the gown. The black velvet felt cold beneath your fingers, while the deep green embroidery—a shade you once associated with pride—now seemed hollow, devoid of its former meaning.
The servant continued, their tone apologetic. “The procession will begin shortly. Queen Alicent thought—”
“Enough,” you interrupted, your voice barely above a whisper but heavy with emotion. The servant fell silent, stepping back to give you space.
You picked up the hood, its weight seeming far heavier than its fabric should allow. Holding it close to your chest, you sank onto the edge of the bed, your tears spilling over as you clutched it tightly.
“Green and black,” you murmured, your voice cracking. “For what purpose? To parade my grief for the realm to see? To show the world the price I have paid?”
Your gaze drifted to the gown again, and the pain in your chest swelled, suffocating you. “None of this will bring him back,” you whispered, the words breaking as they left your lips.
You closed your eyes, pressing the hood to your face as tears fell freely. The room seemed to close in around you, heavy with the weight of your loss, as the preparations for the ceremony continued in quiet, dutiful silence.
You sat motionless before the mirror, staring at your own reflection as if it were a stranger staring back at you. The pale, hollow-eyed face that greeted you bore little resemblance to the woman you once were. Your hands rested limply in your lap, surrendering to the servants who worked silently around you.
One was carefully weaving your hair into an intricate braid, while another secured the black hood over your head, its heavy fabric draping over your shoulders. Every movement felt mechanical, detached, as though this wasn’t truly happening to you. You had stopped fighting. You had stopped resisting.
You had surrendered.
The weight of the mourning gown clung to your skin, and the air seemed thick, suffocating in the quiet of the room. The finality of it all settled over you like a shroud, and you sat there, staring, as the servants completed their work.
Then the door opened.
The sound drew your gaze, and your reflection shifted as you turned your head. Standing in the doorway was your mother, Queen Dowager Alicent Hightower, dressed in a dark green gown that matched the depths of her sorrow. Her black hood framed her face, highlighting the familiar resolve in her eyes—a look you had seen countless times.
Her presence filled the room, yet neither of you spoke at first. She took a step inside, her gaze sweeping over you. For a moment, the queen dowager and the grieving mother collided within her, and her lips pressed into a thin line.
“You are ready,” she said softly, her voice steady but heavy with emotion.
You didn’t respond, turning your eyes back to the mirror. The servant adjusted the final pin in your hood and stepped back, bowing her head before retreating to the corner.
“I see you’ve decided to join the procession,” Alicent continued, stepping closer to you. Her green gown swayed slightly as she walked, the fabric catching the dim light. “This is as it should be. The realm must see your strength… and your grief.”
At her words, your fists clenched in your lap, but you didn’t turn to face her. Instead, you stared at your reflection, your expression unreadable. “Strength?” you repeated quietly, your voice laced with bitterness. “Is that what this is supposed to be?”
Alicent paused, her hands clasping tightly in front of her. “It is what must be done,” she said firmly, though her voice softened as she added, “for him. For Jaehaerys.”
Her words cut through you like a blade, and you closed your eyes, trying to block out the tears that threatened to fall again. “Do you think he would want this?” you whispered. “For his body to be paraded through the streets while his mother sits silently behind it?”
Alicent sighed, stepping closer until she stood just behind you, her reflection now visible in the mirror alongside your own. “He would want the world to see the price of this treachery,” she said quietly but with conviction. “And so would you, if only your heart were not so broken.”
You turned your gaze away from the mirror, unable to look at her any longer. “My heart is broken, Mother,” you said softly, your voice cracking. “And I wonder if it will ever heal.”
Alicent rested a hand on your shoulder, her grip firm but meant to be comforting. “It may not,” she admitted, her voice gentle. “But you will endure. You are my daughter. You will endure.”
And with that, the room fell silent once more, the weight of her words pressing down on you as heavily as the mourning garments you wore.
The creaking of the wooden wheels and the steady clatter of hooves filled the air as the funeral procession made its somber journey through the streets. You sat silently beside your mother in the dark confines of the carriage, the heavy mourning gown clinging to your body like a second layer of grief.
Your gaze remained fixed on the carriage ahead of you, where the small, still form of your son lay. Wrapped in the blanket you had lovingly made for him, his tiny body was carefully cradled on a velvet bier, his pale face framed by soft curls that once shone with life.
On his head rested the small crown you and Aegon had given him for his fourth nameday. You remembered how his eyes had lit up with delight when he first saw it, how he had run around the chamber declaring himself “a king like Papa.” The memory stabbed at your chest, and tears silently slipped down your cheeks, unnoticed by the world outside.
Beside you, your mother sat upright and composed, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The dark green of her gown blended with the black hood she wore, her expression unreadable as she gazed straight ahead. But even in her stoicism, you could feel her grief—muted, controlled, yet no less profound.
The crowds lined the streets, their murmurs and whispers barely audible over the sound of the procession. Some wept openly, others lowered their heads in respect, and a few simply stared, their faces etched with shock and sorrow.
Your eyes never left the small form ahead of you. “He’s so cold,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you broke the heavy silence in the carriage.
Alicent turned her head slightly, her sharp eyes softening as they fell on you. “The blanket,” she said gently, her voice barely above a whisper. “It will keep him warm, even now.”
You shook your head, your hands clutching at your gown. “It’s not enough,” you murmured, your voice cracking. “He needs to feel loved. He needs… he needs to wake up.”
Alicent reached out, placing a steady hand over yours. Her touch was firm, grounding you even as her heart ached alongside yours. “He knows he is loved,” she said quietly. “You showed him that every day of his life. That love… it does not end, even now.”
You turned your head to look at her, searching for comfort in her words, but the raw pain in your chest remained unyielding. “Then why does it feel like it’s not enough?”
She didn’t answer, only holding your hand tightly as the carriage carried you forward, the weight of your shared grief filling the air. Ahead of you, the small crown on Jaehaerys’s head glinted faintly in the light, a fragile, heart-wrenching reminder of what you had lost.
As the procession reached the Dragonpit, the air seemed to grow heavier, thick with the weight of grief and the whispers of the gathered crowd. You stepped down from the carriage, your body trembling with exhaustion and sorrow, but the moment your feet touched the ground, the atmosphere shifted.
Your mother following close behind. The crowd pressed closer, their faces filled with sorrow, but their hands reached out too eagerly, too insistently. The weight of their stares, their words, their touch became unbearable.
“Your Grace,” a woman said, gripping your hand tightly, her voice trembling. “The realm mourns with you. Prince Jaehaerys—”
You pulled your hand away, trembling as others replaced her, one after another, their voices blurring into an incomprehensible hum.
“Such a tragedy,” someone else murmured.
“Your strength inspires us all,” another said.
But their words felt like needles pricking at your raw grief. Your chest tightened, and your breathing grew faster, shallower. Your hands trembled uncontrollably as you stepped back, your gaze darting around frantically.
“No,” you whispered, shaking your head as tears began to fall. “No, I—I can’t…”
You turned to leave, but the crowd surged forward, their outstretched hands reaching for you. It was too much—the noise, the faces, the pity. Your knees buckled, and you clutched your chest as your sobs erupted.
“I don’t want this!” you cried, your voice cracking as you stumbled back. “I don’t want to do this! Stop—please, stop!”
A strong arm wrapped around your shoulders, steadying you. Aegon was at your side in an instant, his face etched with concern and anger as he glared at the crowd. “Back away!” he commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. “All of you, back away now!”
The crowd hesitated, murmurs rippling through them as they began to retreat. Aegon pulled you closer, his other hand cupping the back of your head as he guided you toward the nearest private space.
“It’s too much,” you sobbed into his chest, clutching at his tunic as though he were the only thing anchoring you to the world. “I can’t… I can’t do this, Aegon.”
“I know,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I know. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
He turned his head, addressing a knight who had stepped forward. “Clear the area. No one approaches her again without my permission.”
The knight nodded and moved to carry out his orders, while Aegon held you tightly, his hand stroking your back as he whispered, “Breathe, my love. I’m here. Just breathe.”
Your tears continued to fall, but his presence grounded you, offering a fragile sense of safety amidst the overwhelming tide of grief and chaos.
The moment came, heavy and suffocating, as Aegon stepped forward to give the final command. You stood by his side, your knees trembling as your eyes remained fixed on the small, still form of your son.
Aegon’s voice rang out, steady but laced with pain, as he uttered the word that sealed your son’s farewell. “Dracarys.”
Sunfyre roared, his golden scales shimmering as he unleashed a torrent of flame. The heat surged forward, consuming the bier in an instant. You watched, helpless, as the fire licked at the edges of the blanket you had made, the crown atop his head glowing briefly before it, too, was claimed by the flames.
The sight was unbearable. A strangled sob escaped your lips, and your body seemed to give out under the weight of your grief. The roaring fire blurred as tears streamed down your cheeks, your vision darkening.
“Aegon…” you whispered weakly, reaching for him before your knees buckled.
Aegon turned just in time to catch you as you collapsed into his arms, your body limp. “No!” he cried, his voice breaking as panic overtook him. “Someone—help!”
He cradled you tightly, his arms trembling as he lowered you gently to the ground. “Wake up,” he begged, his voice desperate as he stroked your face, his thumb brushing away the tears still clinging to your cheeks. “Please, my love, wake up!”
The attendants and guards rushed forward, but Aegon barked at them to stay back. “She’s my wife!” he snapped, his voice a mixture of fury and anguish. “Don’t touch her!”
Alicent appeared moments later, her face pale as she knelt beside her son. “What happened?” she asked urgently, her hands hovering uncertainly over you.
Alicent’s expression softened with sorrow as she looked at you, then at her son. “She needs rest,” she said firmly. “Get her to her chambers.”
Aegon didn’t wait for further instruction. He scooped you up into his arms, holding you as if you were the most fragile thing in the world. His heart pounded as he carried you away from the flames, the weight of the moment pressing down on him with every step.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I swear I’ll take care of you.”
tag list : @danytar @looneytun3s @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @julessworldd (italic means that i can’t tag you)
The air is filled with the stench of ale and sweat as Sandor and Arya approach the rundown tavern. Its warped wooden sign creaks in the breeze, announcing its name—something worn and illegible. From inside, the sounds of rowdy laughter, clinking mugs, and muffled jeers spill out into the dirt road.
Sandor pulls up short, his sharp eyes narrowing as he motions for Arya to stay close. “Keep your mouth shut and your nose clean, girl. Places like this don’t take kindly to little wolves.”
Arya smirks, her hands resting on the hilt of Needle. “I can handle myself.”
He mutters a curse under his breath and pushes open the door, his broad frame filling the entrance. The tavern is low lit, the smoky air obscuring most of the faces inside. Sandor scans the room out of habit, noting the handful of patrons hunched over tables, while a group of Lannister soldiers in tarnished armor lingers near the bar. They’re loud, drunk, and jeering at a cloaked figure sitting in the far corner.
“Come on, love,” one of the soldiers drawls, leaning closer to the figure. “No need to be shy. Let us see that pretty face of yours.”
The cloaked woman says nothing, her face obscured by the shadow of her hood. Her body is still, but Sandor’s practiced eyes catch the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her hands are clenched under the table.
“Sandor,” Arya hisses from beside him, her voice low. “Something’s not right.”
Sandor grunts, his eyes still on the scene. The soldiers press closer, their laughter turning meaner. One of them, bolder than the rest, reaches out to tug at the edge of the woman’s hood. The fabric falls away, revealing her face.
The room falls into a stunned silence as the soldiers step back, their drunken bravado replaced with shock and recognition.
“It’s her,” one of them breathes, his voice tinged with awe and fear. “The princess.”
Sandor’s heart lurches in his chest. He freezes, his mind reeling. He’d recognize you anywhere—the sharpness of your eyes, the set of your jaw, the fire in your expression. You’re a ghost, a memory he thought he’d buried, now standing flesh and blood before him.
Arya notices his reaction immediately. She glances between Sandor and you, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Is that her?” she demands, her voice quiet but insistent. “Is that your princess?”
Sandor doesn’t answer, his focus locked on you. You’re already moving, your chair scraping loudly against the floor as you rise. The soldiers hesitate, their initial shock giving way to determination.
“We’ve got orders to bring you back to King’s Landing,” one of them growls, drawing his sword. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
You don’t respond. Instead, you step forward, your movements fluid and purposeful. One of the soldiers lunges, but you sidestep him with ease, grabbing his wrist and twisting until the sword clatters to the ground. With a sharp kick, you send him sprawling into a nearby table.
The tavern erupts into chaos. Chairs scrape against the floor as patrons scramble to get out of the way. Another soldier charges at you, his blade swinging wide, but you duck beneath it, driving your elbow into his gut. He staggers, and you follow up with a swift strike to his head, sending him crumpling to the ground.
Sandor finally snaps out of his stupor, his instincts kicking in. “Bloody stubborn woman,” he growls, stepping forward as if to intervene.
But you don’t need his help. You’re a whirlwind of movement, disarming and incapacitating the soldiers with ruthless efficiency. The last one standing hesitates, his sword trembling in his hand. He glances at his fallen comrades, then back at you.
“Go ahead,” you say, your voice cold and steady. “Run back to your masters. Tell them I’m not going anywhere.”
The soldier doesn’t need to be told twice. He drops his sword and bolts for the door, stumbling in his haste. You watch him go, your chest heaving as you catch your breath.
For a moment, he simply stares at you. The noise of the tavern fades into the background, the world narrowing to just the two of you. Then, without a word, you pull your hood back up and dart for the back door.
“Wait!” Arya calls after you, but you’re already gone.
Sandor curses under his breath, shoving past a toppled chair as he makes for the exit. “Come on, girl,” he snaps at Arya, his voice rough. “She’s not getting away that easy.”
Arya doesn’t hesitate, falling into step behind him. “Why is she here, Sandor?” she presses as they burst out into the night. “Shouldn't she be in the capital?”
Sandor doesn’t answer, his focus on the faint trail of footprints in the dirt leading away from the tavern. His jaw is tight, his thoughts a chaotic mess. You were here. After all this time, you were here—and you were still fighting, still defying the world that sought to control you.
“We’re catching her,” Sandor growls, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And then we’ll both get our answers.”
Arya doesn’t respond, her eyes gleaming with curiosity and determination as they set off into the darkness, following the trail of the princess who had just turned their world upside down.
The night air is cool and damp as Sandor barrels through the woods, Arya quick on his heels. The faint rustling of leaves and the crunch of dirt beneath their boots are the only sounds that fill the silence. He’s close. He can feel it in the pounding of his heart, in the way his body moves without hesitation, driven by instinct.
“There!” Arya hisses, pointing ahead. A flicker of movement, a shadow weaving between the trees.
Sandor pushes forward, his long strides eating up the distance until he sees you—a flash of your cloak, the glint of moonlight on your hair as you dart through the underbrush. You’re fast, but Sandor is relentless, and within moments, he’s upon you.
He grabs your arm, his grip firm but not rough, spinning you around to face him. “Stop running, damn it!”
The two of you freeze, the world narrowing to just the two of you. For a moment, neither of you speaks, your breaths mingling in the cold night air. Your eyes widen in recognition, and he can see the disbelief etched across your face, as raw and vivid as the moonlight illuminating your features.
“Sandor?” you breathe, your voice barely audible.
Before he can answer, your surprise twists into something else—anger. Without warning, you pull your arm free and swing your fist, catching him square in the jaw.
“Seven hells!” Sandor staggers back, his hand flying to his face. He scowls at you, half in pain, half in confusion. “What in the bloody—”
“You!” you shout, your voice trembling with fury. “You left me! You just—left!”
Arya, standing a few paces away, bursts into laughter, clutching her stomach as she watches the scene unfold. “She hit you!” she manages to choke out between giggles. “The big bad Hound, brought down by a princess!”
Sandor shoots her a glare before turning back to you, his jaw tightening. “I didn’t have a choice,” he growls, his voice low and rough. “I left to keep you safe.”
“Safe?” you snap, stepping closer. Your hands ball into fists at your sides, and your eyes flash with anger. “You call abandoning me safe? Do you have any idea what it’s been like? The lies I’ve had to tell, the people I’ve had to fight just to stay free?”
Sandor flinches at your words, though he quickly schools his expression into something harder. “And what was I supposed to do?” he bites back. “Take you with me? Drag you into the mess I was running from? You think you’d be better off with a target on your back?”
“I already had a target on my back because of Joffrey!” you shout, your voice breaking slightly. “I didn’t need you to protect me, Sandor—I needed you to stay.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and raw, as if you’d ripped them straight from your chest. Sandor stares at you, his scarred face unreadable, though his eyes betray a flicker of something—regret, guilt, longing.
Arya, still watching from the sidelines, crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “So, this is your princess?” she asks, her tone light but curious. “The one you couldn’t stop talking about?”
“Shut your mouth, girl,” Sandor snaps, though there’s no real heat in his voice. His focus remains on you, his large frame blocking out the rest of the world.
You glare at him, your chest heaving as you try to reign in your emotions. “Why are you here, Sandor?” you demand, your voice quieter now but no less intense. “Why now?”
His shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining out of him. “Because I saw you,” he admits, his voice rough but honest. “And I couldn’t… I couldn’t just let you go again.”
Your anger wavers, your gaze softening as you search his face. For all the frustration and hurt bubbling inside you, there’s something else too—relief. After all this time, after everything, he’s here.
“I hate you,” you mutter, though the words lack conviction.
Sandor snorts, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You always were a terrible liar.”
Arya, now leaning casually against a tree, watches the exchange with keen interest. “So, are you two done, or should I go find some food while you figure out your feelings?”
You glance at her, startled as if remembering her presence for the first time. “And who’s this?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
“This is Arya Stark,” Sandor says gruffly, his hand falling away from his still-sore jaw. “She’s my… traveling companion.”
“More like captor,” Arya quips with a grin.
You blink, the name sinking in. “Arya Stark? You’re supposed to be dead.”
“And you were supposed to be locked up in a castle,” Arya retorts, tilting her head. “But here we are.”
The corner of your mouth twitches, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through your tension. “Fair enough.”
Sandor clears his throat, his rough voice breaking the moment. “We can stand here all night, or we can get moving. Those Lannister bastards won’t stop looking for you.”
You nod, the weight of the situation settling back on your shoulders. “Fine. But we’re not done talking,” you warn, your eyes locking onto his.
“Didn’t think we were,” Sandor mutters, already turning to lead the way.
As the three of you set off into the woods, the tension between you and Sandor lingers, unspoken but felt. Arya walks beside you, her curiosity barely contained as she studies you with sharp eyes.
“So,” she says after a moment, her tone light but probing. “What’s it like being in love with a dog?”
Your head snaps toward her, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I am not—”
Sandor groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Seven hells, girl. Shut up.”
Arya just laughs, her amusement echoing through the trees as the three of you disappear into the night.
- Note: This short story describes events of B&C, but if assassins succeeded in their mission.
- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for blood, gore and death)
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround
Maps are spread across the table, their edges curling slightly under the weight of time and hurried hands. Aemond stands tall, clad in black leather and polished silver armor that glints under the torchlight. His brow is furrowed, one eye sharp and calculating as it scans the map.
Ser Criston Cole leans beside him, pointing at the parchment with a gauntleted hand.
“The Velaryons will not take kindly to the shattering of their blockade. If they move toward the capital, we’ll—”
“Then we’ll burn their ships before they ever touch sail,” Aemond cuts in curtly, his voice low, yet it resonates through the chamber like a blade dragged across stone.
Criston glances at him, faint approval in his eyes. “Swift, but it’ll require Vhagar to—”
The sound splits the air like a knife to the gut—a scream.
Your scream.
It echoes through the stone halls of the Red Keep, piercing and raw, like an animal caught in a trap. Aemond’s head snaps up, his body going rigid. The blood drains from his face. Before he can even move, a second cry follows—one equally chilling, but distinctly Alicent’s.
“The nursery,” Criston breathes.
Aemond is already moving, his long legs carrying him toward the door in a flash of black and silver. Criston is close behind, his sword clinking faintly against his armor as they race through the halls.
The corridors seem impossibly long, the screams echoing in Aemond’s ears like the tolling of a death bell. The flicker of torches blurs as he runs, but your voice—high-pitched and frantic—grows closer.
“No! Please, no!”
Aemond reaches the nursery door and shoves it open with enough force that it slams against the wall.
The sight that meets him stops him cold.
The room is dimly lit by a single, swaying lantern, the shadows distorted and crawling across the walls. The air is heavy—sickly. The scent of blood is faint but unmistakable.
You are on the floor, trembling, your nightgown soaked and streaked with scarlet. One hand is outstretched as though to reach for something—or someone. Your other hand clutches a dagger, its tip still dripping crimson.
The cradle in the center of the room—the one where your and Aemond’s youngest slept—lies overturned, blood soaking the blankets. Your other children huddle in the corner of the room, their small faces streaked with tears. Their frightened cries pierce the silence: a daughter clinging to her younger brother, shielding his face from the scene before them.
Alicent is being held back by two guards near the door. Her face is pale and stricken with terror, her sobs strangled as she calls out names she cannot see.
“Aegor,” she gasps, collapsing against the guards. “Aegor…”
Aemond’s heart stops when his eye falls on the bloodied cradle and the small form that is missing from it.
“Y/N!” Aemond shouts, his voice hoarse.
You whip your head toward him, your tear-streaked face wide-eyed and frantic.
“They were here—they were—” you choke on your words, pointing toward the shadows, where faint footprints of blood trail out of the room.
Aemond drops to your side, gripping your shoulders tightly. “Who, Y/N? Who was here?”
“Two men,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “The rat-catcher and a man with knives—they came.” Your sobs wrack your body, and Aemond feels your trembling beneath his hands. “They—they killed Aegor.” Your voice breaks again. “They took his body, Aemond. They took him!”
The blood in Aemond’s veins runs cold, his mind struggling to process your words.
“And the children?” he asks, though dread already curls like a snake in his gut.
You don’t answer.
From the corner of the room, a tiny voice trembles, “Papa?”
Your daughter’s voice is so small, so full of terror that it shatters what little composure Aemond holds. He turns his head sharply, seeing your other children—your eldest daughter clutching her brother close, their faces pale and wet with tears.
“Father,” your daughter whimpers again, as though the very presence of her father might save her from this nightmare.
Aemond forces himself to speak, though his voice trembles. “It’s all right. I’m here. I’m here.”
“They—they said they’d come back,” the girl whispers faintly, clutching her brother tighter. “They said we would see the same fate.”
A cold chill runs down Aemond’s spine, but he stands, his face a mask of cold fury. Criston, who has just entered behind him, takes in the carnage with a grim expression.
“Aegor,” Aemond murmurs, his son’s name a growl in his throat. He looks to you, still slumped against the floor. “What did they do, Y/N? Tell me!”
“They—” You swallow thickly, unable to look at him. “They made me choose.”
The silence in the nursery is suffocating.
“What?” Criston’s voice cuts in, low and full of disbelief.
Your tear-filled gaze finally meets Aemond’s. “They made me choose which child to spare. I—I couldn’t—” A sob breaks free, your body curling into itself. “I couldn’t choose, Aemond! I tried, I tried to fight them…”
The rage that coils within Aemond’s chest is volcanic. His fists clench so tightly his knuckles whiten, and his jaw works as he grits his teeth.
“They killed him?” Criston says softly, as if testing the very words.
“They killed Aegor,” Alicent wails, collapsing to her knees. “And they took him…”
Aemond’s single violet eye burns, his pupil small with unrestrained fury. He moves toward the overturned cradle, the blood-streaked blankets tangled and empty.
“I’ll have their heads,” he snarls, his voice ice-cold, deadly. “Every man, every servant who aided them, every soul who dared let them into this keep—I will burn them alive.”
Criston steps forward. “Prince Aemond—”
“Find them,” Aemond spits, turning on his heel and glaring at Criston with such ferocity the Lord Commander takes a step back. “Find them before the day’s end, or I will see the entirety of Flea Bottom reduced to ash.”
Your faint whimper draws his attention again. Aemond’s fury softens—only slightly—as he kneels beside you once more. He cups your tear-streaked face in his hands, tilting it up to meet his gaze.
“I swear to you,” he says, voice low and hard, “they will pay for this. These men will beg for death before I am done with them.
From behind him, the soft sobs of your children echo, their cries quiet but haunting.
You clutch his arms, your blood-slicked fingers staining his black sleeves. “They took our son, Aemond…”
Aemond presses his forehead to yours, his eye shut tight as if to block out the world around him.
“Then I will bring him back,” he promises, though he knows the words are hollow.
And as the cries of the Red Keep continue to echo around you, you feel the walls of your world crumble.
in case i dont end up posting again over the holidays, i just wanna say i hope everyone has a great holiday season and a very very happy new year!!!!
pairing: cregan stark x fem!targtower!pregnant!reader
description: cregan has grown older and happier throughout his years as warden of the north with his beautiful new wife at his side. however, when he married into the royal family, he had not considered how frequently he would need to interact with his in-laws.
warnings: NO DANCE AU!!! (rhaenyra ascends the throne peacefully), weird blend of book and show timeline, slight description of character (silver hair, purple eyes, that’s it!!!), smut, reader gets pregnant like halfway through, pregnancy sex, oral, piv, SEX IN FRONT OF A FIREPLACE ON A BEARSKIN RUGGGG oml
words: 9.7K
date posted: 10/12/24
The winter had been very forgiving, thank the gods. It had been remarkably short, just under eight years in total, meaning that it had come to a close with plenty of food still in storage and northerners who were more than willing and able to transition into the oncoming summer with ease.
Winterfell was left in a generally stable state, aside from the fact that there was a greater need for livestock now that they not only had an additional mouth to feed, but also a fully grown dragon who resided in a make-shift dragonpit only a few minutes ride beyond the walls of the castle–a wedding gift that the Lord of Winterfell had prepared in anticipation of his new wife’s arrival. Otherwise, the North seemed to be in greater shape upon the dawn of this new summer than it had in all of Cregan’s years.
The greatest of Cregan’s accomplishments, of course, was his new wife. At the beginning of the winter, he had not expected that he would be married by the end of it, but with the arrival of Prince Jaeaerys on his official tour of the realm also came his proposal of marriage between Lord Cregan and his own aunt, the youngest daughter of the late King Viserys I and his second wife, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower. He had been hesitant to consider this offer–he’d never met the woman, which was not uncommon for marriages of such high status, but he’d been fortunate enough to have been able to form some sort of friendship with his late wife prior to their union. Jace had brought along with him the terms offered by his mother, in her own hand, of course, as well as a portrait of the woman in question.
Cregan was not above admitting how taken he’d been with the sight of the princess, even if it were only a recreation of her beauty on canvas. He’d heard of her beauty before, it was rumoured around the realm, but seeing it was entirely different, a sort of beauty he could not have imagined on his own.
“Tell me, my prince,” Cregan asked him, hardly drawing his crystal blue gaze away from the portrait, “you are her blood and have grown up with the princess, is this painting to her likeness?”
Jacaerys smirked, “Of course, Lord Stark. My aunt is known to be one of the most beautiful women ever to live.”
Cregan pursed his lips. He was aware of the strange customs of the Targaryens, having married brother to sister and uncle to niece for generations. Jacaerys could be speaking the truth, for he himself could hold some sort of affection for his aunt, but Cregan did not suspect as such. Intead, his greater question was whether Jacaerys could be lying to him out of political gain; as his mother’s envoy, it would do him no good to suggest that the artist had not accurately painted her. Her looks were of no concern to him, but he valued honour and truth over all else. If they were attempting to attract him to the deal by portraying the princess as such a beauty over anything else, he would be personally insulted to discover that he’d been lied to, a snub from the royal family would not be taken kindly by House Stark.
“What say you?” Cregan turned to the group of men standing just to the left of the prince, all who seemed alarmed at Lord Stark’s attention being turned to them, “How do each of you vouch for the princess?”
The men, one at a time, attested to the princess’s beauty until he stood before the smallest and visibly youngest of the men.
“And you, lad?”
“I’m afraid the portrait fails to depict the princess, milord,” The boy grew rosy in the cheeks as he imagined the princess in his mind, eyes drawing towards the portrait, “That is her, yes, but only as close as the Master Holbein could have made it, for I do not think it possible to recreate such beauty. She is gifted by the gods, surely, milord, both in beauty and manner. She is kind, brings food and toys to orphans in Flea Bottom and ev’rything, milord.”
Cregan, taken aback by the answer from the youngest boy, turned back to Prince Jacaerys, who seemed equally as surprised as he did pleased with the answers of his men.
“This is true, milord,” Jace said, “the princess is known among the people for her generosity, among her other talents and traits. It cannot be denied that her mother, the Queen Dowager, was not fond of my family, nor us of her, but the princess was raised better than any of us, I would say. Take the night to think on it, I would hope to send word to the queen before I leave Winterfell at noon.”
Cregan did as instructed, thinking on it long and hard. Her beauty had been their main selling point, something that could not be denied from the portrait sent of her. Lord Stark had half a mind to hang it upon the mantle in his bedchambers whether he takes her to wife or not, but it was not her beauty that had truly swayed his decision. Instead, he thought over the young lad’s words; a southern lady scarcely thrives in the North, a nation nearly as large on its own as all of the remaining six kingdoms put together. The weather was harsh, and the people were harsher, something he could not imagine a Targaryen princess handling well. However, he’d heard of Alicent Hightower’s assertiveness and ability to lead while her husband was incapable and Rhaenyra was in Dragonstone. If what Jacaerys had told him was true, the princess would be dutiful and loyal, and according to the prince’s men, kind beyond words. Beauty may have factored into his decision on a personal level, but he also met the prince the next morning with his acceptance mostly on the basis that he believed that the princess would be wholly capable of helping him rule the North.
He wrote to her a week after Jacaerys departed from Winterfell, certain that the news would have already arrived in the capitol and she would already be aware of their arrangement. He would have little time between her arrival in the north and their wedding to meet with her in private, so this was his best hope. He was pleased to receive a raven in return only three days later, neat handwriting befitting a princess scrawled across the parchment. It was not much, but Cregan was able to learn some things about her through the letters, making it seem like he was less-so marrying a stranger and more as if she were a distant friend.
The month following, the princess would depart from King’s Landing in a procession he was told seemed a mile long. He waited with anticipation, Winterfell in a flurry of servants and guards to prepare the castle to house the royal family and their household, as well as for the wedding itself, and only one more month would pass before his bride had arrived within the walls of Winterfell.
Cregan had bowed respectfully to the Queen Dowager as she stepped out of her wheelhouse, then to the two silver-haired princes who arrived on their steeds. His eyes scanned the growing crowd for any sight of his betrothed, finally catching sight of her as she took the hand of a Dornish white cloak to balance herself as she exited the wheelhouse, a pretty white fur-lined cloak wrapped around her shoulders, almost blending into the pale blonde of her hair. She was, indeed, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had traditional Valyrian looks, but also held an aura of softness.
She was nervous as she curtsied before her, but seemed happy enough with his appearance and manners as he greeted her with a kiss to her leather-gloved knuckle. The moment was broken apart by her mother’s level tone, requesting to be brought to her chambers for some rest before supper. That evening Cregan found the portrait of the princess that he’d received months earlier and personally hung it above the mantle in his bedchambers. He thought it was safe to say he was smitten.
The princess appeared bashful in his presence, though he was partially certain that her discomfort was brought on by her ever-present family, each looming nearby as if waiting to intercept his attempts of conversation with his betrothed. He could not decide who he had grown to loathe the most; Aegon had already drank a generous portion of Winterfell’s wine cellars even before the wedding, and often joined the conversation with the goal to tease his sister and see her shrink in embarrassment; Aemond was constantly looking to best anyone in his path, and seemed almost possessive over his sister’s attention; her mother had hardly allowed them a moment alone, constantly insisting on supervising any time that he would invite her for any sort of activity, or set one of her brothers after them instead. Alicent had a habit of speaking for her daughter, meaning that Cregan had no opportunity to truly know her while her mother was present, while her brothers made it impossible to even speak to one another at all.
He was finally glad on their wedding night, when he’d arranged the head table to be broken into three, leaving the happy couple to sit above the rest and finally receive some alone time. She had been radiant in her gown of white furs and fleeces, meeting him beneath the weirwood tree with her eldest brother at her side to give her away. He’d been glad to tear away the cloak of red and black, intricately interwoven into a field of green and gold at the bottom–it would be unlike Alicent Hightower to allow her children to wear the Rhaenyra’s colours without her own as well. It would be hard to tell whether she looked prettier in the harsh colours of her maiden cloak or in the dull ones of his own, but he couldn’t help but note how greys and blues suited her better than he could have imagined.
He could tell her family was less than pleased with this arrangement, making an effort to step in for every miniscule matter that caught their attention. Cregan watched her from the corner of her eye as she shakily took a long drink from her cup. He finally found time to chat with his wife, slowly watching in awe as her walls slowly began to come down as she found herself giggling along with him and whispering into his ear.
“What of the leftovers?” She’d asked, breaking their previous conversation topic.
“Leftovers?” Cregan repeated.
She nodded, staring at him with wide eyes expectantly, “The food. There will be plenty of leftovers–they should be brought to the nearest towns.”
“Is that a command, princess?”
She appeared bashful at his response, walls slowly building back up around her, “I-I- My apologies, Lord Stark, I–”
He grinned at her playfully, his large palm cupping her cheek affectionately, “If you wish it, you shall have it. I intend to make you very happy, my love.”
She smiled, her beauty shining through even stronger as she became more and more comfortable around him, “Thank you, husband.”
Cregan pushed himself to stand, the sound of his chair pushing back cutting through the chatter and music and laughter filling his hall, all eyes turning to him expectantly.
“My lady wife has made her first official command as Lady of Winterfell,” his voice carried through the hall with stern ease, and the attention of the crows quickly turned to her, “Lady Stark has decided that all leftovers from our wedding feast will be donated to the people of Winterstown.”
The crowd had been quick to applaud, deafening cheers throughout the great hall, northerners seemingly pleased with her decision or, at the very least, just excited to have another reason to be celebrating. He caught the glance she sent to her mother, and the happy grin that covered her face as the Dowager Queen sent her a sign of approval. His lady wife was kind, and sweet, and he was certain that, once she gained her footing in the North, would serve as a strong and dutiful Lady of Winterfell, all of which he muttered into her ear as he had her for the very first time that night.
Three years would pass, he’d been right to assume such things of his wife. He’d quickly discovered that she was able to thrive without the looming shadow of her mother and brothers. She had been slow to find her footing in the beginning, some of his bannermen even questioning his choice in wife, but she was determined to prove them wrong, and in doing so, warmed Cregan’s heart even more.
They’d discussed children in the past, and both had decided that they were happy enough with Cregan’s son from his previous marriage for the time being. They were not trying, but they were also not not trying, which is how she found herself swelling with her first child just as winter came to an end. Her husband had been insatiable in their first year of marriage, but once he knew that she carried his child in her belly, there was scarcely anything that could stop him from having her each and every night.
Summer brought a homier feeling to Winterfell. People were not quite so afraid or negative as the desolate conditions faded away. Summer in the North was nothing compared to the many summers she had spent in King’s Landing, where she had once enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her skin, exposed beneath her more revealing gowns than those she was able to wear in the North; the lords of the North had criticised her choice in dresses early on in her marriage, and she had no doubt that their wives spoke harshly about her in her absence. She was by far the youngest of them, and was also the only one who could afford to wear such fine silks layered over her thick fleece and fur underdresses. Cregan knew better than to try and argue against his wife’s will–Lady Stark or not, she was a Targaryen princess through and through, and now that he had helped her build up her confidence, there was no way he was about to take that away from her (especially when she looked so so beautiful). She was thankful that she was able to cut down on the layers she needed now that the weather had transitioned from inhospitable to frigid, though she knew it was coming time to transition her wardrobe as well now that her breasts and belly were beginning to swell.
The change in season also brought a wave of new duties. Winter was undoubtedly the most difficult and busy season for the lord and lady of Winterfell, but the transition to summer also brought the beginning of the agricultural season. Farmers and fishermen alike flocked to Winterfell to speak their needs and wants to their liege lord and lady, and Cregan found himself busy with attending to the replenishment of all of the North’s resources for Winterfell, all of his bannermen, the Wall, and all of the towns in the North. He’d made his wife agree to take a lesser load of duties now that she was expecting, dealing with issues within their own household so he could instead focus on bearing the burdens of the North all on his own, though this meant there was less and less time that they were able to spend together.
Each morning, Lady Stark was awake and on the move early enough to meet with the maester and stewards and advisors, sharing no more than a few sweet words and touches with her husband as he watched her dress before she was out the door. They would see each other in passing throughout the day, sharing loving glances across the courtyard as they attended their duties and occasionally catching each other in the corridors, and she was normally in a deep slumber by the time he came to her chambers every night. Both of them were growing restless in their time apart, especially with her ladyship’s heightened emotions and hormones.
She had just finished speaking with the mistress of the orphanage in Winterstown when the maester came to her, a neatly folded piece of parchment in hand that bore her mother’s seal. She smiled to herself as she brushed her thumb over the thick spot of green wax, glad to have a response for her most recent letter to her mother to deliver the news of her pregnancy, along with a request for some new silks to be sent in order to accommodate her changing body. Breaking the seal, she scanned over the letter with her eyes, a small gasp leaving her mouth as she read over her mother’s words.
“My lady?” Maester Elryn asked, concern evident on his wrinkled features, “Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” she smiled tightly at him, “My apologies for my reaction. Could you ask Lord Stark to come to me when he is free?”
“Of course, my lady. Anything else?”
“That is all, thank you, Maester Elryn.”
Cregan came to her two hours later, finding her seated at the small desk in the corner of her chambers. He paused to drink in the way she looked, having scarcely seen his wife for more than a moment all day. Her body was changing in the most glorious ways possible, and the bodices of her gowns were growing even tighter than before, her breasts threatening to spill over the neckline with every breath, and her belly growing firmer and rounder to accommodate his child. His smile widened as she turned to glance over her shoulder, her eyes softening as she finally took note of her husband’s figure in the doorway.
“You called, wife?”
“My love,” she greeted, pushing herself to stand with a gentle hand cradling her barely-there bump, “It seems it has been forever.”
His heart thumped against his ribcage at her action, chest growing warm at the sight of her maternal instincts already kicking in before she had even passed through her first few months
He closed the door behind him, crossing the room to meet her before she was able to move too far. His palm cupped her cheek, the other finding its place over her own against her belly, “Longer than forever to me.”
She grinned, leaning up to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips, giggling to herself as he chased after her and grunted as she pulled away. He pressed small kisses to her cheeks, across the curve of her jaw, and down the column of her neck, leaving small nips in his wake. His wife pushed at his chest helplessly as she continued to laugh, the soft growth of hair along his own jaw tickling her with every brush of his lips on her skin.
“I called you up here because I needed to speak with you,” she whispered to him, body slowly relaxing against him as she sank into his embrace.
“Speak, then,” he ordered, thick fingers tugging at the laces of her dress.
She shook her head, rolling her eyes at his antics, “I wrote to my mother a few nights ago, I need silk for new dresses. I’m sure you’ve noticed that my own are growing rather…tight.”
His mouth dropped to nip at the bulging flesh of her breast peeking over the neckline of her gown, “I certainly have.”
Her head tilted back, letting both a laugh and a breathy moan at her husband’s attack on her chest as he quickly laid her back on the bed, “She has written back to me. She says I shall have as much silk in as many colours as I wish.”
Cregan hummed in response, quickly peeling the layers of her gown away until she was left in only her thin white shift, her words going ignored as he tugged and pulled at her clothing until she was bare before him. He stared down at her, running his hand over his jaw as his eyes trailed over her breasts, heaving and swelling with milk, then down over her small bump, and finally to the place where her thighs clenched together.
She pushed herself up to sit before him, her own hands reaching out to tug at his clothing. He was quick to help her, shucking off his layers and boots until he stood before her in only his heavy leather breeches. His wife grinned up at him, pressing a gentle kiss against his own belly, a layer of soft flesh over his firm, almost inconspicuous muscle.
He pushed at her shoulder, chuckling as the mattress bounced beneath her as she was laid back again. He crawled over her, returning to mouthing over her neck, over her shoulders, and finally coming across her breasts.
“She says she will deliver them personally,” she uttered, whining in protest as he paused, pulling back to focus directly at her face.
“Personally,” He repeated, more for his own sake than a question of clarification, “your mother intends to come to Winterfell.”
She pouted at him, fingers carding through his long hair as she attempted to soften him to the news, “She wishes to be here for the birth. I know she can be…difficult, but it would bring me comfort to have her with me as I bring our firstborn into the world.”
He sighed, his head falling into her shoulder, “If this is what you wish, then this is what you shall have.
She smiled, remembering when he spoke the same words to her on their wedding night. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, winding her legs around his hips and hugging her tightly to her chest.
“Thank you,” she smiled at him as he finally pushed himself up to gaze down at her once again, “my mother can be difficult, as I said, but I wish for her to know her grandchildren, as she does my niece and nephews. I promise you, she will be on her best behaviour.”
“I believe you,” He pressed a kiss to her lips, mumbling against her, “but I must ask that we do not speak any more of your mother at the present. I do not think she would appreciate what I plan to do to you.”
Cregan did not allow her another moment of peace before his kisses grew in intensity, tongue intertwining with her own while his meaty palms pulled her legs further apart and began to rock his hips into hers. He smirked at the whine that escaped her throat, pressing himself further into her.
“Cregan–”
“I have missed you, my love,” he moaned against her lips, “you cannot possibly believe how much I have been longing for you.”
She chuckled, “I think I can. The maester told me pregnancy can bring on many side effects; discomfort, fatigue, desire…”
Cregan pulled back for a moment, “Should I be concerned about these conversations you have been having with Maester Elryn?”
She scoffed, “You are far too jealous for your own good, my love.”
“You might be too, if you were married to the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms–nay, the world.”
“Flatterer.”
“Can it be called flattery if it is the truth?” Cregan pushed himself to kneel between her legs, palms continuing to push her thighs upward to bare her completely to him. He let out a desperate groan as his eyes settled on her core, barely hidden beneath a neat patch of silver hair, “gods, have you ever been this wet?”
She snorted, raising her leg to press her foot flat to his chest, “It is the pregnancy, as I said.”
His long fingers wrapped around her foot, tugging it up to press his lips against the slope of her ankle, “Then perhaps I should keep you like this, eh? Would you like for your lord husband to fill you with his child, again and again?”
“I am already with child, my love,” she smiled at him, drawing a deep breath from his throat, “I’m afraid you will have to wait a few moons longer.”
“And I will spend every second I have with you perfecting the craft then.”
She sighed in relief as he finally reached between her thighs, fingers catching against her slick hole.
“Cregan, please,” she whimpered, “do something, anything.”
“Anything?” He asked, breathlessly, his own chest heaving in anticipation as she nodded excitedly.
A loud gasp tore from her lips as he finally sunk his fingers into her, her wetness audible to them both as he began moving with slow but purposeful thrusts. His thumb settled on her sensitive bud, making slow, tight circles over the swollen bud, his free hand gliding up from her thigh to tug at her breasts. Her hips rocked in sync with his every movement of his thick fingers, stilling as another one easily slipped inside.
“My love,” she panted, “e-enough, I need you.”
He quirked one of his thick brows at her words, “Should I not prepare you, my heart?”
“I am pregnant with your child, and as we can both tell, I am more than prepared.”
Cregan snorted out a laugh, withdrawing his fingers with a small whine from his wife, “How should you have me then, wife?”
Lady Stark smirked to herself, legs wrapping around his back and forcing him to fold over her, “Take me as you did on our wedding night, only you do not need to be so gentle with me.”
He slipped inside of her easily, a strained hiss sliding between his teeth while her own teeth sunk into his shoulder. Cregan did indeed take her like he had on their wedding night, but against her wishes, was almost as gentle as he had been, out of respect for his child’s personal space, as he had muttered to her. In truth, he simply wanted to take his time with her as he pulled her apart bit by bit, not wanting to rush their first time lying together in the few weeks since summer had come.
When they were finished, he remained inside of her for as long as he could, but the warmth of her and the air around them was far too much. His wife, despite the progress she’d made in the years of their marriage, was a southern woman and despised how frigid the castle could be, earning herself the warmest room in Winterfell and a required constant upkeep of her hearth. Cregan did not mind coming to his wife’s chamber when she needed him throughout the day or early evening, but there was a reason that they’d made a habit of sleeping in his personal chambers each night, where the air was cooler but he was able to keep her warm at night. He carefully pulled away, meeting her for a final kiss before he peeled himself off of the bed, slowly strutting across the room to haul the window open and feel the cool summer air against his burning flesh.
She watched him through hooded eyes, gaze raking down his muscular back, over his plump ass, and down his thick legs. She pursed her lips, pulling one of the heavy furs around her shoulders as she padded across the stone floor to wrap herself around him from behind, fingers hooking together around his belly as her bare chest pressed to his back. After a moment, one of his hands came over to cover her own as she pressed her lips to his shoulder blade.
“My mother wrote that she expects to be here in two moons,” she murmured against his warm skin, “I should begin preparations for them on the morrow.”
Cregan hummed, eyes scanning over the horizon for a moment before he comprehended her words, “Them. How many attendants does she plan to bring with her?”
He felt his wife tense behind him, “About that…”
Two moons later Cregan found himself standing tall in his own courtyard, jaw set as a procession of horses and wheelhouses began to file through the front gate of his ancestral home. He’d been a touch angry with his wife when she had finally revealed to him that it was not only her mother coming, but rather the entire royal family; the queen, her king consort, and all of their children; the dowager queen, the remaining four of her children, as well as Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena’s three children. Winterfell was about to be overrun with heads of silver hair, something Cregan had hoped would only happen as a result of his wife’s genes overcoming his own among their children.
At his side, his wife nervously chewed her bottom lip–a nasty habit he’d grown to detest after she’d drawn blood one night. He knew exactly how her family could be from their short stay during their wedding festivities, and the way that her mother and two older brothers alone were able to affect her, let alone the entire living Targaryen dynasty.
On her other side stood young Rickon, gripping her hand tightly as he struggled to compose himself. The boy was only six years old, but he already seemed to understand the importance of his role as the heir to Winterfell. He’d taken to his stepmother rather quickly, having been an infant when the fever took his own mother. He’d been in need of a maternal figure in his life, and her presence in Winterfell had done nothing but draw father and son closer together with every family supper and breakfast she had insisted on over the years. Seeing her welcome his son into her heart so openly only further pressed Cregan’s instincts to bring their own children into the world, wishing for nothing more than to give his boy dozens of siblings for him to play with.
The procession finally came to a halt just as two large, intricately carved wheelhouses entered the gates, flanked by the king consort and all of the elder princes on their horses. Lady Stark’s nerves only heightened at the sight of the silver-haired men, particularly her elder brothers who almost immediately turned their gaze her way. The queen soon climbed out of her wheelhouse, followed by her own litter of children, Aegon, Viserys, and Visenya. The second wheelhouse opened, producing Dowager Queen Alicent and Princess Helaena and her own children Jahaera, Jahaerys, and Maegor.
The queen came before them, regal as ever in her red cloak lined with black fur. She watched stoically as the three bowed before her.
“The North is yours, Your Grace,” Cregan spoke loud and true, “my family and I are honoured to host you and your family in Winterfell.”
“Many thanks, Lord Stark. I commend you on leading the North through yet another winter,” a smirk tugged at her lips as her eyes turned to his wife, who lowered into another curtsy under her stare, “I hear that Lady Stark has taken to her role quite well. I believe motherhood suits you, sister.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lady Stark nodded in thanks.
The next line of Targaryens filtered through the short lineup of Starks, first Daemon, who scarcely offered any of them a second glance (aside from his niece, who he stared at for a moment too long in Cregan’s opinion). Prince Jacaerys greeted Cregan like an old friend, clapping him on the shoulder heartily while he offered his aunt a polite hug, his younger brothers following, though with less familiarity.
Then came her mother, who hardly offered Lord Stark a moment of her time before she began fawning over her daughter, hugging her tightly before pulling away and pawing at her swollen belly through her layers of fur. A tear escaped the red-haired woman’s eye as she pressed a sweet kiss to Lady Stark’s cheek, then offered a greeting to sweet Rickon, who had shuffled closer to his stepmother in his nervousness. Aegon skipped over Lord Stark altogether, though he certainly was not complaining as he could smell the stench of wine radiating from the eldest prince even before noon, throwing himself onto his sister. She’d stumbled in her attempt to catch him, sending her husband a warning glance as he moved to rip him away from her. Aemond, at least, was more courteous, offering Cregan a polite greeting and kissing his sister gently on the forehead. Helaena was soon to follow, her greeting to Cregan leaving him with a puzzled look as she moved on to place her palm to her sister’s cheek.
“I am so happy to see you, sister,” Lady Stark’s eyes welled with tears. Cregan had been aware of how disappointed his wife had been when her sister had not been able to travel with her for their wedding, but she had not blamed her for choosing to stay behind while she was in her sixth moon of pregnancy, not to mention the poor state of her mind.
Daeron was the most reserved of his good-siblings, showing both Lord and Lady Stark his respect, though he had no personal relation with either. He’d spent most of his childhood in Oldtown under the care of his grandsire’s brother, the Lord of Oldtown, and his own uncle Gwayne. He’d been rather hesitant to even return to King’s Landing after being away for so long; his own mother was a mere stranger, and his siblings had gone on to marry and produce their own children without even a second thought of their youngest brother.
Winterfell’s hall was overflowing with Targaryens and those who served them. Cregan could hardly recognize any of the faces at the tables nearest to his own, his men being pushed farther back into the hall to accommodate the royal family. He, himself, had even been pushed one seat to the right to offer the queen the highest seat in the hall. He was not pleased to be doing this, far too used to southerners coming to the North with such entitlement, but he would take the treatment silently for the sake of his dear wife, who had been so excited for the arrival of her family and had been overtaken by anxiety of ensuring the visit went well.
She sat next to him, dressed in a fine silk gown (new, a design brought by her mother), a deep emerald with golden stitching across the bodice and around the cuffs. Cregan hissed through his teeth when his wife entered the hall, a happy grin on her lips as she cradled her round belly over the dress of her mother’s house rather than her own, though he was eager to greet her and accept her gleeful kiss on the cheek, and he was glad enough to see that her hair had been braided among the stems of various flowers, all of which being indigenous only to the North. Her mother could try with all of her might to try and hold tight to her daughter’s familial tether to the South, but Cregan knew his wife had transformed into a woman of the North–she was no longer simply a Targaryen princess, a dragonrider, she was also his wife, Lady of Winterfell, and mother of his children.
It never escaped Cregan’s watchful stare everytime the Dowager Queen gripped her daughter’s arm when her attention was not focused solely on her, or how she forced a smile each time he joined their conversation at all. If the woman had not been his wife’s mother, he would have gladly warded her away from his wife’s personal space. He understood well enough that his wife was bound to miss her family, especially her mother and sister, but he was afraid to see her begin to slip back into her shell, which had taken him a considerable amount of effort and care to bring her out from in the first place.
He was quickly tiring from the responsibility of hosting an entire flock of Targaryen princes, all of whom considered themselves above the northerners and their laws, customs, and expectations. They most often gathered in the training yards, each more eager to prove themselves over the northerners and each other than the last, except for Aegon, of course, who would rather spend the mornings in his chambers before he would disappear into Wintertown, most likely gone to spend the rest of the afternoon in the only brothel within twenty miles of Winterfell.
Throughout the two weeks to follow, they had barely found a moment to themselves that was not in the early hours of the morn or when the castle is alight with only the light emitted from torches and the moon itself, where Lady Stark was usually so worn out that she had barely enough energy to cuddle into her husband’s side and share a handful of words before her snoring would reach his ears. He made an effort to seek her out when he was granted a brief moment away from his duties, but there was hardly a moment when she could be found without at least one member of her kin at her side; in the nursery with her mother and sister, discussing her duties with the queen, reading with Aemond in the library, or comforting Aegon amidst another bout of alcohol-induced sickness.
The one moment he did find her alone in her personal study, not wasting a single moment before he was hoisting her into his arms and kissing her breathless. He’d been pleased to find that she had no fight in her, easily melting into his embrace and winding her arms around his neck, smiling into the kiss as small mewls of pleasure vibrated against his mouth. He’d almost forgotten that the door to the study had been left ajar, making his good-mother’s entrance even more silent, though he likely wouldn’t have noticed even if she had knocked, fully taken with his wife’s affection.
“Ehem.”
“Mother,” Lady Stark pushed away from her husband, face still with shock and, quite evidently, embarrassment, “I, we did not hear you come in.”
“Yes, as I could see.”
“My apologies, Your Grace,” Cregan nodded to the woman, though his tone was laced with his annoyance, “I’m afraid you’ve been subjected to a moment of weakness.”
“Nonsense,” Alicent’s lips tightened into a strained smile, a touch of tenderness on her face, “it comforts me to know that my daughter is cherished and loved, even so far away. We are not all so lucky to find love in these circumstances.”
His wife rounded the desk, meeting her mother with a tight embrace. For a moment, he felt a pang of sympathy for the red haired woman–it was true, most marriages of such caliber did not afford the couple any form of affection, and he was more than aware of the fortune that had fallen into his lap that day that Prince Jacaerys landed at his gate. The moment came to a crashing end all-too-soon as his good-mother once again dragged his wife away from him, not to be seen again until she was deep asleep in their shared bed.
He’d arranged for a hunt during the visit of the royal family, where he was forced to play the peacekeeper between the queen’s sons and their uncles, all while keeping his eyes peeled for the prize he’d been hoping for; his wife had mentioned more than once that she wanted to find the perfect blanket to gift to their first child, one that can be used again and again with each babe they brought into the world, so it seemed only fitting to him that he be the one to bring her the pelt.
It would be weeks before the warmth in his chest subsided after witnessing her grin and laughter as he presented it to her, two rabbits of a similar white and brown pattern, drawing her away from the large elk that had been brought in for their supper that night. It was a brief moment of privacy amongst the crowd, where she curled her fingers beneath the neckline of his leather doublet and dragged him down to her height, pushing a soft kiss to his wind-bitten cheek, though he was thankful for every moment of it. Her mother stepped in a moment later, grasping her daughter’s hand and willing her to join her in the nursery, where she could continue to preach her wisdom and advice for the soon-to-be mother, though Cregan hoped his wife was smart enough to take it with a grain of salt.
He’d spent the rest of the day both tending to his duties, which have seemingly doubled since the arrival of his wife’s kin, and also offering a hand in preparing the elk when he had a chance; his cooks could do wonders with elk meat, but the kitchen maids often made a fuss when such large animals were brought to whole or at least without being skinned first. He had barely even spared a moment to clean himself and change clothes before supper.
When he arrived in the dining hall, a smaller yet more formal area where he hoped he, his wife, and their many children would all dine together whenever they could. He was, however, miffed to discover the dining hall filled with princes and princesses and queens alike, only two seats left empty–his own, and his wife’s.
His immediate thought was that perhaps she was still readying herself, perhaps she had gotten carried away in the nursery with her mother, and she would be there soon enough. Then, his eyes fell upon the red-haired woman a few seats from his own.
He cleared his throat, drawing silence across his hall, “My apologies, I expect Lady Stark in only a moment.”
Alicent furrowed her brow, directing her words to the rest of the royal family rather than to Lord Stark, “I’m afraid she will not be joining us tonight.”
Cregan raised his own brow, “Why not?”
Alicent’s gaze flickered to his own, “She was unwell this evening–a pain many women know while carrying their children, all she needs is rest.”
“And why was I not made aware of this at once?” Lord Stark felt his blood beginning to boil.
She looked somewhat taken aback, “These pains are normal, they are expected for how far along she is. My daughter–”
Cregan’s heavy palm landed flat on the wooden tabletop, “My wife is my main concern. Any news concerning her or my children should and will be brought to me at once.”
Alicent pursed her lips, appearing to have a few words of choice for her daughter’s husband, though he turned his attention to the queen opposite him on the other end of the long table and looked equally as surprised and amused at the altercation as she sipped her wine.
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” he pushed himself up to his full height, “forgive my absence this evening, but if my wife is unwell I would prefer to be at her side.”
Rhaenyra smirked at him, nodding her head at him, “But of course, Lord Stark. I am honoured that you take such care of my sister. After all, family is everything, is it not?”
He ignored the way that her words seemed to have been aimed at the red-haired woman, who had slouched back into her own seat as a soft pink tinged at the apples of her cheeks, instead nodding at the queen and fleeing the room at once, his hurried and heavy footfalls carrying him through the castle and up to his wife’s personal chambers. He was disgruntled to find that they were empty, save for a servant girl who had been tending to the hearth and directed him to his own chambers.
The hinges creaked as he pushed his way inside, finding two handmaidens hovering worriedly over his wife as she hunched over on her hands and knees atop the plush bear-skin rug, back arched upwards like he’d only seen done by a cat. The two servants froze at the sight of the broad figure crossing the threshold.
“Lord Stark,” one of them rushed to him, “Lady Stark, she is alright, but–”
“Alright?” He scoffed, “She is on the floor in pain, she does not look alright.”
“Cregan,” Lady Stark glared up at him, voice strained with discomfort, “do not speak to my ladies like that.”
He let out a deep sigh, offering the servant a quiet but genuine apology, “Now please, just tell me what is wrong with her, and what I can do to help. Should I call a maester?”
The servant fought a soft smile, touched at the lord’s concern for his wife and child, “Lady Stark is experiencing little more than body aches. Normal for women carrying a child, especially their first. I’m afraid all the maester could do is offer milk of the poppy for discomfort, which could potentially do more harm to the child than good to the mother,” Cregan swallowed at the thought, “We’ve allowed the princess to soak in warm water, and the stretching helps while we prepare a hot pack over the fire.”
His gaze flickered to the small grate across the embers of the fireplace, holding three large black stones over them. He nodded, turning back to his wife, who had turned her face back into the rug while the other servant girl carefully massaged gentle circles into her lower back.
“What can I do?”
“The hot pack should help with the aches, but I’m afraid the best thing may be to keep Lady Stark as comfortable as possible, anything to keep her mind away from the pains.”
He nodded, “Leave us, I should care for my wife on my own.”
The door closed behind the two women as they hesitantly left their mistress’s side, loyal to the very end. Cregan wasted little time in removing his leather doublet and abandoning it on the plush bed, leaving him in only his breeches and thin linen shirt. He crossed the room, kneeling beside his wife and carefully laying his palm flat to her lower back, a small smirk appearing on his lips as she sighed from the relief brought by his large, warm hand.
“If you were not so obviously in pain, I would guess that you were enjoying this, my love,” he chuckled as his hand copied the same circular pattern that the servant girl had applied.
“Shut up,” she turned her head to the side so she could glance up at him, “this is your fault.”
“My fault?” He scoffed, “As I recall, your current condition is the result of your uncontrollable desires.”
She pushed herself up onto her hands, “My what? It was you who was gone to the Wall for more than a moon!”
“And it was you who kept me from my duties until midday on the day after I returned.”
She pursed her lips, “Alright, next time I will allow you to go about your duties without a word. Then we will see which one of us is so insatiable.”
“Be that the case, I’m afraid you may be with child for the next decade or more, my love.”
“Just get the hot pack,” Lady Stark rolled her eyes, lowering her head back down to the plush rug, muttering to herself with a small grin, “a decade or more…”
He obliged, wrapping the stones in a thick woolen cloth before pressing them against the small of her back, a dusting of pink coating his cheeks at the sound she released, back curving inwards as relief overtook her body.
They remained there for a long while, one of his hands holding the hot pack while the other smoothed over her silver hair, braided and still damp from her bath. The stones began to cool against his palm until they were no warmer than her own body heat, finally being tossed to the side.
“How do you feel?” He asked her, hands cradling her head and hip as he helped her roll onto her side.
“Better. Still plagued with discomfort, but better nonetheless,” She smiled softly at him, “I only wish someone may have warned me of the unpleasantness of pregnancy before I agreed to it.”
He barked out a laugh, remembering the many times she had pointed out the many ways pregnancy could ruin any romance in their marriage before it even began, hence their decision to wait before finally trying to conceive.
“If only, eh?” He smoothed the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
A twinkle appeared in her eye, “Well Maryssa did say that you should be doing anything to keep me comfortable…”
Lord Stark raised his brow at her words, “And what was it you only just said about me being insatiable? How have you gone from crippling pain to reaching for my breeches in such a hurry?”
She gasped, faux offense in her eyes, “I am not reaching for you breeches! What do you take me for?”
He quickly manoeuvred her onto her back, leaning down to press a slow yet meaningful kiss to her lips, “My very pregnant, very beautiful, and very impatient wife.”
She whined against his mouth, “I think impatience is quite appropriate given the circumstances. Your child has brought me the greatest joy and greatest pain of my life, and yet I constantly yearn for you, my love.”
“Constant?” He laughed.
“The maester warned me of it,” she kissed him again, “all a part of my hysteria, he called it.”
He hummed, “Which brings me to wonder why I was not made aware of this. I could have…relieved you of this suffering.”
She snorted a laugh, a sound he knew he could never grow tired of, “Cregan, if you do not take my clothes off now I would like to go to bed.”
“And what was it I said about your impatience?”
She pushed at his shoulder playfully, gasping as he grasped her wrist in his large hand and pulled her to sit up, moving to lift her and carry her to the bed when she pushed at his shoulder, shaking her head with a sly grin.
“Here,” she insisted, “it is so warm, and this fur is so soft.”
He shook his head at her, rolling his eyes. Only his wife would be demanding enough as to where he had his way with her and choose anywhere except their marital bed. Only he would be so foolishly in love as to oblige her every whim and allow her to make such demands.
Growing impatient, she began tugging at her own shift, struggling to lift her hips just enough to slide it over her hips and off completely, leaving her bare before her husband while the firelight flickered off of her soft, freshly oiled skin. His eyes fell from her own to her breasts, which had seemingly doubled in size through her pregnancy, then to her rounded belly; only a few moons would pass before she brought their first child into the world, and he could not be any more in love with her. He knew how excited she’d been over the last few weeks as her body developed with their growing child, spending much of her time with little Rickon, who was just as excited to become an older brother as she was to become a mother.
“I am not simply here for decoration,” she growled, reaching up to begin tearing the linen shirt from her husband’s body, ignoring his laughter as she struggling to pull the fabric over his wide shoulders and causing his head to get stuck for a moment, “As I said, fuck me or let me sleep.”
His booming laugh echoed through the chamber, scarcely hearing his wife, a Targaryen princess and Lady of Winterfell, use such coarse language. It was the northerner growing within her, he decided as he obliged, kissing her with every ounce of desire he’d been forced to swallow throughout the duration of her family’s stay, pressing her back to lay flat against the dark brown fur.
Cregan made quick work of kissing down her body, taking a few moments to kiss and suckle and squeeze at her swollen breasts, encouraged by her response to his touch on her sensitive skin as he continued further down. He pressed several playful kisses over her belly, whispering to their child to go to sleep so he could take care of his wife guilt-free. She giggled at this, causing a flood of heat to spread across his chest as he finally crested over the underside of her belly, coming face-to-face with the silver curls safeguarding her womanhood.
Her legs fell apart easily, and he found no resistance as he eagerly began to feast upon her most intimate place. Her fingers curled into the fur beneath her as her whines and whimpers filled the room, unable to reach for his long dark hair with her belly in the way. He was pleasantly surprised to discover how much of her arousal had pooled between her thighs, two of his thick fingers easily slipping into her heat with practiced precision while his tongue massaged her sensitive pearl.
Her body seemed more responsive than ever, thighs quivering against his shoulders as her peak crashed over her once, and then moments later, once more.
He pulled away, noting how her hips had begun to pull away from him, her womanhood more sensitive than ever. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, watching through lustful eyes as his wife grabbed hold of his other wrist, taking the fingers that had brought her to bliss twice only moments before between her lips and sucking them clean. She stared up at him through her lashes, leaning up on her elbow to reach down and paw at the tent that had formed in his breeches, tugging at the laces until they fell open and allowed her to reach inside.
He let out a low growl at the sensation of her hand taking hold of his member, head falling back in relief. Cregan was quick to pull her hand away, shedding his trousers and boots as efficiently as possible so he could lay her flat on her back once more and finally press himself inside of her.
They both let out long, breathy sounds at the stretch; no matter how many times they would lay together, she never quit got used to the intrusion of his thick cock inside of her, He remained still for a moment, regaining his wits as he willed himself not to finish far too early, though he could not guarantee that he would be able to fight his peak for very long after weeks without his wife’s intimate touch.
“Cregan, please,” she whimpered, nails scratching down his arm as she planted his fist next to her head, bracing himself as he began to work slow, deep thrusts into her warmth, his own grunts and gasps of pleasure falling from his lips while her lips fell open to allow wails of her enjoyment fall from them with every punch of his tip against her most sensitive place deep within her.
“My love,” he panted, “For-forgive me…I do not think–”
“Give yourself to me, my love,” she whined, “I need to feel you.”
He nodded, eyes tightening shut as he quickened his pace, chasing his release with grunts and growls and groans until his hips began to stutter, his release pumping deep inside of her until he was shaking. His release triggered her own, pleasure crashing over her for the third time that evening, soaking his length in both of their releases as she clung to his broad frame for dear life.
She whined when he pulled out of her, sensitive from her three climaxes. He took a moment to stare down at her, stormy gaze trailing from her cunt, where their mix juices had begun seeping from her warmth, to her belly, where their child grew. His eyes then moved to her breasts, which heaved with every deep breath the escaped her parted lips, and finally to her face, which shone with a layer of perspiration as she pulled him down to lay next to her on the fur, turning to press her back against his chest and settling into his embrace as he trailed sweet kisses over her cheek, jaw, and neck.
“Thank you,” she whispered, sleep threatening to overtake her at any moment.
“Thank you,” Cregan responded. “I love you.”
“I love you too, husband.”
Silence overtook the room for a moment, only the sound of their slowing breaths and the crackling fire in the hearth could be heard before he finally shared his final thoughts of the night.
“I cannot bear to not have you all to myself for even a moment ever again,” he mumbled into her flesh, “we are never hosting your family again.”
❝alicent hightower's youngest daughter, haera targaryen, has returned to king's landing after eight long years in old town and aemond finds himself inexplicably drawn to the girl kissed by the moon and with the eyes that seem to only look at him.❞
how could i not love eyes that see me in all my forms as beautiful?
〔incest, innocence and fantasies, romance, smut, virginity, events of blood and cheese, family rivalry, disabled main character, hints of book!aemond, modified show!timeline and events.〕
The pain was relentless, waves of agony that crashed over you with no reprieve. The healer and midwives worked frantically around you, their voices a blur of encouragement and urgency as you gripped the edge of the birthing bed, your knuckles white. The tent was warm, stifling with the heat of the small brazier burning in the corner, but all you could focus on was the child fighting its way into the world.
You cried out as another contraction tore through you, sweat dripping from your brow. Somewhere in the haze of pain, you heard hurried footsteps outside, and then Robb’s voice, frantic and breathless, cut through the chaos.
“Where is she?” he demanded, his voice filled with worry. The flap of the tent opened, and he burst inside, his face pale and drawn as his eyes found you. “I’m here,” he said, rushing to your side. “I’m here.”
You looked up at him through tears, a mixture of relief and anger bubbling to the surface. “You’re late,” you managed to gasp, your voice laced with both pain and accusation.
Robb’s lips twitched into a faint, apologetic smile, though his eyes were filled with fear as he knelt beside you, taking your hand in his. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m here now.”
The midwife shot him a sharp glance, her hands busy as she worked. “If you’re going to stay, my king, stay out of the way.”
Robb barely acknowledged her, his focus entirely on you. He brushed damp strands of hair from your forehead, his thumb gentle against your skin as he murmured, “You’re so strong. You’re incredible.”
You squeezed his hand tightly as another contraction hit, letting out a low groan that echoed through the tent. Robb winced but didn’t pull away, his other hand moving to your shoulder as he whispered soothing words, though his own panic was evident in the tight set of his jaw.
The midwife leaned forward, her voice calm but commanding. “It’s time, my queen. One more push, and we’ll meet your child.”
You nodded weakly, gathering every ounce of strength left in you. Robb’s hand tightened around yours, his voice steady despite the tremor in it. “You can do this,” he said softly. “We can do this.”
With a final, guttural cry, you bore down, your body trembling with the effort. And then, at last, there was a piercing wail that filled the air, sharp and insistent, a sound that seemed to chase away every shadow in the tent.
“It’s a boy,” the midwife announced, lifting the squirming, red-faced infant for you to see. “A strong, healthy boy.”
Relief and joy flooded through you, and you collapsed back onto the pillows, tears streaming down your face as you reached for your son. The midwife placed him in your arms, and you looked down at him, marveling at the tiny hands, the scrunched face, the delicate wisp of auburn hair on his head.
Robb leaned closer, his breath catching as he gazed at his son. “He’s beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He pressed a kiss to your temple, his hand resting gently on the baby’s head. “You were incredible.”
You smiled weakly, your heart swelling as you looked at the two of them. “He looks like you.”
Robb chuckled softly, though his eyes were damp with unshed tears. “He’s perfect.” He paused, his gaze meeting yours. “Do you have a name for him?”
You nodded, your voice soft but steady. “Edric,” you said, the name rolling off your tongue with quiet reverence. “For your father.”
Robb’s eyes filled with gratitude and pride, and he leaned down to kiss you again, his lips lingering against your forehead. “Edric,” he murmured. “A name worthy of a Stark.”
The quiet moment was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat at the entrance to the tent. You looked up to see Lord Roose Bolton standing there, his pale eyes sharp and assessing as he inclined his head.
“My lord,” he said, his voice calm but with a hint of urgency. “Forgive the intrusion, but a messenger has arrived from Lord Tywin Lannister. He’s requested a meeting to discuss terms.”
Robb’s expression darkened, the joy in his eyes tempered by the weight of duty. He stood slowly, his gaze lingering on you and Edric before turning back to Bolton. “I’ll be there shortly.”
Bolton nodded, his gaze flicking briefly to you and the baby before he stepped back out of the tent.
Robb turned to you, his hand brushing against your cheek. “I’ll handle this,” he said softly, his voice steady but filled with a quiet determination. “You rest, my love.”
You nodded, though your heart clenched at the thought of him walking into another potential trap. “Be careful,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Always.”
As he stepped out of the tent, the weight of the world seemed to settle on his shoulders, but for now, you let yourself focus on the small, fragile life in your arms. Edric’s cries had softened, and he looked up at you with wide, curious eyes, a reminder of the hope that still remained, even amidst the storm.
The great hall of Harrenhal was dark, the heavy stone walls bearing the weight of centuries of death and fire. Robb sat at the head of a long table, his back straight, his expression carefully controlled. His bannermen stood behind him, their presence a silent reminder of the strength he carried with him, even in enemy territory. The air was cold, damp, and filled with the tension of old grudges and unspoken truths.
At the far end of the table, Tywin Lannister sat with a calm that bordered on arrogance. His sharp green eyes seemed to take in every detail of the room, every flicker of hesitation or doubt. Clad in gold and crimson, the lion of Casterly Rock exuded power, his hands steepled before him as though this meeting were merely another game of cyvasse he expected to win.
Robb, however, was not here to lose.
“You requested this meeting,” Robb said, his voice steady but tinged with distrust. “State your terms.”
Tywin’s lips curved into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. “You’ll forgive me if I speak plainly. This war has cost both our families dearly. I’m here to discuss how we might bring an end to it before it destroys what remains.”
Robb’s jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. “Speak plainly, then.”
Tywin leaned forward slightly, his gaze unflinching. “I speak not only on behalf of myself but also on behalf of my daughter, Queen Cersei. She wishes to know if her firstborn daughter is well.”
The mention of you sent a ripple of unease through Robb’s bannermen, but Robb remained composed, though his voice was cold. “She is well.”
“And her child?” Tywin pressed, his tone calculated, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of genuine curiosity.
Robb hesitated, his instincts screaming not to give Tywin Lannister any more power than he already held. But after a moment, he answered, “A boy. Edric.”
Tywin’s expression didn’t change, but Robb could see a faint glint in his eyes, a mixture of pride and satisfaction. “A grandson,” Tywin said softly, almost to himself. “Another Lannister in the world. Healthy, I presume?”
“He is,” Robb replied curtly, his voice tightening. “And before you begin to weave this into some claim of control over him or his mother, let me make one thing clear: they are Starks. Edric is my son, and he will be raised in the North.”
Tywin’s faint smile returned, this time with a sharper edge. “I am not here to lay claim to your son. I am here to negotiate for the sake of my blood—your wife, your child, and my daughter.”
Robb’s eyes narrowed, his tone turning icier. “Your blood was ready to see my family destroyed. Your son threw my brother from a tower. Your grandson murdered my father. Forgive me if I find it hard to believe that you care about anyone but yourself, Lord Tywin.”
Tywin’s calm remained unshaken, though there was a flicker of steel in his gaze. “We are at war. Cruelty and treachery are the currency of war, and no family is innocent in its dealings. But I am here now to end that war—not for sentiment, but for reason.”
Robb’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the table, his temper barely restrained. “Then hear my terms,” he said sharply. “The North will no longer bow to the Iron Throne. We will be a free kingdom, and I will remain its king. My wife, your granddaughter, will be its queen. You lose nothing, as her blood ties your family to the North, just as your granddaughter remains Queen on the Iron Throne.”
Tywin’s gaze sharpened, though he gave no outward sign of resistance. “And what of the boy? This… Edric?”
“Edric will be raised in the North,” Robb stated firmly. “As a Stark. He will inherit Winterfell, and he will rule the North after me.”
Tywin inclined his head slightly, as if considering the proposal. “And in return?”
Robb leaned forward, his voice low and unyielding. “My father’s body will be returned to us. He will be buried in the crypts of Winterfell, with his ancestors, as he deserves. My sister, Sansa, will be returned to me unharmed. In exchange, you may have your son, Jaime, who my mother foolishly released.”
A murmur rippled through the bannermen behind him, but Robb silenced them with a raised hand. His eyes never left Tywin’s. “That is the deal. Freedom for the North. Peace for my family. A fair exchange.”
Tywin sat back in his chair, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of the fire burning in the hearth. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice even.
“You make bold demands, Your Grace. But boldness is the privilege of the young.” He paused, his gaze piercing. “You would see the North severed from the Seven Kingdoms, its independence guaranteed by a treaty. You would claim Sansa and your father’s remains in exchange for my son. And you would stake your rule on the loyalty of bannermen who have already begun to doubt you.”
Robb’s jaw tightened, his voice unwavering. “I am their king. They will not doubt me when they see the North free.”
Tywin’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smirk. “Perhaps. Or perhaps they will question what else you are willing to give away. But… I will consider your terms.”
“Consider them carefully,” Robb warned, his voice like ice. “The North has no interest in bending the knee again. If you refuse, this war will continue, and I promise you, Lord Tywin, it will cost you more than you can imagine.”
Tywin rose slowly, his movements deliberate as he smoothed the front of his tunic. “A king should always temper his threats with reason, Your Grace. But I will give you this: for the sake of my blood—your wife, your son—I will consider your terms.”
Robb stood as well, his bannermen mirroring him, their faces hard and unyielding. “Then we are finished here,” he said coldly. “You’ll have your answer soon enough.”
Tywin gave a small nod, his expression still unreadable. “Soon enough,” he repeated, before turning and walking out of the hall, his boots echoing against the stone floor.
As the doors closed behind him, Robb let out a slow breath, his shoulders still tense. His bannermen murmured among themselves, but Robb ignored them, his thoughts turning to you, to Edric, and to the fragile hope that this negotiation might end the bloodshed.
But deep down, he knew better than to trust Tywin Lannister.
The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting a golden hue across the camp when Robb stepped into your tent. The air was heavy with the scent of herbs and the faint murmur of life outside, but within the space, it was quiet—save for the soft coos of your infant son resting in your arms. You sat in a cushioned chair near the brazier, the light dancing across your tired yet content features.
You looked up as Robb entered, his presence commanding even in his exhaustion. His hair was disheveled, his tunic slightly wrinkled from the long day, but his eyes softened the moment they landed on you and Edric. He paused by the entrance, as if unsure whether to step closer.
“How was the meeting?” you asked, your voice calm but tinged with curiosity and a faint apprehension. You’d waited all day, wondering what Tywin Lannister would demand, and what Robb would have to concede.
Robb took a deep breath, stepping forward until he was beside you. His hand brushed against your shoulder, lingering as his eyes rested on Edric. “It went as well as could be expected,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Tywin came to negotiate, but I don’t trust him. Not for a second.”
You nodded, adjusting Edric in your arms so his tiny face was more visible. Robb knelt beside you, his fingers gently grazing his son’s soft cheek. The tenderness in his movements was a stark contrast to the hardened warrior who had left the tent that morning.
“What terms did he set?” you asked, your gaze fixed on him, searching for any sign of doubt or hesitation.
Robb exhaled, his brow furrowing. “He didn’t set terms. I did.”
You blinked, surprise flickering in your eyes. “You set the terms?”
Robb nodded, his jaw tightening briefly. “I told him the North will no longer bow to the Iron Throne. We’ll be a free kingdom, with me as its king and you as its queen.” His gaze lifted to yours, his voice firm. “The North will be ours, our son’s. No one will take that from us.”
Your heart swelled at his words, though a part of you still worried about Tywin’s reaction. “And he agreed to this?”
Robb shook his head, a faint, bitter smile on his lips. “Not yet. He’s considering it. But I made it clear what we expect. I told him we want my father’s body returned, so he can be buried in Winterfell. I also demanded Sansa’s safe return in exchange for Jaime.”
Your breath caught, and you looked down at Edric, feeling the weight of those demands. “Do you think he’ll agree? Tywin doesn’t seem the type to concede anything unless it benefits him.”
Robb’s hand settled over yours, his touch warm and steady. “He won’t want to, but I reminded him of what’s at stake. You and Edric… you’re his blood. That gives us leverage. As much as he despises me, he won’t risk harm coming to either of you.”
You looked up at him, your eyes searching his. “And what if he refuses? What if he twists your terms to his advantage?”
Robb’s expression hardened, and there was a quiet resolve in his voice when he replied. “Then we’ll keep fighting. I won’t let Tywin Lannister dictate our lives, not anymore. This war has taken too much from us already.”
For a moment, you were silent, your gaze drifting back to Edric. His tiny hand curled around your finger, and the sight filled you with a fierce protectiveness that mirrored Robb’s words. “I don’t want our son to grow up in a world of war,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly. “I don’t want him to know the same pain and loss we have.”
Robb leaned closer, his free hand resting gently on your cheek, tilting your face toward his. “Neither do I,” he said softly, his eyes filled with both sorrow and determination. “That’s why I’ll do everything I can to end this war. For you. For him.”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand grounding you. “I didn’t think we’d get here,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “After everything… after the doubt and the hurt… I didn’t know if we could find our way back to this.”
Robb’s thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away a tear that had slipped free. “I know I’ve made mistakes,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But I love you, Y/N. And I trust you. I always have, even when I let fear cloud my judgment. You’re my wife, the mother of my son. You’re my family, my home.”
The sincerity in his words broke down the last of your defenses, and you leaned forward, your forehead resting against his. “I love you too, Robb,” you whispered. “And I’ll stand by you. Always.”
For a moment, the two of you stayed like that, the warmth of the brazier and the soft coos of Edric wrapping around you like a protective shield against the world outside. The war, the negotiations, Tywin Lannister—they all seemed distant compared to the fragile but fierce bond you shared as a family.
Robb eventually pulled back, his lips brushing against your forehead before he stood. “Rest,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I’ll keep you safe. Both of you.”
As he turned to leave, you called out softly, “Robb?”
He paused, looking back at you with a question in his eyes.
“Thank you,” you said, your voice steady. “For fighting for us.”
A faint smile curved his lips, and he nodded before stepping out of the tent. As the flap closed behind him, you looked down at Edric, his tiny face peaceful in sleep, and held him close, feeling the fragile hope that Robb’s words had reignited.
For the first time in what felt like ages, you allowed yourself to believe that peace—true peace—might be within reach.
summary: Jacaerys Velaryon is a devoted husband to his wife, no matter how peculiar she can get.
paring: jacaerys velaryon x reader
The late afternoon air held the hint of salt from the sea, mingling with the fragrance of wildflowers that grew stubbornly between the cracks in the ancient stone pathways. You were crouched near the edge of a patch of lilies, your hands delicately prying a small beetle from the wet earth.
Jacaerys stood behind you, watching with a soft smile as you turned the tiny creature over in your hands, your purple eyes reflecting the fading sunlight as you examined the beetle’s wings. The mud clung to the tiny insect's body, but you didn't mind the dirt; your focus was entirely on the small, helpless thing in your palm.
“Look,” you said quietly, turning to Jace with wonder in your voice, “its wings are stuck.”
Jace knelt beside you, resting on the balls of his feet as he extended a hand. You placed the beetle in his palm, trusting that he would be as gentle as you always were with the world’s smallest creatures. He turned the insect carefully, his thumb brushing away the mud that had ensnared it. You watched him with a mixture of fascination and love. Jace was patient, where others would have dismissed your concern as childish or odd. He never once called you mad, not like your mother had whispered behind closed doors when she thought you weren't listening.
“Are we taking it to our room?” Jacaerys asked with a soft smile, his eyes meeting yours. His brown eyes, warm like honey, always made you feel seen, truly seen, in a way that no one else did. Not your mother, not the maesters, not even your father, who tried to love you but could never understand you.
You gave a small laugh, one that sounded more like a breeze whispering through the trees. "I don’t think it would like the room," you replied, brushing a stray silver-gold strand of hair from your face. "It belongs out here, I think."
Jacaerys nodded. He understood. He always understood, even when you struggled to explain yourself. He placed the beetle back on the ground gently, and you watched as it scurried off into the grass. The small moment passed, but it left a warmth in your heart. These moments with Jace were everything to you.
The wind shifted, and you froze. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. You could feel them again—the ghosts. The invisible presences that followed you everywhere, the ones no one else could see. Your chest tightened, your breath quickened, and the world around you blurred at the edges.
Jace was by your side in an instant, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close. He didn’t ask what was wrong; he didn’t need to. He knew. He always knew. The panic that clawed at your insides like a ravenous beast began to subside under the familiar pressure of his embrace. You focused on the steady beat of his heart, grounding yourself in the rhythm of his breathing.
“They’re here again, aren’t they?” Jacaerys whispered into your hair, his voice low and comforting.
You nodded, burying your face in his chest, the rich scent of his skin calming you further. “I can feel them,” you whispered back, your voice trembling. “Watching… waiting…”
Jacaerys held you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “They can’t hurt you. I won’t let them.”
You wanted to believe him, wanted so desperately to believe that the things you saw, the shadows that loomed just beyond the edge of sight, were only in your mind. But how could you, when you could feel them so keenly? When they whispered to you in the dead of night, filling your dreams with images of things long dead and forgotten?
Your mother, Alicent, had always looked at you with a mixture of pity and fear. From the time you were a child, she had treated you as if you were fragile, almost breakable. The day she had agreed to your marriage with Jacaerys had been one of the rare moments when you had seen relief in her eyes—as if you were finally someone else’s responsibility, no longer her burden to bear.
But Jacaerys never made you feel like a burden. He had taken you as his wife not out of duty or convenience, but because he had truly wanted you. He had seen your strangeness, your peculiarities, and had loved you for them. Even now, as you stood in the fading light, haunted by the unseen, he held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.
“I’ll chase them away if you want,” Jacaerys said, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His hand brushed against your cheek, his touch feather-light.
You managed a small, shaky smile. “You’d do that?”
He smiled back, that lopsided grin that made your heart ache with affection. “Of course. I’ll chase them all away, every last one of them.”
You knew he would. You knew he would humour you, would run through the garden or the halls of Dragonstone, waving his arms and calling out to the ghosts to leave his wife in peace. It was absurd, but Jacaerys never cared about appearing foolish, not when it came to you. He had done it before, on more nights than you could count—banishing your invisible tormentors with all the seriousness of a knight battling real foes.
But tonight, you didn’t want him to chase them away. Tonight, you only wanted him to hold you, to remind you that no matter how strange or broken the world seemed, there was still something real and solid in it—his love.
“I just want you to stay with me,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his chest.
Jacaerys nodded, his arms never loosening. “Always.”
The two of you stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, standing in the middle of the garden as the sky darkened, the first stars appearing overhead. The wind whistled through the trees, and somewhere in the distance, the waves crashed against the cliffs, but here, in Jace’s arms, the world was quiet.
The ghosts were still there. They always would be. But with Jace, you could bear them. He was your anchor, the one thing that kept you tethered when everything else seemed to slip away. You knew that the whispers would return, that the panic would strike again, and the shadows would come creeping back into your mind. But as long as Jacaerys was there, with his steady heart and his unwavering love, you could face them.
He was the husband you never thought you would have. The kind of man you had been told you didn’t deserve, that you would never find. But Jace had chosen you, strange as you were. And he had stayed through all the dark nights and haunted days.
You tilted your head up to look at him, your eyes meeting his. “I love you,” you whispered, the words so quiet they were almost lost to the wind.
Jacaerys smiled, his hand cupping your face as he leaned down to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. “I love you too.”
And in that moment, you believed him. You believed that no matter how haunted your mind was, no matter how broken you sometimes felt, there was still something whole and good in the world.
a/n : IM FINALLY FINISHING ONE GWAYNE FANFICTION THANK GOD
rating : explicit. mdni !!
words count : 1.9k
contents : smut. dark!gwayne. fingering. corrupted kink. manipulation. age-gap. gwayne is obsessed with you. reader is a riverland lady. no physical description.
Gwayne Hightower was corrupted by the existence of you.
You, a daughter of a Riverlord, who had caught the attention of the Hightower knight unknowingly. Your father served his duty to the King at court, devoted and dutiful.
The Hand’s son had seen you before in the godswood of the Red Keep and in the Great Sept from time to time. You were pretty, in your house color gowns and the lovely hairstyle you usually wore. There was something about you, your innocence and preciousness that provoked him into darkness.
You were obviously aware of who Gwayne was, but shared little interactions with him before. He was handsome, older. A knight from Oldtown and a Gold-cloak too, it would be hard not to notice his existence. Not to mention who his father and sister were as well.
Up until the time when you accidentally bumped—ran into him in the hallway. The way you said his name rang through his brain like a spell-cast.
‘Ser Gwayne! My apologies, I did not see you.
You had apologized quickly, before rushing off to see your Septa, as you later informed him during the second encounter. Where you thought it was all purely a coincidence, except it wasn’t. Because it was Gwayne's plan all along.
Though, it wasn’t entirely his scheme, but his father’s as well. Otto Hightower was anything but a fool, there were no days that went by that a cunning plot wasn’t on his mind. He had directed his son before, alerting him of who your father was and what good it would be to gain him to their side.
Your house was a strong ally of Princess Rhaenyra, the heir, and his support for her claim has never been quivering. With you as your father’s only daughter, it would not be easy for him to accept an upright offer of marriage in any way to anyone. But Gwayne Hightower determined to change that, he would not rest until he made you his lady wife. No matter if it was for an alliance or the good of the realm, you will be his.
He knew your father had a failed journey in knighthood, therefore his own experience and reputation would give him the benefit of archive recognition from your father, which he did successfully. Gwayne would make up a story about his unappreciated hard work from his own father, how the Hand wasn't pleased with his eldest son choosing a path in knighthood instead of achieving something much higher.
And for you; a little suggestive smile and compliments were already enough to leave you hot and flushed. Gwayne enjoyed that a lot, he loved making you red with his words and gestures. He loved it when he asked you something and you bit your lips in consideration, and the sight made him want to devour your lips for the entire world to see.
Every consuming thought Gwayne had about you was filled with sinful things. He was a boy from Oldtown, born and raised by the Faith of the Seven. He should have grown into an honorary gentleman, not a depraved man waiting to corrupt your very soul. Because of your innocence, sometimes it became difficult for the Hand’s son to lure you into darkness. He wasn’t sure if it was a challenge or a punishment. Either way, Gwayne aimed to break it.
Everytime Gwayne Hightower was in your presence, he felt the Gods judging him. Everytime he stroked his own cock to the thought of you spreading your legs wide only for him, he felt the Gods cursing him—banishing him to the seven hells.
Corrupted. Sinful. Unforgivable.
The chivalrous knight, an honorable man. The son of the Hand of the King and the brother of the Queen of the seven kingdoms.
Gwayne Hightower was doomed, and he had no intention of praying for forgiveness in that.
After knowing the Hand’s son for some time, though not truly, your father had made a decision. He would allow Gwayne Hightower to marry you, but when he did not say. Gwayne, the virtue he was, awaited patiently. His own father approved of his success, but it wasn’t firm until your father agreed.
But virtue wasn’t something Gwayne was for as of late, ever since knowing you, a pure soul was the last thing the knight was. A moon passed and your father was yet to give his answer, while Otto Hightower himself was also pressuring the Riverlord for an answer in advance as well. Gwayne could no longer wait, no, he would get the answer himself. Hopefully, tonight, without any consulting with his father.
A knock on your chamber door awakened you from your sleep. It was midnight, judging by the darkness outside of your window. Sleepily, you got out of the bed and slowly made your way towards the door to open it, wondering who might be disturbing your sleep.
“Ser Gwayne?” You were surprised when the door opened, revealing the knight in his sleep attire. He looked comforting to your sight. You were used to his normal attire in green or his shiny armor and golden cloak, so the sight surprised you nonetheless.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you, my lady. But there is something I need to tell you,” he voiced, allowing himself inside of your chamber and closing the door behind smoothly.
“Must you tell me now? The hour is late, ser. It is rather inappropriate for us to be in this private,” you carefully whispered to him, the sleep started to wear off now that you saw his beautiful face.
“I must. Because if I do not, there is a chance I’ll never get to tell you forever,” Gwayne paused, darting his gaze away before pacing around the corner of the room. You noticed the distress in his demeanor and couldn’t help yourself as your hands offered him comfort on his arms. “What is it?”
The concern in your precious voice almost made Gwayne lose his facade, a smirk threatening to reveal itself on his face, but he fought it in successfully.
“I fear your father would never allow me to marry you.” His words caused paleness to take over your face. You felt your hands turn cold and your heart dropped from fear and anxiety. “What makes you think that?”
“It has been over a moon now since he made a promise. Every day I keep asking him about our marriage, and every day he would tell me soon and soon,” you watched how his fingers ran through his auburn hair distressingly. He looked so pretty under the moonlight, you thought.
Gwayne turned to you then, carefully finding your gaze. His one hand found your jaw, he caressed them gently with fondness. He whispered your name, speaking. “You are a beauty, my dear. If something is preventing us from marriage, then at least can I get the chance to tell you how much I love you?”
The breath in your throat hitched. “I love you too, Gwayne,” your voice whispered. You could see a smile forming on the corner of his lips.
“Then at least our love agrees with each other,” Gwayne moved his face closer then and gently, he pressed his lips onto yours.
Eventually, the kiss turned hot, passionate and irresistible. Gwayne was not letting your mouth go, he was never giving you a chance to catch your breath. And when you did, he slid his tongue into your mouth smoothly. Tasting the sweet and wetness against your tongue.
You moaned into his mouth as he deepened the kiss, pushing himself closer to you; chest to chest. The sheerest of your nightgown didn't actually shield your skin at all. Gwayne could feel the fullness of your breasts pressing against him, and it sent blood straight down to his cock right away.
Slowly and carefully, he led you backward to the end of your bed before pushing you onto the mattress. Gwayne’s rough hand sneaked under your nightgown, finding your thigh. He gave it a gentle squeeze, earning a quiet gasp from you. His soft lips traveled from your lips to your neck, giving it a small suckle that was enough to leave a pinkish mark upon. While his other hand came to cup your breast, his thumb found your hardened nipple, making you mewled at the sensation.
“Gwayne—” you called but was quickly shushed by him.
“Do not worry now, my love. Am I not making you feel good, hm?”
Gwayne broke the kiss to look at your face then—hot and red and flushed, just like how he loved. Your eyes glossed with unfamiliar desires. Nodding, you urged him to continue his action and that he did.
A gasp slipped out from your lips when his fingers made contact with your entrance; wet, virgin and untouched, teasing the bundle upon it. Feeling how wet your cunt was by just kissing, Gwayne almost busted inside of his own breeches at the thought.
His blue eyes now darkened with lust, watching your face carefully—hungrily. His name fell from your lips like prayers when his finger finally entered your tight cunt. He loved it, he cherished every moment by his eyes as he watched you writhing underneath him. Gwayne dragged his mouth to your other nipple then, biting it through the fabric of your nightgown.
You were a mess underneath him. An unfamiliar feeling was building up inside of you as his fingers worked themselves on your pearl, approaching your highest. You were unsure of the feeling, but Gwayne kept comforting you with soft assurances in your ear, telling you it would be alright soon.
“Come for me, my love. I want you to come for me, look at me as you do so.”
Gwayne whispered keenly close to your ear, kissing and sucking the soft spot below as he did. The lewd sound of your arousal increased as well as your moans, eventually, you climaxed with his name on your tongue.
You were still catching your breath when Gwayne got up from you. His eyes watched you darkly, a satisfied smirk displayed on his face. You were exhausted, he could tell after coming down your high. It was your first time, anyway. Your face flushed hot with sweat glistened on your features. You looked beautiful, glowing from the orgasm and Gwayne couldn’t wait until the next time where he would officially take you in your wedding bed.
Carefully, Gwayne adjusted the fabric of your nightgown to its proper place before tugging your blanket up to shield your shivering body. He softly pressed a kiss on your cheek, your eyes were closed now, slowly drifting into sleep. Before slowly making his way out of your chamber.
After closing the door, Gwayne turned to see your father walking in the hallway. His pace stopped in his tracks as he noticed the familiar face exiting his daughter’s bedchamber in the middle of the night, and his blood began to boil at the sight.
On the contrary, Gwayne didn’t even look shocked or surprised by the presence of your father at all. In fact, the Hand’s son had already planned that out before even coming to your door. Consequences be damned, at least Gwayne was finally able to get the answer out of your father.
With a self-satisfied smirk, Gwayne raised his finger up to his lips, gracing it with a suggestive manner before walking away from his sight. When morning came, the King would announce the official news of your marriage within the fortnight, which your father could no longer prevent it no matter what.
