pornstar!sukuna who can’t get you out of his head after your first shoot together. It’s been weeks, and still he’s thinking about that fucked out look on your face when you cum on his cock. He’s fucked plenty of women in this industry before, the same routine. Walk onto set, introduce himself, gets the cameras rolling and fucks them until they’re either screaming in pleasure or barely saying a word.
He’s sitting in his dressing room, his manager going over his schedule for the week and who he’s supposed to shoot with. He’s barely listening, scrolling through his phone. “Sound good?” The director asks.
“Yeah, but, uh,” he finally looks at him, “what about that new girl?” He slips his phone into his pocket.
“What new girl?” His manager looks around the confused.
“The one I did a shoot with a few weeks ago. I forgot to ask her name. But, do you think you can fit her in the schedule somewhere? She’s pretty good.” Sukuna raises a brow.
“Oh! Oh! Yes, y/n! I remember now. Um, I would have to double check with her manager. I don’t have her schedule or anything.” His manager flips through the pages on his clipboard.
“Or I can ask her myself.” Sukuna stands to his feet, letting out a sigh.
“What? Right now?” His manager furrows his brows.
“Yes, right now,” he scoffs. “How well did that video do anyway? Forgot to ask. I’m assuming pretty good considering the fat check I got from it.”
“From what I’ve heard from the company it was actually one of your most popular videos. Fans loved it.”
“All the more reason to work with her again.” Sukuna smirked.
Sukuna walks through the halls, finding your dressing room at the very end, tucked away. Your door isn’t decorated like the other girls just yet, must not have found the time. It’s just a plain name plate. He chuckles, knocking on the door.
“Coming!” He hears your voice from the other side. Soon enough the door swings open, your eyes locking with his and immediately your breath gets caught in your throat. “Hi,” you mutter, softly smiling.
It’s him. Sukuna. The man who you filmed with weeks ago for your first ever shoot. How could you forget? The mere sight of him had your mind running wild again, reminding you of that moment, your thighs clenching as you tighten your silk robe around your waist.
“Been a minute, huh?” He smirks. “Mind if I come in?” He gestures.
“Oh, no, no! Come inside!” You move out of his way, the scent of his cologne filling your lungs when he walks by. The door shuts with a click.
“I wanted to talk with you about something.” He plops down on your couch, leaving you standing there in your robe. His eyes graze over your body, settling on your perky nipples that peak through the fabric. “Come, sit.” He taps the leather couch.
You feel tense, heart pounding as you sit next to him, each second your around him only allows your brain to replay the whole shoot in your head. “What is it?”
“Did you enjoy working with me the last time? I know it was your first ever scene, but I’m sure you’ve heard how well the video did?” He grabs a piece of hard candy from the bowl on the coffee table.
“Yeah, I mean…it was intimidating at first, but I really enjoyed it. And my agent did tell me the video was received really well.” You smiled, nodding at him.
“Good, good.” He pops the piece of candy into his mouth. “So I’m guessing you’re not opposed to working together again?” He turns his head to look at you, smirking.
“I’d love to.” He chuckles at your words.
“What’s your schedule looking like then?” He leans towards you, closing in the space between you. “Got time for me this week?”
You thickly swallow, clenching your thighs once more. “Y-yeah…I only film for three days this week.”
“Good girl. How does Thursday sound?” He places his hand on your upper thigh, his thumb caressing the exposed skin. He feels you tense under his touch.
“I’ll let my agent know.” You stare at him, biting the inside of your cheek.
“That’s what I like to hear.” He gives a cheeky smile. “I’ll see you then.” To your surprise he leans in, his larger hand cupping the nape of your neck as his lips press against yours. His tongue slides past yours, gliding over your bottom lip as he slips the piece of hard candy into your mouth. He pulls away, leaving you breathless.
Everything in you was screaming to get a taste of this man once more, to be greedy and take him right now like you did before. All you could think about was him.
“Y/n?” Your agent knocked on the door. “Your shoot starts in five minutes. Be ready!”
“Yeah, I’m coming!” You shout.
“Leaving so soon?” Sukuna whispered. “Thought we’d have a bit more fun.”
“Maybe save all that pent up energy for our next shoot, Sukuna.” You narrow your eyes at him, straddling his lap. “Open,” you demand.
He listens, opening his mouth, tongue laying flat. He watches at you let the hard candy roll off your tongue and back into his mouth. He couldn’t help but chuckle, clenching his teeth when you stood to your feet. What a tease. “Who you doing your scene with?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You look over your shoulder.
“Just curious.” He shrugged, standing up as well.
“I think his name is Gojo? I forgot. But, I’ll see you Thursday, yeah?” You walk out of your dressing room, shutting the door behind you.
Gojo, the first best in the industry, Sukuna just right behind him. If anything, he knows Gojo got word of mouth about you, considering he doesn’t like fucking amateurs, he knows just how well the video did with you and Sukuna, wanting to get a little taste of just what the new girl is like.
“sei!” you gasped, feeling the tip of his cock rub against the entrance of your pussy.
if someone told nagi seishiro that he would one day have a girlfriend who’d dress up in pretty white lingerie wrapped in a pink bow on his birthday, curtesy of his friends who convinced you it would be the best gift for nagi, he’d yawn and go back to playing video games. only now, it became a reality and here you were, looking so pretty dressed in lacy lingerie with a cute little bow to tie it all together.
despite his usual carefree attitude about mostly everything, well, except you, his eyes widened just the slightest bit. apparently, unbeknownst to nagi, reo had decided to add the bow to you just a little bit before all the guests left the surprise party that you and reo planned. and when everyone was gone, reo clapped nagi on the back on his way out. “have fun, man!” reo said.
and nagi was a bit puzzled at first. he didn’t know you were changing into that outfit so he just sat on the couch and whined your name. until you emerged from the bathroom. you looked so, so pretty, dressed up in lingerie in contrast to the pretty little dress you wore at the party, which is exactly how you ended up … here.
“hnnghh..” you whined, feeling him enter you. he was so big that you honestly don’t think you could get used to him no matter how many times you two fucked! “sei.. ‘s stretching me out..”
“yeah angel?” he mutters. “look so pretty f’ me right now.. been thinking about you all night, wearing that little dress.. wanted to get you alone so i could fuck you stupid.. n’ now you changed into this, shit..”
“ha-happy birthday, seishiro..” you whimper, looking back at him with teary eyes. he’s got you on all four, knees shoved into the couch as he takes you from behind.
he hums, before starting to thrust into you. it’s a bit slow at first to get you used to it, before he brutally starts pounding you. his cock hits your sweet spot over and over, and it feels so good you’re already an incoherent mess, blabbering words like “hnnnghh.. feels so good— so full— so good! mm-sei!”
he flips you into numerous positions all throughout the night. you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve creamed around his cock! at one point, he had you on his lap with your back pressed into his chest, playing with your tits and whispering filth into your ear as he pumped his cock repeatedly into you. and now you were on your back again, legs folded to your chest as he kept going.
by now, your lingerie has been discarded and ripped off you, and the bow is .. somewhere. honestly, you don’t know. nagi ripped that off you as well.
nagi groans into your neck, asking “mm angel, you like it like this? jus’ laying there n’ taking it?”
it makes you clench so hard around him. your voice is breaking as you whine out “yes sei, love it—love it so much, want more please.. wanna be your cumdump— fill me please-!”
he chokes on his own moan, hips snapping even harder onto yours. “fuck. say that again..”
“mmm-! wanna.. i wanna.. haaaahhh, m’ your cumdump.. wanna be.. use me— aahh sei! fill me up— want it so bad!”
“y’r such a mess for my cock angel..” he whispers. “i’ll give you what you want. gonna.. gonna make a mess out of your little pussy..”
but your pussy was already a mess!! from the previous load he dumped into you and how much he’s made you cum, there’s so much leaking out. although when he outright says that he’s gonna turn your pussy into a complete mess, it has you clenching down on him and cumming. you’re panting, drooling as you cream around his cock for the countless time as nagi rubs tight circles on your clit.
“oh, you liked that.” nagi blinks, his poker face on display and halting his movements as he watches your pussy twitch and spasm around him. he blinks once more and then starts thrusting into you again, deeper and slow, which of course, makes you cry out.
“mm baby, just lay there n’ take it kay? ‘m gonna stuff you full.. y’re so sweet angel, pussy’s my favorite.. aaghh shit.. so warm..” nagi sighs out.
you’re squirming underneath him, desperately trying to get away. the two of you have been going at it for too long!! but nagi pins his larger body on yours, telling you to “stop squirming..”
the loud noises of skin slapping against skin filled the room as nagi continued to pound into you. although it’s not long before he whimpers that he’s going to cum.
you let out a loud sob as his hot cum fills you up, large spurts of it spilling into you. but even though he’s already cumming, he doesn’t stop, fucking everything back into you. he’s overstimulating both you and himself. honestly, you have no idea how he’s still going.
“haaahh—angel.. i love you.. pussy’s so good— shit— aaghh fuck.. i love you baby..”
but it’s too much to handle and you’re so overwhelmed. he’s buried his face in the crook of your neck and he’s still thrusting weakly into your poor cunt, causing your legs to shake and twitch so much as you beg him to slow down. “sei—seishiro—eeee!— sttoppp.. your cummm!” you whine out. “sstop stop seishiro haaagghhh! it’s-“
“shush.” nagi mutters out. “be good. it’s my birthday..”
you let out a wail. he really was pulling the birthday card. the loud noises of him fucking your spent cunt as the cum was sloshing around in you and practically leaking out, worsening the already damp puddle beneath you two made you so embarrassed! but the plap! plap! plap! sounds secretly turned you on so much that you clenched around him, cumming with a loud cry. “hnngghhh.. sei! sei! i love you!”
finally, he pulled out of you, letting everything spill as finally he collapsed onto you. despite you whining that he was heavy, he clung to you tighter.
after your breathing both evened out, you placed a kiss on his head since he was laying down on your chest, or more specifically, crushing you.
“happy birthday seishiro.” you quietly told him.
“thanks angel,” nagi yawned in response, nuzzling closer into your chest as his arms tightened around your waist. “you’re the best present of my life.”
i know his birthday already passed and i’m super late but i still had to write smth for nagi because i love him sm <3 chapter 302 literally has me dead so writing smut is my coping method rn STOP MAKING HIM SUFFER I SWEARRR anyways i’m also working on my requests rn so pls be patient with me, i promise they will be out shortly!
Konstantin Andreevich Ukhtomsky, The Small Winter Garden in the Apartments of Alexandra Fyodorovna from Types of Rooms in the Winter Palace, c 1870s, watercolor.
Alexei was a handsome boy, and he bore a striking resemblance to his mother. His tutor Pierre Gilliard described the 18-month-old Alexei as "one of the handsomest babies one could imagine, with his lovely fair curls and his great blue-grey eyes under their fringe of long curling lashes"
Rhaegar sat alone in his chambers. The silence of the Red Keep was stifling, yet he welcomed it, for it was in these moments of solitude that he could allow himself to be truly vulnerable, to grapple with the emotions that he kept so tightly locked away.
He thought of you, his sister, Y/N. The memory of your face haunted him, a ghost that lingered at the edge of his thoughts. He could still recall the first time he had held you, a small babe with a crown of silver hair and eyes that mirrored his own. He had been only a boy then, but even at that tender age, he had felt an overwhelming protectiveness. You were more than just his sister; you were a part of him, as if the gods had split his soul and given half of it to you.
He had watched you grow, seen the child you were slowly transform into the woman you would become. The court whispered of your beauty, the poets sang of it. “The Jewel of Westeros,” they called you, and not without reason. But it was not just your beauty that captivated him. It was your spirit, the fire in your eyes that spoke of strength and intelligence beyond your years. You were the only one who could calm the storm within him, the only one who could make him forget, even for a moment, the heavy weight of prophecy and destiny that lay upon his shoulders.
But then, the gods – or perhaps it was his father’s madness – had intervened. Aerys had refused to wait, refused to allow you to come of age. Instead, he had bound Rhaegar to Elia Martell, a match that, while strategic, felt like a betrayal. The memory of that day still burned in his mind. He had stood before the Great Hall, the words of his vows leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Elia had been kind, gentle even, but she was not you. The thought had shamed him then, and it shamed him still.
His father had sent you away not long after, to Storm’s End, to serve as Lady Cassana’s ward. It was a cruel twist of fate, separating the two of you when he needed you most. He had protested, of course, but Aerys had been adamant. He had raved about alliances and security, about keeping you safe from those who would use you against him. But Rhaegar knew the truth. His father had seen the way he looked at you, had seen the way you looked at him. And Aerys, mad as he was, could not abide the thought of losing control, not over his son, and certainly not over you.
He clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking in the quiet. He had tried to be a good husband to Elia, tried to fulfill his duties as prince and father. But there was always that emptiness, that hollow space where you should have been. He had convinced himself, for a time, that it was for the best, that you were safer far from the intrigues of King’s Landing, away from the poisonous whispers and plotting eyes. But in his heart, he knew that he was lying to himself. You were his other half, the light to his shadow, the calm to his storm. Without you, he was incomplete.
And then there was the prophecy, the haunting words that had plagued him since he was a boy. “The dragon has three heads.” He had believed, with all his heart, that you were meant to be by his side, that you were the key to unlocking the secrets of the past, to ensuring the future of their House. But instead, you were betrothed to Brandon Stark, a match that made him seethe with a jealousy he could not control. Stark was a brute, a man of the North, with no understanding of the fire that burned within you, the dragon’s blood that coursed through your veins.
He rose from his chair and crossed the room to the small table where his harp lay. The strings were cool beneath his fingers, and he plucked at them absently, a soft, mournful melody filling the air. He had written this song for you, though he had never played it where others could hear. It spoke of loss and longing, of a love that could never be. His voice, when he sang, was low and rough, each word a plea to the gods who had denied him what he desired most.
“You were always meant to be mine,” he whispered, the words breaking like waves against the shores of his despair. “And now you are lost to me.”
He thought of you in Storm’s End, surrounded by strangers, your laughter no longer echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Did you miss him as he missed you? Did you think of him in the quiet moments, as he thought of you? He did not know, and that uncertainty was a blade that twisted in his chest.
He set the harp down and turned away, unable to bear the sight of it any longer. Duty and destiny, love and loss – they were chains that bound him, unbreakable and cruel. He had tried to be strong, to be the prince his people needed, but he was only a man, and men were weak, fallible. They loved, they lost, they yearned for things they could never have.
Rhaegar closed his eyes, and in the darkness, he saw your face, your smile, heard your voice like a whisper on the wind. “Forgive me, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. “Forgive me for not being strong enough, for not being able to fight for you.”
But it was too late for forgiveness, too late for regrets. The path had been set, and he was bound to it, as surely as he was bound to Elia. All he could do now was move forward, step by painful step, and hope that, in the end, the gods would grant him some measure of peace.
But deep in his heart, he knew that peace would never come. Not without you.
The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was filled with the roar of voices, the excitement of the crowd palpable as the knights readied themselves for the next tilt. Yet, amidst the clamor and the spectacle, Rhaegar Targaryen found himself strangely detached, his thoughts drifting far from the tourney field.
It had been years since he had last seen you, years spent trying to bury the longing that never truly left him. He had told himself, time and again, that it was for the best, that you were safer away from him, from the web of power and madness that ensnared their family. But the distance had done nothing to quell the ache. If anything, it had only deepened it, the emptiness in his heart growing more profound with each passing day.
The knights before him clashed, steel against steel, but Rhaegar’s eyes were drawn inexorably upward, to the royal stands. There, amidst the fluttering banners and the noble lords and ladies, he saw you.
The sight of you struck him like a blade, sharp and sudden. You had changed, as all must with the passage of time, but the essence of you remained the same. Your beauty, once remarked upon by the poets and whispered about in the courts, had only grown, maturing into something almost otherworldly. You were resplendent, a beacon of silver and violet, your hair catching the sunlight as it streamed through the high windows, your gown a cascade of pale blue and gold.
For a moment, the world around him seemed to still, the noise of the tourney fading to a distant murmur. It was as if time itself had paused, granting him this fleeting, stolen moment to simply look at you. He drank in every detail, the curve of your lips, the grace with which you moved, the way your eyes sparkled with a light he had not seen in so long.
He could see the way others watched you, their admiration barely concealed, but none dared approach. There was something untouchable about you, something that set you apart from the rest. You were a Targaryen, with all the fire and blood that name carried, and you wore it like a mantle, like a crown.
It was then that his gaze met yours. For a heartbeat, everything else fell away. He saw the recognition in your eyes, the soft widening as you realized who was staring back at you. In that brief exchange, a thousand unspoken words passed between you. There was shock, yes, but also something deeper, something that stirred the embers of hope he had long thought extinguished.
He could not look away, even as his heart hammered in his chest. The years apart had not dimmed his feelings; if anything, they had only grown stronger, more desperate. You were not just his sister; you were his other half, the missing piece that made him whole. Seeing you now, after so long, was like stepping out of a darkened room and into the light. And he knew, in that instant, that he would do anything, anything, to have you by his side once more.
But then the world rushed back in, the cheers of the crowd, the calls of the heralds, the thunder of hooves as the next pair of knights charged. Rhaegar tore his gaze from you, the loss of your eyes on his a physical pain. He tried to focus on the match before him, but his mind was a tumult of emotions, his heart warring with itself.
He had a wife, children. His duty lay with them, with his family, with the kingdom. But the gods were cruel, and they had given him a glimpse of what he could never have. It was a torment, one that he bore with quiet anguish.
When his turn came to ride, he moved almost on instinct, his mind still consumed by thoughts of you. The lance felt heavy in his hand, the armor a suffocating weight. As he rode onto the field, he felt the eyes of the crowd upon him, but there was only one pair that mattered.
He did not know what possessed him in that moment. Perhaps it was the need to show you, to prove that he had not forgotten, that you were still, and always would be, the center of his world. Or perhaps it was something deeper, something primal that he could not control.
When he unhorsed his opponent, the cheers of the crowd were distant, hollow in his ears. His gaze sought you out again, and when he found you, he saw something in your expression that made his heart clench. There was pride there, yes, but also something softer, something that spoke of shared pain and longing.
Without thinking, he dismounted and approached the stands, his steps slow and deliberate. The murmurs rose around him, whispers spreading like wildfire as the crowd sensed something unprecedented was about to happen. His heart pounded, each beat a drum in his ears, but he did not falter.
He stopped before you, his eyes never leaving yours. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. He could see Brandon Stark’s eyes burning with anger, Robert Baratheon’s face twisting with something darker, but they were of no consequence. Not now. Not in this moment.
Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted the crown of blue winter roses, the flowers fresh and vibrant against the silver circlet. He could feel the tension in the air, the breathless anticipation of the crowd, but he did not care. This was for you, for you alone.
When he placed the crown upon your head, his fingers brushed your hair, the touch sending a shiver down his spine. He held your gaze, his voice a low murmur that only you could hear. “For the queen of love and beauty,” he said, the words heavy with a meaning that went far beyond the ritual they were meant to serve.
For a moment, he allowed himself to hope, to dream of a world where you could be his, where you could stand beside him as you were always meant to. But the dream was fleeting, shattered by the reality that loomed just beyond this fragile bubble of time.
He saw the fury in Brandon’s eyes, the confusion and hurt in Robert’s. He knew what they would say, what they would think, but none of it mattered. Not now. Not with you looking at him the way you were, as if you, too, felt the same unbearable pull that had haunted him for so long.
He wanted to speak, to say something, anything that could convey the depth of what he felt. But the words would not come. Instead, he bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect, of devotion, and then turned away.
As he walked back to his horse, he felt the weight of what he had done settle upon him. He had defied convention, defied expectation, and in doing so, he had set events in motion that he could not control. But for that single, shining moment, he had been true to himself, to what he felt. And as he rode away, the image of you crowned with winter roses burned bright in his mind, a beacon of hope in the gathering storm.
For good or ill, he had made his choice. And whatever came next, whatever price he would have to pay, he knew it would be worth it, if it meant having you, even for just a moment, in his life once more.
Rhaegar’s pulse thundered in his ears as he waited in the shadows of the godswood, his hands trembling beneath his gloves. The cool air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were consumed by what he was about to do, the irrevocable act that would change the course of their lives forever. He could hear the distant sound of laughter, of celebration, the wedding feast in full swing. Lyanna Stark, the Wolf Maid, would be wed to Robert Baratheon tonight, and the halls of Storm’s End would echo with the revelry of that union.
But Rhaegar had no place among the revelers. His heart, his soul, his very being was elsewhere—focused solely on you. The thought of you, promised to another, made his blood boil. The pain of it was unbearable, a gnawing, relentless ache that had driven him to the brink of madness.
It was madness, he knew that. To steal you away on such a night, under the very roof of the man who would wed Lyanna, under the watchful eye of your betrothed, Brandon Stark. But he had no choice. He had tried to resist, had tried to stay away, to let you go, but the gods—those cruel, capricious beings—had bound his heart to yours, and no force in the world could sever that bond.
He had watched you from afar, seen the way you carried yourself, poised and proud, even as you stood beside the Stark boy, your future husband. It had taken every ounce of his will not to storm the hall then and there, to tear you away from the one who claimed you. But he had waited, biding his time, knowing that this was his last chance to act.
He thought of the prophecy again, of the words that haunted his every waking moment: “The dragon has three heads.” He needed you, not just as a man craves a woman, but as a king needs his queen, as a dreamer needs his vision. You were part of his destiny, the key to everything. And if he let you slip away now, if he let you be bound to another, all would be lost.
The sound of approaching footsteps jarred him from his thoughts, and he tensed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. But then he saw you, slipping quietly through the trees, your face pale in the moonlight, your eyes wide and searching. You had come. He had not been sure that you would, had not been sure that you would heed the message he had sent. But you had come.
“Y/N,” he breathed, your name a prayer on his lips as you drew closer. You looked at him, and in that moment, he saw everything—fear, hope, confusion, love. The conflicting emotions in your eyes mirrored his own, and for a heartbeat, he hesitated. What right did he have to do this, to tear you away from the life you knew, from the family who loved you?
But then he thought of Brandon Stark, of the vows you would be forced to speak, the life you would be forced to live. And he knew, with a certainty that bordered on madness, that he could not let that happen.
“Rhaegar, what are you doing?” your voice trembled, a note of desperation creeping in. You had always been strong, unyielding, but now, faced with the enormity of what he was about to do, he saw the cracks in your armor. “This is insane. If they find us—”
“They won’t,” he interrupted, his voice firm, resolute. “We will be gone before they know it. I’ve made arrangements, planned everything. We can be across the border of Stormlands by dawn.”
You shook your head, taking a step back, and his heart lurched in his chest. “And then what? We run? We hide for the rest of our lives? What about the realm, Rhaegar? What about your children? What about—”
“I love you.” The words burst from him, raw and unguarded, and he saw the shock in your eyes. He had never said it before, never dared to, but now, standing here in the dark, with everything on the line, he could hold it back no longer. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you since the day you were born. And I know it’s selfish, I know it’s wrong, but I can’t let you go. I can’t let you marry him.”
Your eyes softened, the fire in them dimming for just a moment. He reached out, his hand trembling as it brushed your cheek, and you did not pull away. “Please, come with me,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I can’t do this without you. I can’t be who I’m meant to be without you.”
He saw the conflict in your eyes, the war between duty and desire, and he held his breath, waiting. For a long, agonizing moment, you said nothing, your gaze locked on his. And then, slowly, you nodded.
“Alright,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Alright, Rhaegar. I’ll go with you.”
Relief, so intense it was almost painful, flooded through him. He took your hand, gripping it tightly, and together you turned toward the waiting horse, your steps quick and silent. He glanced back only once, at the great, shadowed bulk of Storm’s End, at the hall where Lyanna Stark would be married to Robert Baratheon, where Brandon Stark would soon discover that his bride had vanished into the night.
He knew what would come next. Knew that Robert would not let this insult stand, that Brandon would be furious, that Aerys, his father, would react with the same madness and cruelty that had come to define him. He knew that blood would be spilled, that the realm would be torn apart, that everything he had tried to build would come crashing down around him. But none of that mattered. Not now. Not with you beside him.
He mounted his horse and reached down to help you up, his hands steady now, his heart calm. This was right. This was what was meant to be. You fit against him perfectly, your body warm against his, your arms wrapped around his waist as the horse moved beneath you.
He glanced back once more, a final farewell to the life he was leaving behind, and then turned his gaze forward.
He knew, deep down, that there would be no forgiveness, no redemption for what he had done. He had stolen you, taken you from those who cared for you, had set a flame to the tinder that would ignite the realm. But he could not bring himself to care. The thought of you with Brandon, with anyone but him, was a torment he could not bear.
And so he rode on, his arms tight around you, his mind a storm of guilt and desire, fear and hope. The rebellion would come, and with it, death and destruction. But for now, in this moment, you were his, and he was yours, and that was all that mattered.
The journey south had been a blur, days and nights merging into one endless ride. He had spoken little, lost in his own thoughts, his guilt and desire warring within him. He knew what they would say, what they would think: that he was mad, that he was his father’s son. But this was not madness, not truly. It was something else, something far more terrible. He could not live without you, could not let you be bound to another when you were meant to be his. The gods themselves had decreed it, and who was he to deny their will?
The feeling of you now, riding with him, was both a comfort and a torment. Your face was pale, drawn, but there was a strength in your eyes that had always been there, a fire that burned even in the darkest of times. He wanted to speak, to tell you that he was sorry, that he knew what he had done was unforgivable. But the words would not come. How could he explain what he barely understood himself? How could he make you see that this was the only way, the only path left to him?
He glanced down at you, his heart aching with a pain that was almost physical. You were staring straight ahead, your posture rigid, your hands clenched tightly around the sleeves of your dress. He could feel the tension in your shoulders, the way you held yourself as if preparing for some unseen blow. You were afraid, and that knowledge cut him deeper than any blade.
He had sworn to protect you, to keep you safe from harm. And now he had become the very thing you needed protection from. It was a bitter irony, one that left a foul taste in his mouth. But he could not, would not, let you go. Not now. Not when he had come so close to losing you forever.
The inn where they would rest for the night loomed ahead, a small, nondescript building nestled among the trees. He pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted, turning to help you down. Your eyes met his, and for a moment, he saw a flicker of something there, something that gave him hope.
“We will rest here,” he said softly, his voice rough with fatigue and emotion. “It’s not much, but it’s safe. No one will find us.”
You nodded, saying nothing, and he felt his heart twist in his chest. He had expected anger, rage even. But this silence, this quiet acceptance, was worse. It felt like a condemnation, like you had already resigned yourself to whatever fate he had chosen for you.
Inside, the inn was warm, the fire crackling in the hearth casting a soft, golden light across the room. Rhaegar watched as you moved to sit by the fire, your gaze distant, unfocused. He wanted to go to you, to hold you, to tell you that everything would be alright. But he knew that was a lie. Nothing would ever be alright again.
He turned away, his hands trembling as he poured a cup of wine. He needed to think, to clear his head. But his thoughts were a tangled mess, a whirlwind of guilt and desire, fear and hope. He had done this, had set this course, and now he must see it through. But the cost, gods, the cost was more than he had ever imagined.
He thought of his children, of Elia, of the family he had left behind. What would they say when they learned of what he had done? What would they think of him, the man who had torn his family apart for the sake of a love that could never be? The thought made him sick, a cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach. But even that was not enough to change his mind.
He took a long drink of the wine, the taste bitter on his tongue. He had to be strong, had to see this through. For you. For the prophecy. For the future that only the two of you could create. He would be remembered as a villain, a madman, but if it meant having you, if it meant fulfilling the destiny that had been written in the stars, then it was a price he was willing to pay.
The door to your chamber stood open, a dark, yawning void that seemed to beckon him. He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to go to you, to hold you, to make you understand. But he knew that he could not. Not now. Not yet.
Instead, he turned and made his way outside, the cool night air washing over him like a balm. He stood there, staring up at the sky, the stars bright and cold above him. He had read once that the stars were the tears of the gods, weeping for the fates of men. He wondered if they were weeping for him now, for what he had done, for the path he had chosen.
He thought of you, lying alone in the dark, and his heart ached with a pain that was almost unbearable. He had wanted to save you, to protect you from the cruelty of the world. But now, he was the one who had brought you pain, who had torn your life apart. And for what? For a dream, a prophecy, a destiny that he could not even begin to understand?
He sank to his knees, the cold earth hard beneath him. He had made his choice, and now he must live with it. But gods, it was hard. Harder than he had ever imagined. He had thought that love would be enough, that it would carry him through the darkness. But now, he was not so sure. Now, he wondered if he had been wrong, if he had been a fool.
He looked up at the sky, at the cold, distant stars, and he felt a despair so deep it threatened to swallow him whole. He had done this for love, for a dream of a future that only the two of you could create. But now, standing here, alone in the darkness, he wondered if he had not, in truth, destroyed everything he had ever held dear.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the words. “Gods forgive me, I’m so sorry.”
But there would be no forgiveness, no absolution. Only the long, dark road ahead, and the terrible, inexorable march of fate. He would be remembered as the prince who loved too much, the man who brought the realm to ruin for the sake of a woman he could never truly have.
And yet, despite it all, despite the guilt and the pain and the fear, he knew that he would do it all again. Because you were his, and he was yours. And in this world of fire and blood, that was all that truly mattered.
ʚɞ synopsis: a tale between the last two dragons of House Targaryen, and the end of the world.
II of VII
. . . RHAEGAR HAD WORN A black tunic and black breeches, his boots leather, a cape of red draping across one shoulder. He was mounted atop his black stallion, side by side with Ser Arthur Dayne. It wouldn't be reasonable to be grand. They were hundreds of leagues from Lannisport. Mud will dirty them and break their carts first before they could even grasp the throat of the west.
They have been marching for a week. Now, the party was camped at the edges of the River Road, spread across its feilds and rivers. They were near the Golden Tooth, but his father refused to be taken in the halls of the Leffords, muttering something about Lannister rats squeeking about as I sleep.
Rhaegar ran a hand across his hair, bound up in a leather cord at the back of his head. His calves were aching from days of colliding against the muscular flank of his stallion. He ought to be grateful for this slight reprieve. But how could he?
Their course depended on the fickle moods of Aerys Targaryen. There were days he commanded that the party must ride until the moment he decides to halt, and days where he'd stay in his tent without being seen for two sunrises. It was . . . tiring. He could only clench his jaw.
Rhaegar let out a breathy exhale. It was night. Across the encampment, smoke from cookfires twirled heavenwards to the skies, surrounded by men merrily sloshing Sour Reds in wineskins, telling stories and jests, while wenches hung on their arms.
The court had battled eachother for a place in the inn nearby. Those who lost were forced to set up tents beneath the clouds. It was the better choice, really. The inn's featherbeds were hard as bedrock. Just this morning, a lady had woken up screaming, red from bedfleas. His father didn't care. The old king had a colony of his own in that beard of his.
Rhaegar silently made his way into the inn. The feast was finished, and attendants were clearing away the meats and goblets scattered like birdshit on the tresle tables. He climbed the creaking wooden steps to the rooms above.
Two ladies were lingering by the stone window, pausing from their gossip at his arrival. They smiled at him, batting their eyes demurely. Prince Rhaegar, good evening.
He smiled at them, nodding his head. My ladies. He was quick to make his escape until they seize him in conversation. The thought frightened him, to be stalled by the halls and indulge in idle chatter. There was something about it that he couldn't bear.
The room he entered quietly was plain and common, with only chair and a table, and a featherbed tucked beneath a wood-panelled window. He sighed, relieved.
"I hate this, Nyra. I feel like I'm useless."
"Against what?" Rhaenyra asked as a handmaid untied the laces of her red gown. "Against papa?"
"Against everything," he muttered, taking a seat on the bed. He could feel it now as he had not before - the slow setting of his fatigue weighing down upon his shoulders, the growing ache of calves ringing upwards to his thighs. Seven Hells.
Rhaenyra raised a brow, not bothering to answer him.
His sister could care less of what's happening beyond her wheelhouse. He knew she had her own war to fight in that chamber she's forced to share with their father. He would see her stumble out the doors covered in bile, hers or their father's? It was hard to tell. Sometimes, she was even half-drunk.
Rhaegar watched her step out of the gown pooled around her ankles in nothing but a shift, her flesh bleeding in the scarce candlelight. She plucked her ivory comb, bidding the handmaid leave.
Her silver hair dripped down her spine, gleaming at each sift of the sawtooth. He was tempted to ask her if she started to itch from - who knows? - fleas, but he was too weary, though it was soon replaced by a sudden anger.
It bothered him so much, the way she moved so slowly, so unhurriedly, as if she wore the numbers of time as pretty rings on her perfumed knuckles. Can't she see it? All this?
"Stop that," he muttered.
She raised a brow. "What?"
"Stop it, Rhaenyra. I can't take it when you do that."
She was confused and irked. "Do what, Rhaegar?"
His eyes followed the leisure drag of the comb through her curls. It seemed to rake against his own skin, breaking the delicate veins beneath. Gods, damn it all. He stood up abruptly, roughly swiping his palm's heel across his forehead. He doesn't like this.
"I need to leave," he grit his teeth. "We need to leave."
She laughed at that. "Try your fortune with father. His mood seems to be quite jolly today."
"Is it?" Rhaegar mumbled, not the least bit hopeful. He knew his lord father well enough to know that one thing is often the other.
"Oh yes, I heard him tell the fireplace."
A long, deep breath left Rhaegar's nose. Closing his eyes, he laid stiffly on the hard featherbed in defeat, finding no comfort in it at all. He was still dressed in his riding tunic. Lonmouth had changed it two days ago. He was covered in dust and sweat, smelling of horses.
He cursed, throwing an arm across his tired eyes. They have been hampered in this inn for three nights too long. The men didn't seem to mind, the court didn't. Rhaenyra especially. But Rhaegar? He shook his head.
"You're tired," Rhaenyra said almost spitefully.
"So what if I am?" He purposely asked spitefully.
She rolled her eyes and settled down at his side, her body warm and soft. "There's no cause in fretting over the inevitable. Let papa do as he likes, he can't keep us here away forever."
"Who knows with father?" He hissed. "He's fine rotting in his rooms all day, who's to say he doesn't wish the same for us?"
"You're being ridiculous. Even he has his limits."
"Really? Did you hear him confide that to the fireplace too?"
When no response came, he lifted his arm slightly to see Rhaenyra glaring at him through her lashes, her rosebud mouth set in a scowl. If he was in better spirits, he would've remedied it with a jest. He wasn't though. She could frown all she likes.
Silence came like a swarm of locusts after that. They laid together in the flickering candlelight, the faint bustle and rowdy jeers of the encampment beyond the inn filling his ears. He had half a mind of inviting Richard or Arthur for a spar in the deep woods but the dull soreness in his joints stopped him, and he found his sister's warmth to be quite remedying.
Rhaenyra shifted slightly. Her hand was on his belly, feeling its steady rise and fall, before she started to caress it. He closed his eyes. Her fingers drifted lower and lower, slipping past his trousers. He felt her brush the course white hairs there, drawing the heat of his loins.
She grasped his soft member, stroking languidly against the plush flesh of her palm. He could not think of anything softer. His breathing became shallow. None of them spoke. Rhaegar untied his trousers deftly with one hand, the other rubbing her round-shaped rear. She sat up, gathering her curls on one shoulder.
The silence of the chamber was brushed with the soft clicking of her lips delving up and down on his hard cock, saliva dripping on his thigh. The muscles of his jaw flickered, his teeth gritting. Her mouth was a sweet, wet thing that roused him more than the act itself. It eased his tension.
Rhaenyra, he breathed, holding the back of her graceful neck.
Her pink little tongue jutted forward to give him licks, like a small kitten drinking milk. He groaned. Rhaenyra.
Rhaegar stiffened, his lips pulling back in a sneer as his seed rushed out of him, spilling into her teeth. She pulled back, wiping it off of her cheek. They stared at each other without speaking.
"I'll speak to papa," she said.
He nodded. "Thank you."
"Rest, Rhae."
The rest of Rhaegar's restlessness had been taken away by her lips and by her voice, by the way her eyes fluttered and the way she was there, holding him. In this light, with their skins touching, they were almost one.
Rhaenyra settled herself on the pillows, pulling his head into the curve of her shoulder and neck. It was soft as cream. She hummed to him, brushing his hair with her delicate fingers. The world seemed to fade away. The night seemed to deepen. He closed his eyes and slept.
Rhaenyra waited until her brother was deep in his sleep before she carefully slipped her arms from him to stand, fastening a red velvet robe around her waist. Though it was summer, chill nibbled at the tips of her ears. Her flesh was in want for his warmth. His fire.
In the faint candlelight, she glanced at him one last time - his face, just countless moments ago so taught with agitation, was loose and gentle. He was beautiful like this, her twin brother.
She turns towards the door, closing it shut. The hall of the inn was short, quiet.
"Ser," she greeted.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood guard outside her father's rooms in his white cloak and white armor, his snowy white beard almost making him appear Targaryen. He was tall, regal. Wizened. A thought crossed her head.
Was this what her father ought look like? A king not only in name, but in face?
The kingsgaurd bowed his head in regard. "Princess."
"Is the king awake?" She asked quietly. There was something so criminal in breaking the silence of these simple halls.
"I could not say, my princess," Ser Barristan admitted gravely. "His Grace's squire had not left his rooms, but to fetch the food taster and a cup of poppy milk."
Rhaenyra nodded, thanking him. She would see her father. She would speak to him as she promised Rhaegar; but if he's asleep, she would still see him. A day hasn't gone by where she hasn't gone to him since they left the Gate of the Gods. It felt right.
The kingsguard parted the wooden door for her. The stench of piss and woodsmoke burned her nose. She found her lord father sitting in a wicker chair by the stone hearth, the cackling flames glowing on his pale, guant face. His squire stood not close by, attending to the beddings of the King's own bed rolled in from the wheelhouse.
Her father's thin lips moved in muttering beneath his soiled beard, his claws digging back and forth against the chair's armrest. He was naked underneath a heavy robe sewn with the sigil of their house. Rhaenyra could see the scabs that riddles his chest, the welts he had scratched.
She padded towards him, the untouched goblet of poppy milk on a lone table not lost to her. She was vigilant. One must learn a pattern of walk if they wished him not to flinch. She had mastered such arts at nine.
Rhaenyra folded down beside his spindly legs, leaning at his thigh.
The flames within the hearth was bright, fed all throughout the eve by fresh logs. Even in his chambers in the Red Keep, braziers and hearths must be kept on night and day. A line of servants had been specifically tasked for it. Her father claimed that a Targaryen should always be near fire, and fire should always be near to a Targaryen.
There was a quality of wisdom to it that made her nod. Her father had been wise once, and sometimes he offered her glimpses of it. Sometimes. Times rarer as the years fly by. She could only watch.
Is there anything more tragic than the fading of a promised greatness? Rhaenyra knew her father prime had been a long time ago. Everyone said so. As a boy, he charmed and was charmed. He loved music. He sought to build a city of marble by the banks of the Blackwater Rush. He dreamt of bringing back fertility to the sand mountains of Dorne.
The mind. Could it be taken away just as swiftly as it was given? If so, who are the theives to blame? She'd say the gods if she only believed in them. Rhaegar did. Perhaps she could ask him. Her brother is the closest thing there is to divinity.
She was suddenly frightened. Rhaegar. She thought about his greatness, his wonderful dreamer of a mind. Will it be stolen from him too?
It will be the worst of crimes. If it were the gods to do that, Rhaenyra will believe in them so she could take up swords and slay them all. Rhaegar is Azor Ahai. No god could change that.
Rhaenyra looked up at her father. He hasn't noticed she was there yet. Mostly likely he wouldn't. His eyes were feverish, clouded by something she couldn't name. She took his pox-scarred hand and pressed it to her cheek. Her papa. King Aerys Targaryen is her father first before anything, and anything lesser than that didn't matter.
Rhaenyra rose to her feet. "On the bed, papa."
For the first time for what she would say hours, he looked away from the hearth and glanced up at her. He scowled, a deep gash that stretched further the lines of his rough face, but he said nothing when she took his arm.
Her father was heavy despite the fragility of his frame. All skin and rigid bones. He barely ate. "Help me," she commanded the squire. Together, they lumbered the old king to the bed. "Fetch the poppy and leave us."
Like hard reed being bent, the king dumped himself heavily on the sheets, grunting. Rhaenyra propped pillows behind him, rubbing his back.
"Have you eaten, papa?" She placed her hand on his face, the jutting cheekbones cutting her.
He grounds his yellow teeth. "I have no trust in what they feed us here . . . that food taster, mayhaps he had been trained in the dark arts in immunity. What is safe for him would be the death of me, their king."
"Should we put that to the test?" She offered, taking the poppy milk from the squire. "Rip the food taster's belly open and see if he has the marks of the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai?"
A gruff chortle left her father's throat. "That would be most pleasing to see," he grinned. "But we have no need of delays. Wildfire is our answer. It will burn all the treacheries from his blood."
The silver hairs on her flesh rippled. Wildfire. Had her family, the dragonlords of Old Valyria, become so powerless so as to look to lesser flames for control? She pursed her lips.
"I have a more efficient method, papa," she said, taking a small sip of the poppy. Moments pass. She didn't convulse violently on the floor. If anything, she felt her eyes droop heavy. "It's untouched. Drink."
The king was furious. He glared at his daughter, displeased with her carelessness. "Men would rejoice at the death of dragoneggs as they would dragons."
"But I'm not dead, see?" Rhaenyra pressed the cup to her father's mouth. "Drink."
King Aerys reluctantly drank, the slight, permanent shake on his hands and head rattling the goblet. When he had enough, he whisked it away. "Pah!"
"Lie down," Rhaenyra said, tucking the blankets around him. He was grumbling to himself.
"Tywin Lannister cannot be trusted," he muttered. "I know him. I do. I can smell his ploys, daughter. What does he hope to achieve in this tourney? To celebrate your brother's birth? No, more likely his death. Or something else entirely, something worse."
"Unlikely, papa."
His blistered hand shot to grasp her wrist. "We should turn back and return to King's Landing," he whispered, spit at the corners of his mouth. "We would be surrounded by lickspittles and rats, but they're ours. Ours. Who knows what blades await for us in Casterly Rock? They fear dragons no more, they shall -"
"- Do nothing," Rhaenyra tugged his grasp away then pressed him to the bed, kissing his sweating forehead. "Sleep, papa. Tomorrow, we move west."
"Rhae, why did you stop?"
He blinked, returning his gaze to his sister. He hadn't realized his fingers had stilled on his harp.
On the middle of a clearing among rotting leaves and bits of toadstools, Rhaenyra had her hands on her hips, giving an accusing glare. She was practicing a dance she would perform in the feast in Lannisport. She told no one but Rhaegar along with a few of her women who'd dance with her.
Now, she wore a simple red dress without sleeves to fend away the summer heat, her arms like pale vines, while her curls were bound in a velvet net. The bottom lining of her skirts were smudged in mud.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Should we go again, sister? I was distracted."
She huffed. "By what?"
He shrugged. "The gods, maybe. They're here."
He doesn't hide his thoughts from her, not when she could see it plainly in his face. He had tried several times but she'd pry and pry until he would relent. There was little she didn't know about him, and it was the same for her. He knew everything in her head. Every abomination, every impulse, every whim.
Rhaenyra raised her brow. "How do you know that?"
"Look around us, Nyra. Don't you feel them? Hiding behind barks, watching us this very moment?"
She looked around. "The children of the forest."
He smiled, leaning against the boulder at his back. He was surrounded by mugworts brushing at his sides, dotted by small red-back lady bugs. "I don't really believe they've dissapeared when the Andals came. They were born in these lands, and would die in it."
"You don't know that," she padded to sit by his legs, placing her chin over his knee. "You speak as if you know those creatures personally, that you can vouch for their character."
"I don't," he admitted. "But if men could be resolute, how harder is the will of the divine? They're everything we're not, Nyra."
"And we're everything they're not," she countered. "You've always been cynical about what man could do. You're hopeless for your own race. That's treachery."
He chuckled. "Well, would you blame me? What capabilites we have, we waste on doing the worse."
"That is . . . ?"
"War," he began. "Pillaging. Thievery. Bloodshed. Rape. We've never evolved from the iron age of barbarity. Brothers kill brothers, friends turn on friends, fathers become madmen."
She stared at him for a long while, allowing the silence to fester between them. "They don't know it, but your poetry had always been political."
"I write and sing of what I see," he smiled sadly.
A league from where he and his sister sat in the woods, the party had dismounted for a small feast. Tywin Lannister himself had met Rhaegar as they approached Deep Den, to welcome the king to the west.
The Lord of Casterly Rock had laid out tresle tables filled with smoked ham and mutton, platters of barley bread, iced pitchers of wine. It was bountiful enough to feed the entire royal host. His lord father only grumbled though, wary of his Hand's benevolence. He refused to leave the wheelhouse.
Rhaegar, after indulging Lord Tywin in pleasantries for a moment, had whisked Rhaenyra away on horseback. They haven't seen much of another since the inn.
"There you are again," she said softly, reaching to swipe a finger across his lips. "The cynic. I like my brother better than him. Give Rhae back to me."
"At what cost?" He humoured her.
"A kiss."
"A kiss?"
She nodded. A kiss. From his sister, his Rhaenyra. He could think of little things that could compare to that. Dragonback? Dragons had long been dead. But he had kissed Rhaenyra a thousand times, and each time his soul ascended.
"A kiss it is," he smiled. "And you shall have your Rhae back."
Rhaenyra bent forward. He closes his eyes, but parted them again in shock at her palm pushing his face away. Her laughter echoed in the solemn air.
"You can keep him," she grinned, rising to her feet. Rhaegar glared at her. "However, would you join me for a bath, cynic? The river had been calling to me for quite a while."
"Don't bare your neck in front of cynics or they'll show you how cynical they could get," he grumbled, rubbing his jaw. She rolled her eyes at that.
Rhaenyra ran to the sloping banks of the icy black river, unbinding the restraints of her hair. Curls flew behind her like silver wings. She glanced back at him, grinning.
Rhaegar settled his harp on the boulder, standing to follow at her trails. He began to slide his leather jerkin off as she unribboned the laces of her dress, the ground littered by bits of their cloths.
The canopy of the trees were so dense and so thick, sunlight failed to pass through. It was cooler here, darker. They were both hidden from the sun of summer. Their nakedness were seen by no one but themselves.
Rhaenyra snatched Rhaegar's wrist. She dipped her toes into the rushing, coal-like water, hissing at its coldness. She retreated. "Actually, I don't want to -"
Rhaegar seized her in his arms and carried her down, ignoring her shrieking. The river was cold. He'd grown so used to heat that it caught him unaware, sharp as daggers. But it's alright. Her back, pressed to his chest, was all the warmth he needed.
"You like that?" He whispered at the cusp of her ear, waist-deep in the river. The pebbles beneath his feet were cool and smooth.
Rhaenyra pushed him off. "This is freezing. Dragons don't like the cold."
"I thought the river had been calling to you?" He chuckled, watching her shiver slightly.
"A call I shouldn't have answered," she wrinkled her nose. She held herself tightly, half of her curls damp on her back.
Rhaegar sat quietly over the dark soil of the banks, looking at her. It was as if she was a nymph of these woods, made of moonlight and stardust. She glowed brightly above the waters.
He smiled to himself, understanding why Durran Godsgrief refused to give back Elenei to her godly parents. He had built Storm's End to keep her by his side.
Rhaenyra grew used to the water's temperature, wading across to gaze upon strange-shaped rocks and colorful mushroom growing on fallen, rotting trees. What would I build to be with her? He asked himself. Valyria.
"Rhae, have you ever been to the North?"
Blinking from his daze, he raises his brow. "Not yet, but I want to someday. A king must see all of his kingdoms."
"By then, Brandon Stark is the Lord of Winterfell," she said, brushing her silver hair. "I heard the North is beautiful . . . the wildest and the freest of all the seven realms. I want to see it too, Rhae."
"What else?" He asked, leaning forward. Her cheeks were red from the water's chill.
She grinned. "Their weirwood tree, maybe. They say it has a ghastly, terrifying face. That it is the face of the old kings of winter, who wails that it was their blood who first bent their knee to Aegon."
He laughed. "Is that all?"
"I want to see Lyanna Stark," she added, wading towards him, her hips round and gleaming beneath the currents. "We'll be friends, her and I. Fire and Ice together."
He nods. His sister had a smile that made the world fall back.
"Will you take me, Rhae?"
Rhaegar reached forward and pulled her into his arms, her breasts pushed upon him. "Where I am, you will be," he said. "From the godless lands of Vaes Dothrak to the thousand miles beyond the Wall."
"Rhaegar and Rhaenyra," she nuzzled their noses together. "To Valyria."
This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it.
- Summary: There are many stories about the Mad King and his daughter, Y/N, and whispers still exist about their bloody deaths written in the tomes of Fire and Blood. And then there are those who were there to witness it all.
- Pairing: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen
- Note: The reader is Rhaegar's twin sister and they were both born at Summerhall on the day of its tragedy. This chapter contains various characters and their retellings of deaths of Y/N and Aerys.
- Rating: Explicit 18+
- Next part: to wake a dragon
Robert and Eddard
Robert Baratheon sat in front of the hearth, the flicker of the flames casting shadows across his face as he stared into the fire. His large hands gripped the mug of wine tightly, his knuckles white, as if he could crush it between his fingers. The years had not been kind to Robert. His once broad, powerful frame had grown soft, his face ruddy with drink, and his eyes—once filled with the fire of rebellion—now carried a deep, bitter weight. But even with all the years that had passed since the rebellion, since the sack of King’s Landing, one memory lingered in his mind, haunting him still.
Ned Stark sat across from him, his own expression quiet, as always, waiting patiently for Robert to speak. He had heard this bitterness before, seen the weight that sat on his old friend’s shoulders whenever the past was brought up. But tonight, there was something heavier in the air, something darker.
Robert took a long, hard swig of wine, letting the burn of it warm his throat before he finally spoke, his voice thick with bitterness. "You know, Ned," he began, his words slurred slightly with drink, "there’s not a day that goes by I don’t think about that day. The day we took King’s Landing. When we… found them."
Ned said nothing, letting Robert speak at his own pace. He had never been comfortable speaking of that day either, but he knew Robert needed to unburden himself, and so he listened, his grey eyes steady.
Robert’s jaw clenched, and he shook his head as if he couldn’t shake the memory. "Aerys… the Mad King. We all expected him to be in a pool of his own blood, lying on his damned Iron Throne, dead and done for. And he was, thanks to Jaime Lannister. But what I didn’t expect… what I couldn’t have expected… was finding her there too."
"Y/N," Ned murmured quietly, filling the silence that hung between Robert’s words. The name of Aerys’ daughter, Robert’s own cousin, carried a weight all its own. The truth of her end, and what had happened in those final moments, had been a point of pain and fury for Robert ever since.
"Aye," Robert spat the name out like a curse, though there was a strange conflict in his voice. "Y/N. The gods-damned daughter of Aerys. You know, I almost pitied her once. They said she was a beauty—Targaryen through and through, with that silver hair and violet eyes. But when we found her…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as the memory overwhelmed him.
Ned knew what Robert was going to say. He had heard it before, but it still made his heart heavy. He had been in the Red Keep that day as well, seen the destruction, the carnage that had been wrought.
"When we found her," Robert continued, his voice quieter now, but still filled with venom, "she was lying there in a pool of blood, her throat slit, and Aerys was holding her like she was some damned treasure he’d lost. Even in death, he clung to her like a man drowning in his own madness."
Robert’s grip tightened on his mug, his knuckles turning white. "Tywin’s men were the ones who did it, of course. Slit her throat right in front of the mad bastard, just to break him. And break him they did. The great Mad King, the last dragon—reduced to a sniveling wreck as he watched his own daughter bleed out at his feet." He let out a harsh laugh, one devoid of any real amusement. "Justice, some would call it. For what he did to your father, to your brother. But it didn’t feel like justice. It felt… wrong."
Ned’s eyes flickered, his expression grim. He had known Y/N, not well, but enough to know she had not deserved the fate that had befallen her. She had been swept up in her father’s madness, a victim of Aerys’ cruelty and obsession. "She was with child, wasn’t she?" Ned asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.
Robert nodded, his face twisting in disgust. "Aye. She was with child when they killed her. A third Targaryen brat. They didn’t even give her a chance. Not that it matters, though. She was as much Aerys’ as the rest of them—his lover, his daughter, his whore. Gods, Ned, what kind of monster beds his own blood like that?"
Ned stayed silent. He knew Robert’s hatred for the Targaryens ran deep, but there was something more in Robert’s tone, something that went beyond mere disgust. There was bitterness there, a wound that had never fully healed.
"I remember walking into that throne room," Robert continued, his voice low, as if the memory still played in his mind like a nightmare. "Aerys was already dead—Jaime Lannister had run him through—but he was still clutching Y/N’s body, holding her like she was the last thing that mattered in the world. Her blood was everywhere, staining his robes, the floor. I wanted to kick the corpse, make sure the bastard knew he’d lost everything, but Tywin…"
Robert shook his head again, a deep scowl settling on his face. "Tywin wouldn’t let me. Said it wasn’t right to leave them like that. He insisted they be burned together, in the same position we found them. Like some gods-damned lovers’ pyre. I wanted to see them tossed into the dirt, but I let him have his way. Even now, it sickens me to think of it."
Ned took a deep breath, his thoughts heavy. He remembered that day too well—the scent of fire and blood, the sight of Aerys and Y/N, dead together as the Red Keep crumbled around them. It had been a fitting end for the Mad King, but Y/N… she had been something else. A tragedy caught in the crossfire of her father’s madness.
"You think often of them," Ned said quietly, his voice steady. "Aerys and Y/N."
Robert snorted, lifting his mug to his lips again. "Think of them? Aye, Ned, I think of them more than I’d like. They haunt me. But it’s not just them, is it? It’s everything—their damned legacy. I killed one dragon, but the others are still out there, waiting to strike. Viserys, Daenerys… they’re still Targaryens. And you know what Targaryens do, Ned. They burn everything in their path."
Ned nodded slowly, understanding the depth of Robert’s hatred. It wasn’t just Aerys or Y/N—it was the entire Targaryen line, the fire that had claimed so many lives, including Robert’s own family.
Robert stared into the fire again, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I’ll see the last of them dead before I rest easy, Ned. Every last one of them."
Ned said nothing, his heart heavy with the weight of Robert’s words. The rebellion had ended years ago, but the ghosts of the past still lingered, haunting the halls of power, and those who had survived the flames of war.
Jaime and Tyrion
The sun dipped low over King’s Landing, casting a golden light over the Red Keep as shadows stretched long across the city. In one of the keep’s smaller courtyards, Tyrion Lannister walked alongside his brother, Jaime, savoring the warm breeze that drifted in from Blackwater Bay. The day’s heat had finally begun to ease, leaving a comfortable coolness that made it almost pleasant to be outside. Almost.
Tyrion glanced up at his brother, noting the tightness around Jaime’s eyes, the way his jaw clenched as if he were biting back something unpleasant. His golden hair caught the light of the setting sun, but there was a darkness in his expression that was at odds with the warmth of the evening.
“Now, now, brother,” Tyrion began, his voice light with practiced humor as he adjusted his grip on his wine cup. “You look as if you’ve swallowed something bitter. Surely even the great Jaime Lannister can manage to smile on such a fine evening? Or is there some poor soul I should apologize to on your behalf?”
Jaime’s lips twitched, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He glanced at Tyrion, then turned his gaze back to the city sprawling out beneath them, a shadow of frustration crossing his face. “Not every day can be a jest, Tyrion,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff. “Some things aren’t so easily laughed off.”
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his expression sharpening as he studied his brother more closely. Jaime was no stranger to brooding, but there was something different in his mood today—something heavier, like a shadow that clung to him and would not be shaken. Tyrion took a sip of his wine, letting the silence stretch between them for a moment before he spoke again, his tone softening.
“True enough, I suppose,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “But I know you, Jaime. You brood when you think no one is looking, but you’re usually better at hiding it. What’s on your mind?”
Jaime’s shoulders tensed at the question, his expression tightening as if he wanted to brush it off with a laugh. But then he sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of old memories, and ran a hand through his hair, turning away from the view of the city. His gaze drifted over the courtyard, over the stone walls that had stood witness to so many secrets and betrayals.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said at last, his voice rough, as if the words were being dragged out of him. “It’s... it’s something I can’t shake, no matter how many years go by.”
Tyrion watched him closely, his curiosity piqued. Jaime rarely spoke of the past, especially the parts of it that haunted him. But there was a rawness in his voice now that Tyrion had rarely heard—a vulnerability that made him pause, setting aside his usual jests in favor of something more serious.
“Try me,” Tyrion suggested gently, taking another sip of his wine. “You might be surprised at what I can understand. And if it helps ease that troubled look on your face, well, consider it my good deed for the day.”
Jaime shot him a look, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it quickly faded. He seemed to wrestle with something inside himself, his jaw working as he struggled to find the right words. Finally, he turned back to face Tyrion, his expression somber, his voice low and raw.
“It’s the throne room,” he said, the words coming out like a confession. “I still have nightmares about it. What happened that day, when I killed Aerys... and Y/N. The way they looked when I... when I saw them together.”
Tyrion’s expression shifted, his flippant demeanor slipping away as he took in the pain in Jaime’s eyes. He had heard bits and pieces of what had happened on that day during Robert’s Rebellion, the day Jaime Lannister earned the name “Kingslayer.” But Jaime rarely spoke of it in detail, and there was a haunted look in his eyes now that made Tyrion set aside his usual barbs.
“Tell me, then,” Tyrion said quietly, leaning closer, his voice filled with a rare seriousness. “What is it you see in those nightmares, Jaime?”
Jaime swallowed hard, his gaze distant as if he were looking at something far beyond the walls of the Red Keep, beyond the years that had passed since that day. He rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the memories that clung to him like old blood. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, thick with the weight of things long left unsaid.
“I see them, Tyrion. Aerys and Y/N, lying there on the throne room floor, their blood pooling together on the cold stone. I see the way Aerys looked at her even as he died, like she was the only thing left in his world. Like... like he thought holding her would somehow make it right, even with a sword through his back.”
He paused, his throat working as he tried to find the words. “She was already dead when I got there. One of Tywin’s men slit her throat before Aerys’s eyes, and he just... he lost what little was left of his mind. He was screaming for fire, for his pyromancers to burn the city. But all he could do was hold her, cradling her in his arms like she was some broken doll. And when he looked up at me, just before I... before I put my sword through his back, he looked like a man who’d already died.”
Tyrion’s grip tightened around his wine cup, the seriousness in his brother’s voice cutting through the usual banter that defined their conversations. He had never heard Jaime speak with such rawness, such naked pain. The image Jaime painted—the mad king and his daughter, bound together in death—was one that sent a chill through him, making him understand, perhaps for the first time, the true burden Jaime carried.
“And the nightmares?” Tyrion asked softly, his voice filled with a gentleness that he rarely showed. “What do you see, Jaime?”
Jaime’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles going white. He turned away, his expression twisting with something like self-loathing. “I see her eyes, Tyrion,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “Y/N’s eyes, wide and empty, staring up at the ceiling as if she couldn’t believe she was dying. I see the blood on my hands, on my sword, and I hear Aerys’s voice, echoing through the hall, calling for fire. It’s always the same. I wake up, and it’s like I’m back there, standing over their bodies, with the whole world burning around me.”
He let out a bitter laugh, the sound rough and pained. “They call me Kingslayer, but that isn’t the part that haunts me. It’s the way he held her, like she was the last piece of his soul, even when everything else had gone to hell. It’s the way I felt when I put my sword through his back—like I was ending something that should have been over long before it ever came to that.”
Tyrion listened in silence, his heart aching with a strange, unexpected sympathy for his brother. He had always known that Jaime carried the weight of his actions, but he had never truly understood the depth of the scars they had left. He reached out, placing a hand on Jaime’s arm, offering a small gesture of comfort.
“You did what you had to, Jaime,” he said softly, his voice filled with a rare earnestness. “Aerys would have burned the city if you hadn’t stopped him. And Y/N... whatever she was to him, she couldn’t have changed that. You spared King’s Landing from a fire that would have consumed us all.”
Jaime shook his head, a hollow, humorless smile twisting his lips. “Maybe I did,” he murmured, his voice raw. “But it doesn’t change what I see when I close my eyes. It doesn’t change the fact that I stood in that throne room with blood on my hands, and I couldn’t save them. Not her, not the child inside her... and not myself.”
Tyrion squeezed his brother’s arm gently, offering what comfort he could, even though he knew that some wounds could never truly be healed. “The past is a heavy burden, brother,” he said quietly. “But it’s not one you have to carry alone.”
Jaime met his gaze, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something like gratitude in his eyes. He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he turned his gaze back to the distant city, the shadows lengthening as night began to fall.
And as they stood there together, in the fading light of the Red Keep, the ghosts of the past lingered between them—unseen, unforgotten, but perhaps just a little less heavy in the presence of a shared understanding.
Varys and Petyr
The throne room was quiet now, save for the soft, measured footsteps of Varys as he glided across the cold stone floor, his hands tucked neatly into the wide sleeves of his robe. The Iron Throne loomed in the center of the room, its jagged metal spikes casting long shadows in the flickering torchlight. The grand hall felt emptier than usual, almost hollow, as though the weight of history still lingered in the air, thick and oppressive.
Varys had always found it strange how even after years had passed since the rebellion, the specter of Aerys Targaryen and his tragic end still clung to this place, like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest. And not just Aerys—his daughter, Y/N, whose death had been just as shocking, just as poignant in its cruelty.
He approached the throne, his eyes drifting up to the twisted mass of swords that made up its formidable structure, a reminder of power and the price it demanded. But today, Varys wasn’t alone.
Littlefinger stood near the base of the throne, his back turned to Varys, his fingers lightly tracing one of the throne’s twisted metal arms as if he were considering it for himself. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but Varys knew better than to be fooled by such nonchalance. Petyr Baelish was never without calculation, never without purpose.
"Lord Varys," Littlefinger said smoothly, not bothering to turn as Varys approached. "I trust you’ve come to share some new secret, some whispered truth from your little birds?"
Varys smiled slightly, though the expression never quite reached his eyes. "I find it curious, Lord Baelish, that you seem to think I’m the only one with secrets in this city. You, after all, have a few of your own, do you not?"
Littlefinger chuckled, finally turning to face the spymaster. His eyes glittered with amusement, but behind that amusement was something far more dangerous. "Oh, we all have secrets, Varys. That’s what makes this game so interesting, don’t you think?"
Varys raised a brow, his gaze drifting from Littlefinger to the throne itself, a symbol of everything they both sought to control. "Indeed. But some secrets," he said softly, "carry far more weight than others."
Littlefinger's smile didn’t waver, but there was a sharpness in his gaze now. "And what secret, pray tell, weighs on you today, my dear spider?"
Varys moved closer, his hands still tucked into his sleeves as he regarded the throne with a look of quiet contemplation. "I was just thinking," he began slowly, "about how this throne has seen so much bloodshed, so much betrayal. And yet, the events of Robert’s Rebellion still echo the loudest within these walls, do they not?"
Littlefinger tilted his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Ah, yes. The Mad King. His death was certainly… memorable."
Varys nodded, his expression grave. "But it wasn’t just Aerys who met a tragic end that day, was it? His daughter, Y/N… Her death was far more personal. And far more devastating."
At the mention of Y/N, Littlefinger’s eyes narrowed. "Y/N Targaryen. A beauty, they said. A daughter caught in her father’s madness." He paused, his voice softening just enough to hint at something deeper. "And his lover, if the rumors are to be believed."
Varys inclined his head slightly. "More than just rumors, I’m afraid. Y/N’s fate was sealed long before the rebellion reached King’s Landing. Aerys’ obsession with her was well-known, though few dared to speak of it openly. She was both his daughter and his most prized possession, and in the end, it was her death that drove him to his final madness."
Littlefinger leaned against the throne, his fingers lightly drumming on the armrest as he considered Varys’ words. "I’ve heard the stories, of course. How Tywin’s men stormed the Red Keep, how they found Y/N at Aerys’ side… and slit her throat before his eyes." He gave a small shrug, as if the brutality of the act meant little to him. "It’s always the innocent who suffer, isn’t it?"
Varys’ gaze darkened, and for a moment, his usual composure faltered. "Y/N was pregnant at the time," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "With Aerys’ third child. They didn’t just kill her—they killed the unborn child as well. Aerys watched it all happen, and it broke him. When Jaime Lannister finally put an end to Aerys, he was holding Y/N’s body, clinging to her as if she were the only thing left in the world that mattered."
Littlefinger’s eyes flickered with interest. "A tragic love story, then," he mused, though his tone was devoid of sympathy. "One could almost feel sorry for the man, if not for the fact that his madness nearly destroyed the realm."
Varys looked away, his expression unreadable. "There was a time when Aerys was a king of great promise. But power… power corrupts even the best of men. And for those born with fire in their veins, that corruption can become something far more dangerous."
Littlefinger smiled, the gesture cold and calculating. "It’s always the Targaryens, isn’t it? Fire and blood, madness and greatness—two sides of the same coin, as they say."
Varys sighed softly, his eyes fixed on the throne. "Perhaps. But the deaths of Aerys and Y/N were more than just the end of a dynasty. They were a warning, a reminder of what unchecked power can do. Of what happens when love is twisted by madness."
Littlefinger stepped away from the throne, his gaze lingering on Varys as he moved closer. "And yet, the game continues. The throne still stands, and new players take their turn. Power will always draw those willing to do whatever it takes to claim it."
Varys smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with quiet understanding. "Yes, my lord. But it’s worth remembering that even the most powerful can fall. And when they do, the consequences are far-reaching."
Littlefinger’s smile widened, though there was no warmth in it. "You’re right, Varys. Everyone falls eventually. Even kings and queens." He paused, his gaze drifting back to the throne for a moment. "But until then… the game must be played."
Varys nodded, his expression calm once more. "Indeed, Lord Baelish. The game never truly ends."
As Littlefinger turned to leave the throne room, Varys remained where he stood, his eyes fixed on the Iron Throne, the weight of history and tragedy settling over him like a shroud. The ghosts of the past still haunted this place, and though the players had changed, the stakes remained the same.
And somewhere, in the depths of Varys’ mind, the memory of Aerys and Y/N—two lives consumed by fire and madness—lingered, a reminder of the price of power.
Cersei and Tywin
Cersei stood by the window of her chambers, staring out at the city below, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The years had passed since Robert’s Rebellion, since the Mad King and his daughter, Y/N, had met their fiery end, but the bitterness that lingered within Cersei had never truly faded. The memory of that day, of her father’s decision to allow them to be burned together on the pyre, still made her blood boil.
Tywin Lannister entered the room without ceremony, his presence commanding as always, though there was a distinct chill in the air between them. Cersei didn’t turn to greet him. She didn’t need to—her father’s shadow always loomed over her, even when she wasn’t looking.
"You summoned me," Tywin said, his voice as measured and cold as ever. It wasn’t a question, but a simple statement of fact. He never spoke without a purpose, and Cersei knew he had no patience for games.
She didn’t respond right away, her eyes still fixed on the city below, the weight of her resentment pressing heavily on her chest. Finally, after a long silence, she spoke, her voice sharp and filled with the bitterness she had carried for so long. "I still don’t understand why you did it."
Tywin’s brow furrowed, though he didn’t move from where he stood. "Did what?"
Cersei turned then, her green eyes flashing with anger, with something that had festered in her for years. "Why you allowed Aerys and her to be burned together," she spat, the venom in her voice unmistakable. "Y/N Targaryen, the whore who thought she could cling to her father’s madness and get away with it."
Tywin’s expression didn’t change, though there was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "Watch your tone, Cersei," he warned, his voice low but firm. "I did what was necessary for the realm, as I always have."
Cersei laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. "Necessary for the realm? Or necessary for your own pride?" She took a step toward him, her hands tightening into fists at her sides. "You should have left their bodies to rot, to be thrown into the dirt like the traitors they were. But instead, you gave them the dignity of a pyre, as if they were worth something."
Tywin’s eyes darkened, and he stepped forward, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over Cersei. "I gave them a pyre because it was the right decision," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. "Aerys was the last Targaryen king, and Y/N was his daughter. Their deaths had to be handled with care, or the realm would have descended into chaos. The rebellion may have ended, but the legacy of the Targaryens was not something that could be dismissed so easily."
Cersei’s lips curled in disdain, her anger barely contained. "You gave them too much," she hissed. "Y/N deserved worse. She stood by Aerys, even as he destroyed everything, even as he lost his mind. She was no better than him. And yet, you allowed them to die together, to be honored as if they were some tragic lovers."
Tywin’s expression remained unreadable, though his gaze bore into her with cold intensity. "Y/N was a pawn in Aerys’ madness," he said, his voice calm but authoritative. "She was manipulated, used, and ultimately destroyed by her father’s obsession. Her death was part of a greater tragedy, one that needed to be handled delicately."
Cersei scoffed, shaking her head. "You speak of delicacy, but all I see is weakness. You could have crushed them completely—destroyed any trace of the Targaryen name. Instead, you gave them a pyre. You gave them dignity. And for what? For the sake of appearances?"
Tywin’s jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. "You forget your place, Cersei," he said coldly. "I made the decisions that were best for House Lannister and the realm. Do not presume to question me."
Cersei’s eyes blazed with fury, her resentment spilling over. "I will question you," she snapped. "Because you’ve never seen it from my side. You’ve never understood how much I hated her. Y/N, with her silver hair and violet eyes, thinking she could claim the love of a king and still be seen as innocent." Her voice trembled with rage, old wounds that had never healed. "She was no better than her father. And yet, you allowed them to be remembered together, as if their deaths were some tragic ending to a noble house."
Tywin’s gaze hardened, and he stepped closer to her, his voice low and dangerous. "Y/N’s death was a necessary part of ending the Targaryen reign," he said slowly, each word deliberate. "But even in death, she held a place of importance. The realm needed stability, and allowing her and Aerys to be burned together ensured that no one questioned the finality of their fall. The last of the dragons, reduced to ash."
Cersei’s lips twisted into a bitter sneer. "And yet you still gave them more honor than they deserved."
Tywin stared at her for a long moment, his eyes cold and calculating. "You let your hatred cloud your judgment, Cersei," he said quietly. "Y/N was nothing more than a victim of her father’s madness. Aerys destroyed everything, including her. But in the end, they were both just pieces in a larger game. A game I played, and won."
Cersei’s fists clenched at her sides, her heart pounding with the weight of her anger, her resentment, and the memories of all the years that had passed since that day. She had always hated Y/N—hated the way her father had shown her even a shred of respect, hated the way the Targaryens had been allowed to die with any semblance of dignity.
But she said nothing more. The conversation had reached its end, and as always, Tywin had the last word.
Tywin turned away from her, his expression unreadable as he walked toward the door. "Let this go, Cersei," he said, his voice quiet but commanding. "There is no point in clinging to old hatreds. The Targaryens are gone. We are the future of the realm."
As the door closed behind him, Cersei stood in the middle of the room, her chest heaving with the weight of her fury. She had hated Y/N then, and she hated her still—even in death. The pyre that had consumed the last of the Targaryen legacy had not been enough to quell the fire of her hatred.
And she knew, deep down, that it never would be.
Daenerys and Barristan
Daenerys found herself standing on the balcony of her chambers in Meereen, the warm breeze carrying the scent of the sea and distant fires from the city below. It was a strangely comforting smell, reminding her of her childhood in exile, of the nights spent staring out over the Narrow Sea, wondering what lay beyond. But tonight, her thoughts were far from comforting. The truth that had come to light—her true parentage—had set her mind spinning with questions and memories she had never thought to revisit.
It wasn’t just the knowledge of her parentage, but the way her mother had died—brutally, violently, in front of her father. The thought of it haunted her, and she had so many questions, questions only a few people might answer. And there was one person in her service who might have been there, who might know the truth of what happened on that fateful day.
She sent for Ser Barristan Selmy, the loyal knight who had served both her father and her family for years. He had been there, in King's Landing, in those final moments, she was certain of it. She needed to know what he had seen—what he could tell her about Y/N, her true mother.
When Ser Barristan entered her chambers, his expression was calm, though his eyes were laced with concern as he watched the girl returning inside. He had always been able to sense when something weighed on Daenerys’ mind. He bowed before her, his white hair gleaming in the candlelight.
"You sent for me, Your Grace?" he said, his voice steady, as always.
Daenerys nodded, gesturing for him to sit across from her. For a long moment, she simply studied him, wondering how to begin. Ser Barristan had always been forthright with her, but this was different. This wasn’t about strategy or battle. This was about the past—their shared history.
"Ser Barristan," she began softly, her voice carrying the weight of the question she was about to ask. "I have learned the truth… about my mother."
Barristan’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He nodded, as though he had expected this conversation eventually.
"I have been told that my true mother was not Queen Rhaella, but Y/N Targaryen," Daenerys continued, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "Is this true?"
The knight was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, with a slow breath, he nodded. "Yes, Your Grace," he confirmed. "Y/N was your true mother. Rhaella, your grandmother, raised you as her own after Y/N… after what happened in King’s Landing."
Daenerys felt her heart tighten at the mention of it. The story Viserys had told her of Y/N’s death was brutal, and though she had always imagined her father’s end, she hadn’t known the details until now. She looked down at her hands, suddenly feeling small in the enormity of the truth she had uncovered.
"And what happened to her?" she asked softly, her voice filled with quiet sorrow. "Were you there, Ser Barristan, when she was killed?"
There was a pause, and Daenerys dared to glance up at him. The old knight’s eyes were filled with something she rarely saw in him—regret, deep and profound. He shifted in his seat, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, and he spoke slowly, deliberately.
"I was in King's Landing when it happened," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of memory. "But I was not there in the throne room when your mother was killed. By the time I arrived, the Lannisters had already breached the Red Keep, and the city had fallen into chaos. Jaime Lannister…" His voice tightened. "He killed your father. But it was Tywin Lannister’s men who killed your mother."
Daenerys’ breath caught in her throat, and she leaned forward slightly, hanging on his every word. "How?" she whispered, though the answer already chilled her.
Barristan’s face darkened. "Your mother was with child when it happened. She stood by Aerys’ side until the very end, trying to calm him, trying to stop the madness. But when the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep, one of Tywin’s men grabbed her, and… he slit her throat, right in front of Aerys. She died instantly."
Daenerys closed her eyes, her heart breaking at the thought. Her mother, Y/N, had died fighting for her family, standing by Aerys even as the world crumbled around them. And she had been pregnant, carrying another child—another sibling Daenerys would never know.
"And my father?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ser Barristan shifted again, his expression grim. "Your father… Aerys… he was consumed by madness at the end, Your Grace. He screamed for his pyromancer to burn the city, to destroy everything in a final act of defiance. But Jaime Lannister killed him before he could give the order." Barristan’s voice grew quieter, almost reverent. "He died holding your mother’s body, clinging to her even in death. When Tywin found them, he allowed their bodies to be burned together."
Daenerys sat back, her chest tight with the weight of everything she had just learned. Her mother and father, burned together on a pyre in the ruins of King’s Landing. It was a cruel, tragic end to a story she hadn’t even known was hers. She had been whisked away to Dragonstone, just an infant, and now, years later, she was finally learning the truth of her family’s downfall.
"They died together," she whispered, more to herself than to Barristan.
The knight nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. They did."
Daenerys stared into the flickering flames of the candle beside her, her heart aching with the loss of a mother she had never known, and the father she had never truly understood. The stories of her father’s madness had always been in conflict with the image she had carried of him—a dragon, fierce and proud. But now, knowing how he had clung to her mother in the end, she wondered if some part of him had still been capable of love, even in the depths of his madness.
"Thank you, Ser Barristan," she said quietly, her voice steadying as she processed everything. "For telling me the truth."
Ser Barristan rose from his seat, bowing his head respectfully. "You deserved to know, Your Grace. And I am sorry… for all that you have lost."
As he left the room, Daenerys remained seated, her mind swirling with the ghosts of her past. The truth had been revealed, but it did nothing to ease the ache in her heart. Her parents, her true parents, had died in a fire of madness and betrayal, and now the only thing left to her was the path forward—the one that would lead her back to Westeros, to the Iron Throne, where she could reclaim the legacy of House Targaryen.
And for Y/N, her true mother, she would rise from the ashes and make the realm remember the blood of the dragon.
Viserys and Illyrio
Viserys paced back and forth in the low lit room, the rich tapestries and fine silks draped over the walls doing little to calm the storm that had been brewing inside him for days. His heart beat heavily in his chest, anger simmering just beneath the surface as he mulled over the many slights and indignities he had suffered. But it wasn’t just the loss of his birthright that weighed on him tonight. It was something deeper, something far more unsettling.
He had always known that Illyrio Mopatis had secrets—he could see it in the man’s calculating eyes, in the way he spoke of the past with a vague, elusive familiarity. But what the magister had promised to reveal tonight went beyond anything Viserys had ever imagined.
"Are you ready to hear it, Your Grace?" Illyrio’s voice, smooth and persuasive, broke through Viserys’ thoughts. The large, imposing figure of the Pentoshi magister loomed nearby, his gold rings glinting in the candlelight as he poured two cups of wine. "The truth of your birth. Of who you truly are."
Viserys stopped pacing, his silver-gold hair falling into his eyes as he turned to face Illyrio. He had been impatient for this conversation, had demanded answers about his family, about the whispers that had haunted him since he was a boy. But now, standing on the edge of knowing, he felt an unexpected tremor of unease.
"What truth?" Viserys asked, his voice sharp but betraying the hint of uncertainty that had begun to creep into his mind. "What are you talking about, Illyrio?"
Illyrio handed Viserys one of the cups of wine, gesturing for him to sit. "Please, Your Grace. You should be seated for this."
Viserys remained standing for a moment, defiant, before slowly sinking into the chair, his eyes fixed on Illyrio. The magister took a seat across from him, his heavy frame settling into the cushions with a groan, his expression thoughtful.
"You were born as Viserys Targaryen," Illyrio began slowly, his voice gentle but deliberate. "You were told you are the son of King Aerys II and Queen Rhaella, the last true scions of the Targaryen line. That much is true in part, but not entirely."
Viserys narrowed his eyes, suspicion flaring up in his chest. "What do you mean ‘in part’? My father was Aerys. My mother was Rhaella. My sister, Daenerys—"
Illyrio raised a hand, silencing him. "Daenerys is your sister, yes. But your mother was not Rhaella. Nor was she Daenerys’ mother."
Viserys stared at him, his mind reeling. "What are you saying?"
Illyrio took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "Your true mother was Y/N Targaryen. Aerys’ daughter. She was your father’s… favorite."
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and Viserys felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath him. He stood abruptly, knocking the cup of wine from the table, the liquid spilling across the floor in a dark stain.
"That's impossible!" Viserys shouted, his voice trembling with rage and confusion. "Y/N was my sister, Aerys’ daughter—she couldn’t have been—" He stopped, unable to form the words, his mind a whirlwind of disbelief. "She wasn’t my mother."
Illyrio remained calm, his hands resting on his large belly as he watched Viserys process the revelation. "I know it’s difficult to accept, but it’s the truth. Y/N was your mother, and Aerys was both your father and your grandsire."
Viserys turned away, his hands running through his hair as his breath came in ragged gasps. It felt as though the world was spinning, as though everything he had ever known had been shattered in an instant. "And Daenerys?" he asked, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "Is she…?"
"She is Y/N’s daughter as well," Illyrio confirmed. "Y/N gave birth to Daenerys on Dragonstone, just as she had you. After the fall of King’s Landing, Varys whisked her away with you across the sea, to keep you both safe from Robert’s wrath."
Viserys collapsed back into the chair, his body trembling as he tried to make sense of the information. His mother… had been his sister. The thought made his stomach twist, his mind rebelling against the idea. Aerys, the father he had idolized as a child, the man who had been revered as the last true king of Westeros, had kept this dark truth from him all along.
After a long silence, Viserys turned to Illyrio, his voice quieter but filled with barely suppressed emotion. "Tell me how they died," he whispered, his hands clenching into fists. "Tell me the truth."
Illyrio sighed, his face taking on a somber expression. "Aerys was betrayed. You know that. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, drove a sword through his back as he gave the order to burn King’s Landing. But before Aerys was killed, Y/N…" Illyrio hesitated, as if the words were difficult to say.
Viserys’ heart pounded in his chest, his breath catching as he waited for the truth he had long feared.
"Y/N was killed first," Illyrio continued, his voice softer now, as though the memory pained him. "She stood by his side when Tywin Lannister’s men stormed the Red Keep. One of them… slit her throat. Aerys watched it happen."
Viserys swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as the weight of the words hit him like a blow to the chest. He could picture it—the Red Keep in chaos, fire and blood, his mother, his sister, standing before Aerys, her life snuffed out before his eyes. "And he… he didn’t stop it?"
"Aerys tried to fight," Illyrio said quietly, shaking his head. "He screamed for the pyromancer to burn the city, to destroy everything in a final act of madness, but Jaime Lannister killed him before the order could be given. Aerys died holding Y/N’s body in his arms. Even in death, he clung to her. When Tywin found them, he allowed their bodies to be burned together on a pyre, much to Robert Baratheon’s disgust."
Viserys was silent for a long time, the shock of it all settling over him like a suffocating weight. His mother—Y/N—had died in front of his father, and he had never known. He had never been given the chance to mourn her, to understand the truth of what had happened.
The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the crackling of the hearthfire. Illyrio watched Viserys carefully, knowing that the young Targaryen’s mind was now filled with questions, doubts, and a deep, simmering anger.
Finally, Viserys spoke, his voice low but filled with a quiet, burning intensity. "I will take back what is mine. For her. For all of us."
Illyrio nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And you will have your chance, Your Grace. The realm still remembers the dragon, even if it trembles at its memory."
But Viserys wasn’t listening anymore. His thoughts were consumed by the image of his mother and father—dying together in a ruined throne room, their legacy lost to fire and blood.
Joffrey and Margaery
The Sept of Baelor loomed over them as Joffrey guided Margaery through the grand, stone hallways, his footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors. The flickering light of candles cast long shadows across the walls, and the scent of incense hung heavy in the air. It was a place of reverence, where the bones and ashes of kings and queens were laid to rest, but there was something unsettling about Joffrey’s demeanor as he led his bride-to-be deeper into the heart of the sept.
Margaery, ever composed, smiled softly at her king as they walked, though she could sense the tension in his movements, the excited energy that simmered beneath his boyish grin. She had learned quickly how to read Joffrey, to anticipate his moods, and today, something darker lurked beneath the surface.
"This is one of my favorite places in the city," Joffrey said suddenly, his voice sharp and high with enthusiasm. "A place where the history of Westeros is written in bones and ash."
Margaery tilted her head, feigning interest. "It is a place of great history," she replied gently, her voice measured. "Many kings and queens are honored here."
Joffrey nodded, clearly pleased by her response. "Yes! The great monarchs of House Targaryen, those so-called dragons." He spat the word, a sneer twisting his lips as they approached a series of alcoves where urns were kept, marked with plaques of names long since forgotten by most. "They once ruled everything. Fire and blood, they said. But in the end, they burned like anyone else."
They stopped before an alcove near the end of the row, where two intricately carved urns were placed side by side. Joffrey’s smile widened as he gestured toward the urns, his voice filled with glee. "This is where they keep the ashes of the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, and his daughter, Y/N. They were burned together after Robert’s Rebellion. You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you?"
Margaery’s eyes lingered on the urns, her mind racing as she tried to follow Joffrey’s sudden shift in tone. She had heard the stories, of course—everyone had. But there was something unsettling in the way Joffrey spoke about it, as though it were a tale of triumph, of cruelty rewarded. She smiled softly, keeping her voice calm. "Yes, Your Grace. They are well-known."
Joffrey laughed, the sound sharp and jarring in the quiet of the sept. "But do you know the real story?" he asked, his eyes gleaming with a cruel light. He took a step closer to the urns, his voice lowering conspiratorially, as though sharing a secret meant only for her. "Aerys was mad, of course. Everyone knows that. He wanted to burn the entire city, to let the wildfire consume everything. But it wasn’t just him, you know."
He gestured toward the urn that held Y/N’s ashes, his smile twisting into something darker. "His daughter, Y/N, she was just as mad as he was. She stood by him, loyal to the end. They say she loved him in ways a daughter shouldn’t love her father. It’s sickening, isn’t it?"
Margaery swallowed, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her gown as she tried to keep her expression neutral. "That… is not how I have heard the story," she said carefully, her voice measured.
Joffrey waved a hand dismissively. "Of course not. They want to make her a victim, but she wasn’t. She stood by him, even when the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep. When Tywin’s men found her, she was still defending that madman, even though he was raving about burning them all alive." He leaned in closer, his eyes wide with glee as he recounted the tale. "Do you know what they did to her?"
Margaery shook her head slightly, her heart pounding in her chest as she realized where this was going.
"They slit her throat right in front of him," Joffrey said with a grin, as if sharing a delightful joke. "Aerys was covered in her blood, holding her like she was his lover. And even then, all he cared about was burning the city. Can you imagine? Watching your daughter die in your arms, and all you can think about is setting everything on fire."
Margaery’s breath caught, her stomach twisting in revulsion at the way Joffrey seemed to take pleasure in the gruesome details. He stepped back, looking at the urns as if they were trophies, a reminder of his family’s triumph over the Targaryens.
"They burned together, in the end," Joffrey continued, his voice gleeful. "Grandsire had their bodies placed on the same pyre, like some tragic love story. Isn’t that sweet?" His smile faded for a moment, replaced by a scowl. "But they weren’t lovers. They were mad. And they died like the madmen they were."
Margaery forced a smile, her mind racing as she tried to keep her composure. "A tragic end, indeed," she said softly, her voice betraying none of the turmoil she felt inside.
Joffrey’s mood shifted again, his smile returning as he turned to her, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "One day, I’ll be the one they remember, Margaery," he said, his voice filled with pride. "The one who put an end to the last of the dragons."
He reached out, taking her hand in his, the pressure of his grip uncomfortably tight. Margaery smiled up at him, her heart pounding, knowing full well that Joffrey’s thirst for cruelty and power would only grow with time. But she had learned how to play this game, how to survive in the dangerous world she had chosen to inhabit.
"As you should be, Your Grace," she said softly, her voice smooth and practiced. "You will be remembered as the greatest king Westeros has ever known."
Joffrey beamed at her words, his grip loosening just enough for her to pull her hand away without him noticing. He turned back to the urns, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, as if the ashes of Aerys and Y/N were nothing more than relics of a forgotten era—one that had been crushed beneath the weight of the Iron Throne.
And as they left the Sept of Baelor, Margaery couldn’t shake the cold knot of dread that had settled deep in her stomach, knowing that Joffrey’s thirst for power and cruelty would only continue to grow.
The servents
The soft murmur of servants echoed through the halls of the Red Keep as the younger attendants went about their duties, the clang of dishes and the shuffle of feet filling the air. In the far corner of the kitchen, an older servant, her back bent with age, quietly polished a stack of silver plates. Her movements were slow but precise, the wisdom of years in her every gesture. Her gnarled hands moved with practiced ease, though her eyes—cloudy with age—seemed far away, as though seeing something beyond the present.
A younger servant, a girl no older than sixteen, stood nearby, wiping her hands on her apron nervously. She had been with the royal household for only a short while and had heard the whispers, the stories that floated through the Red Keep like ghosts from another time. But today, with her curiosity gnawing at her, she decided to speak.
She stepped closer to the old servant, her voice hesitant as she broke the silence. "Old Nan," she said, addressing the woman with the name the younger servants had given her, though her real name had been long forgotten by many. "Is it true? What they say about the Mad King and his daughter?"
Old Nan paused for a moment, her hands stilling over the silver plate in her lap. She didn’t look up immediately, but the girl could see the tension in her fingers, the way they tightened just slightly over the plate. When she finally spoke, her voice was raspy, like the creak of old wood, but there was a weight to her words, a heaviness that made the younger girl lean in closer.
"You’ve been listening to the wrong sorts of people, child," Old Nan muttered, setting the plate down with a soft clink. "There’s always been talk about the Targaryens. Fire and blood, they say. And madness runs in their veins, or so the lords and ladies tell themselves."
The younger servant bit her lip, shifting nervously. "But… I’ve heard the other servants say strange things. About King Aerys. And his daughter, Y/N. They say…" She hesitated, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "They say she wasn’t just his daughter. That he… did things to her. That she stood by him even when he went mad."
Old Nan finally looked up, her eyes narrowing as she studied the girl. There was a long, heavy silence before she spoke again, this time with more steel in her voice. "Be careful what you say, girl," she warned. "There’s truth in some tales, but not all of it."
The younger girl swallowed hard, but she pressed on. "But you were here, weren’t you? You served in the Red Keep when King Aerys ruled. You must have seen things."
Old Nan sighed, her eyes drifting to the distant shadows of the kitchen, as if the past were playing out in front of her once again. "Aye," she said quietly. "I was here. I served him, just like all the others. But what I saw… it’s not a story you’d want to hear."
The younger servant’s heart pounded in her chest, but her curiosity was stronger than her fear. "Please," she whispered. "I need to know."
Old Nan was silent for a long moment, her mind clearly caught in the web of memories she had long tried to forget. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, as though she were afraid the walls might hear her.
"King Aerys was mad, that much is true," she said slowly. "He was once a proud man, a king with ambition, but something dark took hold of him in the later years. He trusted no one. He saw enemies everywhere, even among his closest friends. The burnings…" She shook her head, her voice trailing off. "I saw them. I saw what he did to those who displeased him. He called it justice, but it was madness, plain and simple."
The younger girl shivered at the thought of the burnings, of the terrible things she had heard whispered about the Mad King’s cruelty.
"And what about Y/N?" the girl asked softly. "What happened to her?"
Old Nan’s expression hardened, and for a moment, it looked as though she wouldn’t answer. But then, slowly, she began to speak again. "Y/N…" she said, her voice heavy with something deeper than just sorrow. "She was the light of the court once. A beauty, they said. The jewel of the Targaryen line. But she was her father’s daughter, through and through. He doted on her, more than was proper, more than was right. She could do no wrong in his eyes."
The younger servant leaned in, her breath catching in her throat. "Did he… love her? In that way?"
Old Nan’s gaze darkened. "He loved her in a way no father should love his daughter," she said bluntly, her tone sharp. "There were rumors, of course. Whispers in the halls, behind closed doors. But it wasn’t until the rebellion, when the end came, that the truth became clear."
The girl’s hands trembled slightly, but she couldn’t stop now. "What happened in the throne room? Is it true… that they died together?"
Old Nan’s face twisted with a mixture of anger and sadness. "Aye. They died together. But it wasn’t some grand tragedy, no matter what the lords and ladies say. When the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep, they found Y/N standing by her father’s side, even as he raved about burning the city. She stood by him until the end, just like he wanted. One of Tywin’s men slit her throat right in front of him. She was with child when it happened."
The girl gasped, her heart pounding in her chest. "She was pregnant?"
Old Nan nodded grimly. "Aye. With Aerys’ child, no doubt. She was loyal to him until the very end, even when it cost her everything."
The younger servant’s stomach turned at the thought, her mind racing with the terrible realization of what had truly happened in that throne room all those years ago.
"And King Aerys?" the girl asked, her voice trembling.
Old Nan’s gaze fell to the floor. "He died holding her body," she said quietly. "Even in death, he clung to her like she was all that was left of his madness. Jaime Lannister put an end to him, but by then, Aerys was already lost."
The younger girl felt a cold shiver run down her spine, the weight of the truth settling over her like a heavy cloak. She had heard the stories, the rumors, but to hear it from someone who had been there, who had seen it all unfold—there was a horror in it that words could barely capture.
Old Nan sighed, her hands resuming their slow, methodical polishing of the silver plates. "The Targaryens were fire and blood, child," she said softly, her voice filled with the weariness of age. "But sometimes, that fire burns too bright. And when it does, it consumes everything in its path."
The younger servant stood in stunned silence, her mind reeling from what she had just learned. The story of the Mad King and his daughter was not just a tale of madness—it was a tragedy born of twisted love and the ruin it brought to those who lived in its shadow.
As she turned to leave the kitchen, the weight of the past heavy on her shoulders, Old Nan’s voice called out to her once more.
"Remember this, girl," she said quietly, her eyes dark and solemn. "No matter how much fire you carry in your blood, it always leaves ashes behind."
ʚɞ synopsis: a tale between the last two dragons of House Targaryen, and the end of the world.
I of VII
276 A.C.
. . . . THE GODSWOOD LISTENED intently as Rhaegar strung the strings of his harp, humming the first notes of the song he was beginning to form in his mind. He liked the quiet. He composed better under the silence of these woods, with no one but the the nameless gods of the forest privy to his music. It made it more . . . sacred. He loved it here.
The tip of his tongue touched his upper teeth, a flow of soft melodies tumbling from his lips. His eyes were closed, cheeks kissed by the sunlight slanting through the canopy of the oakwoods. He was surrounded by Dragon's Breath, their crimson faces turned up to watch him in audience.
Rhaegar didn't hear it at first, the soft shuffling behind him. He had an ability to drown out the rest of the world when he held his harp, leaving only him and his songs, so his eyes parted open when his breath was suddenly knocked from his lungs, sending his instrument flying forth.
Soft lips, round as rosebuds, brushed his pale, moon-shaped ear.
"Found you, Rhae."
He looked up. A face floated above him beneath the sun, light crowning her silver curls from behind. She smiled at him, her lilac eyes twinkling with mirth.
"Nyra," he muttered.
Rhaenyra grinned wider and crouched over him, her locks brushing his cheekbones. She had beautiful hair. He remembered the many times he sat by the windows of their childhood bedchamber, watching their mother brush his sister's head. The curls that rolled from her scalp shone as bright as a polished breastplate, braided and ironed into tight ringlets that smelled of peonies and cherries.
His sister took great pride in her mane, believing that it was the true crown of a Targaryen. She argued that anything other than that is false claim.
"I was searching for you," she said. "I was growing bored playing cards with Lady Staunton and her women."
"You were never one to hold up shallow courtesies," he smiled.
He knew her as he would know his own mind. They were born together, shared the same womb, the same face. He had seen how she would begin squirming when the leash tied upon her neck began to tighten, and would bark at the slightest tug of it.
"I'm not you, Rhae," she answered. "But perhaps you do not need to offer your courtesies. They come to you. The world is in love with Rhaegar Targaryen and his poetry."
He chuckled. "You flatter me, sister."
"Oh you flatter yourself, brother. That was scorn," she snorted aloud, leaning against her elbows on the soft grass. Her gown was lighter in these days under the heat of summer; a low bodice sewn with small dancing dragons, silken skirts that rode up her pale legs as she crossed them over Rhaegar's own. "I'd prefer to face my death bare-breasted in the fighting pits of Meereen than sing for a court who seeks to take down my house."
He hummed, his fingers skimming her calf. He could see the faint blue veins trailing beneath the translucent skin. "Perhaps that is why the gods had you born into a girl, Nyra. They knew tongues could destroy dynasties that have stood for thousands of years . . . or make them."
The dragons of House Targaryen were slain because of words. He had read it well in the great volumes of Maester Munkun. It was the rants of the one-handed Shepherd that shook the caves of the Dragonpit down and crashed the stone ceilings upon Queen Rhaenyra's beasts.
Words have a power to them sharper than any Valyrian blade. It cuts.
But his sister begs to differ.
"They made me a girl because they don't want another Maegor and Aenys between us," she grinned at him, kicking his side playfully. Rhaegar groans, grabbing her ankle to drag her closer to him. She shrieks.
Rhaegar leaned over her, his own stream of pale silver locks curving down his jaw. His shadow was casted over her.
"Would you kill me, Nyra?" He whispered, looking down at her.
She stared at him. She smiled. "I would."
Rhaenyra nuzzled their identical noses together and squealed before pushing him away with a single hand. Rhaegar stumbled back, watching her sprint away on light feet. He grinned and stood to rush after her.
The path she left was filled with giggles and brittle oak leaves that seemed to sigh from her feet. She was as nimble as a bird more than a dragon. Rhaegar chased after her, dizzy from the way she spun around treetrunks then jumped over narrow streams.
Rhaenyra was a hurricane of silver curls and red, airy skirts. She gave him flashes of her grin, daring him to capture her.
"You call yourself the Last Dragon?" She mocked aloud. "Where are your wings, Rhae? Did they crumble from sitting in the libraries for far too long?"
Rhaegar smiled breathlessly, his heart flaring in challenge. Her jest only served to fasten his legs, and she knew this. "Folded, Nyra, just like you will be when i get you."
She was his twin, the reflection and his opposite. When she leaped over a Dragon's Breath shrub, he took a turn. Rhaenyra gasped. She landed on into his chest, both of them falling onto the soil. She tried to flee but Rhaegar had his arms fastened around her mid-drift.
"You're evil," she hissed.
"You're heavy."
She gasped and slapped his shoulder in offense. "I'll have your head for this, Rhae."
Rhaegar smiled. "And I would have your lips, Nyra."
He tilted his head up, rolling his mouth onto her own.
"Lay down your hand, Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen."
"I place upon the table the ring of my grandmother, Queen Shaera Targaryen's ring, Lady Ashara of House Dayne."
Rhaenyra made her proclamation through a fit of stiffled giggles. Her lady mother was only a few feet away from where she and Ashara sat on the carpets, bent over a bowl of sugared nuts. She glanced over her shoulder furtively.
Queen Rhaella wasn't even looking at them, too occupied on cradling the little babe in her pale, frail arms, with a handmaid tending to her. She had just given birth weeks earlier. A boy. A Viserys. Rhaenyra had crinkled her nose at the name, saying she preferred something like Aemon or Aenar.
Viserys sounds cranky, mama, She had complained.
But her lady mother only chuckled, telling her that it was her lord father's choice to give that name to her brother. Rhaenyra could only chortle. It wasn't among his father's best decisions - and he hadn't made some for quite some time.
Rhaenyra returned to Ashara, readily twisting her grandmother's ring past a long, pointed finger. It was of gold mold, with a trail of gleaming red sapphires curling around it like dragon tail.
She didn't mind how high the cost. She wanted what Ashara had to offer - a silver necklace of pearls and deep purple amethysts. It was pretty. It's the reason why she challenged Ashara in the first place.
"Ready?" Ashara grinned.
"Ready."
Rhaenyra leaned back as she watched the girl pick out a particularly small nut from the bowl. It wasn't fair. Small nuts are smaller targets. But Rhaenyra refused to complain. She could take on anything.
Now, Rhaenyra had caught three nuts and had lost four golden dragons, and the same count for Ashara.
Ashara pursed her lips and narrowed those violet eyes in concentration, the sugared nut poised between two fingers. Rhaenyra waited, biting her lip. She threw it.
Like a baby bird waiting for her mother's worm, Rhaenyra followed the arch of the nut and lunged forward, only to feel it slip past the corner of her mouth. No!
She gasped. Ashara gasped.
"To the victor, the spoils," Ashara smirked, reaching for Queen Shaera's ring. Rhaenyra seized her wrist.
"Again," she demanded. I want that necklace.
Ashara stuck her tongue out. "You lost."
Rhaenyra fumed in outrage. "I -!"
"What are you girls doing there, snickering like mice?"
Rhaenyra turned to her mother as if she was a girl again, caught stealing lemoncakes from her brother's plate. Her mother was raising her silver brow at her, taking in her flushed cheeks.
"Nothing," Rhaenyra stood up, briefly sending Ashara a glare, then padded to the Queen's bedside. "I was playing with Ashara, mama. She was being mean."
Her mother was propped up against her velvet pillows, her silver hair bound loosely. She looked weary, paler than before. Rhaenyra could see she still hasn't recovered from Viserys' birth . . . or the stillbirths that came before him.
The handmaid had moved out of the chair for Rhaenyra to take, but she sat by her mother's hip, peering over the swaddles her mother held. Viserys was a small child with the wrinkled faces of newborns. A faint whisp of white hair fizzed atop his pink head. A tight frown curved his little mouth. He takes after their father, gods have mercy.
"Where's my mother's ring, child?"
Rhaenyra's eyes widened. "With Ashara."
Rhaella raised a brow, casting a glance ar the other girl in the bedchamber. Ashara had her back turned, already admiring the way the jewel adorned her hand.
"Don't worry, though," she smiled. "I'll get it back."
Along with that necklace, of course. Ashara best barre her doors starting tonight.
"I know," her mother sighs. "Tell me, have you finished preparing for the journey?"
Rhaenyra nodded. "It wasn't that hard, telling serving girls which gown to stuff into the chests. It was more enjoyable than I thought actually."
This displeased her mother. Rhaenyra could see it by the way the sides of her chapped lips curved down.
"But I took special care, I did," Rhaenyra was quick to promise. "You should see it for yourself, mama. I only bought the ones you wanted me to bring."
And others, too.
Queen Rhaella nodded. "Good. I put my faith in you to behave, my sweet girl. I will not be there to temper you."
"What good is a tourney in your honor when you're not there, anyway?" Rhaenyra complained. "Or the babe. It's madness. And meaningless."
"I could not even if I wished to," the Queen reached to brush a stray curl from her daughter's temple. "That is why you must stand in my place in Lannisport and wear the jewels of our house. Be Targaryen enough for you and your father," her voice dropped. "That way, they won't notice his . . . grievances too much."
Rhaenyra puffed her cheeks. "But Rhaegar will be there for that."
Her brother's brilliance was a redeeming quality for their house. It helps, so she won't grudge him for that.
"Down in the lists with his horse and his lance," her mother answered. "It falls upon you, daughter. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, mama."
The Queen nodded. Rhaenyra senses her trust. Her mother knew she could never stay away from the eye of the feast. This was one of the few tasks Rhaenyra could be relied with.
Against her mother's breast, her baby brother squirmed, his frowning little mouth wiggling in the starts of a cry. "I want to hold him. May I hold him?"
The Queen carefully lifted the babe into Rhaenyra's arm. The feeling of it was odd. She had held many infants before - those of ladies who vied the blessing of the Princess for their children. But this . . . It almost made Rhaenyra recoil. She remembered the one born only two years ago.
Jaehaerys was his name. She and Rhae had chosen it themselves. It was like this one, no different. Her father had been so happy - something even rarer than Dragoneggs. It died though. The cost was the head of a wetnurse, as father ordered.
It's like holding a corpse.
"You can have him back, mama," Rhaenyra slid the babe back unto her mother.
Her mother had been staring with something in her gaze. "Motherhood becomes you."
"As a dress becomes a toad," she remarked. The Queen was about to speak against that so Rhaenyra instantly kissed her hollowed cheek and spun towards Ashara. "I'm going, mama. I'll see you on the morrow before the party leaves."
Rhaenyra dragged Ashara out of the chambers, as swift as a raven across the halls of Maegor's holdfast.
Rhaenyra was leaning across the covered bridge overlooking the sparring yards, nibbling on a piece of lemoncakes she snuck from a passing serving girl. Ashara stood at her side, watching the duel below.
It was between the Sword of the Morning and the Prince of Dragonstone, between the brothers of Rhaenyra and Ashara.
Rhaenyra eyed Rhaegar closely. He was breathless but exultant, his long silver hair slashing across the air as he twirled and twisted from the steady counters of Ser Dayne, his pale, unblemished face a lake of calm.
He fought as he would dance. There was no more graceful creature in the kingdoms than he, though she would die rather than admit that. Sometimes she thinks he's more of a woman than she is.
"What do you think of my brother, Ashara?"
Ashara raised a brown brow. "The Prince? I think of him as the rest of Westeros would think of him. He'll save us all."
Rhaneyra rolled her eyes. "You're being conventional. What else?"
"What else is there to say, Princess?" She shrugged. "How long has it been since a man as he had been born since Aegon? The smallfolk look to him. The houses look to him. You're the only one who doesn't."
She frowned, resting her jaw on her knuckles. Below, Rhaegar raised his steel against Ser Dayne's own, landing a quick blow that had the kingsguard staggering from his steadfast stance.
"Perhaps," Rhaenyra reflected. She had grown with Rhaegar. She came into the world with him by her side, had taken her first steps with him by her hip. She had seen so much of him that she need not look. "But he's not Aegon. No, never."
Ashara tilted her head. "Then who is he?"
Ser Dayne had recovered from the shock. Of course he did. He's the Sword of the Morning. He lunged forward.
. . . But her brother is the Last Dragon.
Rhaegar swept to the side and bent low, his lilac eyes narrowed, to deliver a gale that would've sliced his opponent's rib if he hadn't stopped half a finger away. Ser Dayne throws his sword in surrender.
Rhaenyra saw her brother smile, straightening to stand. He claps Arthur's back proudly. Such a pretty smile he has.
As if he could feel her eyes on him, Rhaegar looked up from the yards to the covered bridge. Lilac met lilac. The same shade, the same shape.
"He's Rhaegar," Rhaenyra said quietly and pushed herself from the balustrade. "Come, I want more lemoncakes.”
Rhaenyra had woken before the dawn rose. She had always been like this before a long journey. Restless. The night before, she had eaten only thin gruel and a bit of cherries in fears of retching in the kingsroad to the West. She remembered pressing herself to her lady mother's side in the wheelhouse, biting her lip moments before she emptied her stomach onto Lady Joanna's gold-and-red skirts.
Ashara still slept fitfully on the sheets. Sometimes Rhaenyra would mistake her for her brother, who she had shared a bed with since they were but babes in a cradle. Her mother said it wasn't long until Rhaenyra would cry when Rhaegar was lifted from her side.
It was at their twelfth year that their chambers were separated, but it was only until their sixteenth year that she stopped leaving her chambers barefoot to crawl into his bed. They slept as they had in the womb: curled into the other.
Rhaenyra brushed her curls with an ivory comb, staring at the mirror. In one of those nights, their hands had began to roam and to grope. Her hands, exactly. Then Rhaegar's. And then their lips, until their fingers found hot, shadowed places that made them gasp.
She frowned at the memory. She didn't know why.
Careful not to disturb Ashara, she dressed herself in a satin gown of black and red, the sleeves gashed down to the floors. Rhaegar would say it wasn't practical for riding, but she'd be in the wheelhouse with her father. Unpleasantly so, but she liked that better than having sore legs from riding on days on end.
Rhaenyra left her chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, deciding she'll visit her lady mother later, to cross the drawbridge. The Red Keep was a honeycomb of restive bees preparing for the King's journey to Lannisport. Serving girls carrying sacks lowered their eyes at Rhaenyra, and squires fetching their knights' packs bowed.
She found herself mounting the steps to the tower of the great library, wondering why Grand Maester Pycelle's rigid bones hadn't already cracked from such an effort. She wished it would.
The door was heavy and bound with iron. She pushed it, the smell of dust and moth-eaten yellow pages greeting her straight nose. It was dark, with only a faint light radiating off the wax candle on the table.
Rhaneyra saw the glint of a fine jaw in the darkness, the flutter of silvery lashes, the set of a firm mouth that muttered as he read. "Rhae?"
Rhaegar looked up from the book he was buried in, a hand wedged deep into his silver locks. It made him appear disheveled, but nothing could really make him look thus, with that pretty, pretty face.
"Nyra," he called.
If she has a knack of waking early before a journey, he doesn't sleep at all. Most wouldn't believe but Rhaegar was more restless than she is. His mind is always wandering - yet somehow, he's always there when she is.
"What are you reading?" She sauntered to his side, braiding a thin lock of her hair. She peered over his shoulder, his scent of mint leaves and steel reaching her.
"You know the one."
She hummed, recognising the old, crisp pages of the Book of Lost Books. It was written by Marwyn the Mage, if he's even real (Rhaegar said he is, but Rhaenyra said otherwise. She believed old nasty men shouldn't exist).
It was something she always found in Rhaegar's hands, something she refused to get close to. She thought it was too eerie. Too strange. In the contents, Rhaegar said the maester had read three pages of the Signs and Portents. Visions of Daenys the Dreamer.
She frowned. And you really believe that?
What choice do I have? It's the only thing we have, he answered a long time ago.
Rhaenyra poked her tongue against her cheek. "The same page?"
"The same," he smiled wearily.
Rhaegar reached out to wrap his arms around his sister's hips, muttering for her to come here, to pull her into his lap. But she frowned and sat on the edge of the table, her legs between his own.
"How long do you think we'll have to stay in the west?" She asked him.
"As long as father wills," Rhaegar replied, running a hand through his scalp. "I thought you wanted to see the westerlands. You wanted to discover if gold grows on their dogs instead of fleas."
She scrunched her nose. "No," she grinned, leaning close to his face. "I want to see the bane of Tywin Lannister."
Rhaegar gave her a skeptical look. "I doubt our gracious host would appreciate that notion."
"Oh he won't," Rhaenyra chuckled. "But who cares? People say the child has fangs and three horns, with an ox tail on his ass."
"Don't be cruel."
"Am I?" She feigned, shrugging. "It's exciting . . . seeing a monster."
Rhaegar sighed, his slender hands rubbing the smooth bones of her hips. "What would you know of monsters, Nyra? Have you seen one yourself?"
"No but we tamed them," she argued. "And rode them across the skies to the end of the world."
"Dragons aren't monsters," he defended. "Why would you think that?"
"Because," Rhaenyra drawled, tracing the shape of his jaw. "It takes a monster to know a monster, and a god to a god."
He was incredulous at her words, shaking his head. "You're preposterous. A blasphemer. A -"
"Monster?" She teased, rubbing their noses together. "That I am, Rhae."
"Then it makes me that too," he claimed. "I, your twin. Your flesh. Your blood. Everything that is you is I, and everything that is I is you."
She felt a stirring within her. She leaned back from him, their eyes never straying from the other. The candle flickered, casting a shadow over the stone walls. A shadow that made them appear one. A single entity with strange features - wings, horns, a long tail.
"Not everything, Rhaegar," she stood up from the table, leaving him. She bent her head over the book. It was written in High Valyrian. "Azor Ahai is only a single man."
He seemed to quiet, the air around them filled with the whispering knowledge of the thousands of volumes that had been there before they were even concieved.
"He had Nissa Nissa," he said.
"Right. Nissa Nissa," she commented wryly and pressed her cheek to his. "No need to bring me in the saga, Rhae. You are Azor Ahai. You don't need anyone."
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