ź§ ź±Źį“āź± É¢į“į“ į“ Źį“Źź°ŹÉŖį“É“į“
į“É“Źį“”į“Ź ź§
āāā
Yandere!House Of The Dragon x Reader ā
āā
ććā” šµšššššš½šš¹ šÆš ššššš½ššā” ļ½” ć
ą£ āą¹ ą£ āI'd take them all out any day āą¹ ą£ ā
å½”ā® Aegon Targaryen | Ų§ŪŚÆŁŁ ŲŖŲ§Ų±ŚÆŲ±ŪŁ
He can feel you crawling deep within his brain, slithering between his thoughts, coiling, tighter and tighter, until all he can see is your silhouette haunting his half-lucid stupor. Your essence is cathartic, a balm left on his heavy heart. Yet your absence itches, a longing ringing throughout his bones. His fingers reach, grasping for your ghost, a bad habit he canāt stifle. He covets every part of you, your face, your cadence, your body. The council drowns on, theyāre supposed to be at war. But he canāt shake you. He needs you.
You smiled at him at dawn, the rays of the rebirthing sun casting you in an ethereal halo. He can feel himself suffocating. Heart in his throat as his weary eyes fill with longing, with devotion. You have a life outside the Red Keep, that fact makes Aegon want to claw out his own eyes. The thought of someone else touching your soft hands, of kissing your soft lips, of holding you and breathing you in. It drives him mad, it makes him scream. Your vice grip refuses to relent.
You look so small, so fragile, bowing before his throne. Begging for your husbandās life as the Lord Commanderās sword hovers above his throat. Aegonās lips split into a delighted smile, he watches relief shimmer over your features before waving his hand. The sword collides with flesh and bone, splitting, blood pools at your knees, speckles across your face. Aegon notes how pretty you look in red. He saunters down the throne steps, gibby and careful, like heās approaching an ensnared creature, your eyes never once raise to him, your smile, your hope all erased. No matter, heāll be sure to return them tenfold, heāll do anything and everything to make you happy. He weighs your face in his palm, tilting your chin up. His eyes meet yours, solace nips at his heart, at his mind. Aegon breathes, it feels like the first breath heās ever taken. He has you, he finally has you. Ā
āā”ā Aemond "One Eye" Targaryen | Ų§ŪŁ
ŁŁŲÆ "ŲŖŚ©āŚŲ“Ł
" ŲŖŲ§Ų±ŚÆŲ±ŪŁ
He can taste marrow between his teeth, yours or the suitors he isnāt entirely sure. He lounges by the windowsill, peeling and poking at his fingers with his heirloomed Valyrian dagger. Violet eye surveying the men gathered in your fatherās great hall. Melting into a glare once they fall upon the new man standing before you. Spinning poems of your enchanting beauty. He isnāt wrong, far from it, you are the greatest beauty Aemond has ever seen, a sweetling with the kindest heart, and yet Aemond still wishes to wring the manās neck for having the gall to gaze upon you so shamelessly. Dragons do not share, they claim and keep and harbour. They burn those insolent enough to approach whatās theirs.
He can take out all these suitors,
Tear them open with his sword,
Ten at a time he doesnāt care. Heāll take them all on, spill their blood in pretty patterns under your watchful eyes.
He can ruin their lives with a halfhearted remark,
He can burn down their legacies with a breath from Vhagar.
He can prove to you that he is all you need. That your heart can only ever belong to him. That he will guard you from every other creature in this cruel world.
There is a massacre at his feet, limbs detached and bodies broken. He pushes you closer to his chest, sucking the shell of your ear as he offers whispers of comfort to ease your frantic lament. āSh sh shh, they had to go, sweetling, they were stealing your attention from me.ā He wipes your tears with his thumb, pinching your red cheek before wiping your salty tears on his tongue. His nose glides across your jaw as his lips kiss sweetly over your neck. Suckling on your delect skin until it blooms purple. Your fists slam into his hips, his thighs, his stomach. But the pain only makes him smirk along your flesh. Something slides along your shoulders, leaving a burning, painful trail in its wake. You can't tell if the sting originates from the cold or sharpness. āYouāll be mine soon,ā Aemond mumbles. āI will mar you in my blood, we shall be married by the ancient Valyrian traditions. And when I am king, you shall rule by my side. As my beloved queen, dearest.ā
āš¤ā Helaena Targaryen | ŁŁŁŲ§ ŲŖŲ§Ų±ŚÆŲ±ŪŁ
There is a sort of sour desperation tucked under Helaenaās whimpering lilt. She buries her face in your side, wide, glossy purple eyes staring up at your hopeless visage. āYou canāt just leave me,ā she reasons, her voice snagging on a rogue sob, hands clinging to your fabrics as if they were spun of her lifeline. Your fingers slip between her snowy locks, a small mercy, the only one you can provide. Her trembling lips peck at the skin of your neck, clumsy and uncertain. āWe can fly away on Dreamfyreā¦live in the Godāswood and raise chickens, tame beesā¦we could be happy.ā But your silence only evokes more royal tears.
Helaena pleads her case to her mother, her grandsire, her brothers. Someone will take pity on dear sweet Helaena. Someone will do away with that wretched vermin whoās all so desperate to steal you away from her. But if that isnāt enough, if truly greater powers are at play, power-hungry humans have a tendency to tear and sew as they please. If the universe itself has turned its back on her as it so often seems to do, she may just have to accidentally drop her Lonomia obliquaās cage by your bethrodedās room. And prepare herself to consult her dearest friend on the marrow.
And that night she dreams of kissing your lips, of the sweet sting that comes from your nails racking down her shoulders. That night she dreams of pushing a dragonfly born from her teeth into your mouth. Propelling its tail with her tongue until the insect lodges in your throat.
ĖŹÉĖ Daeron Targaryen | ŲÆŲ§ŪŲ±ŁŁ ŲŖŲ§Ų±ŚÆŲ±ŪŁ
It is innocent enough this crush of his, even if a sliver of doubt ensnares his heart, you look so happy and free, reading by the willow tree, while he rots in his own blood. āIt is a sin, this pursuit of her,ā Ormound reminds him, āHer hand belongs to another,ā and yet whenever Daeron hears those words, his body lurches, an adverse reaction to a reality he canāt allow to sink in. You have to be his, he just knows it.
There is a familiarity about you, a homecoming clad tightly against your bones. Daeron knows you, his soul and body know you, he likes to think in a past life you had been dragons born in the same clutch. Candles lit from the same flame. Maybe thatās why he tries to hide you in his room, to lock the door and cradle you close. āYou canāt leave me,ā he implores against the soft skin of your cheek.
He can almost fool himself into believing itās a kiss.
āI canāt, I canāt live without you, not alone, not againā. Itās late day when Ormound finally breaks down the door. Green eyes tearing Daeron limb from limb. Daeron hides you behind him, vice grip on your wrist. A jejune attempt at playing knight, protecting the damsel from the monster. āYou canāt take her, please donāt take her,ā he pleads, sotto voce. āBut Daeron, Iām not the one taking her. She has been bethorde under the Divineās holy light.ā Daeronās nails dig into your skin, strangely soft. Everything about the poor boy is soft, broken. A pillow hallowed out, lying upon its own stuffing. āBut a true prince never yields what he covets,ā and the half smile Ormound offers makes bile churn in Daeronās throat.
He can feel a sort of exhaustion crashing over you like waves. He thinks itās born from your rebellious nature, from your need to always do the opposite of what youāre told. You knew what Ormound intended to make Daeron do. You knew you had run to save your betrothed. But it had been in vain. All you can do is watch in horror as Daeron skewers Ormoundās sword through your intendedās heart. The blood that splatters forward, landing along Daeronās brow, paints him Targaryen in every way. āDaeron,ā you whisper, voice so tired, so low, like youāre calling his name from the abyss. But the daring prince just looks away, reaching out until he grasps your wrists and drags you away. Swallowing his desperate sobs.
ā¹š ą£Ŗ ĖDalton Greyjoy | ŲÆŲ§ŁŲŖŁŁ ŚÆŲ±ŪāŲ¬ŁŪ
You had used his tunic to dry yourself off, as you followed him out of the ocean one day. Dalton swears his heart has never beat faster. He swears your beauty is some inhuman curse, wrangled from the depths to plague his maniacal heart. He had feigned an assault, used the excuse to slip his dagger beneath your chin and gaze into the endless waves of your eyes. Ā He wants to eat them, to taste your salt and savour it upon his tongue. You play along clumsily, licking the dagger in jest, but Dalton has to bite his lip to stifle a moan.
He catches your essence in the crystal blue water. A vision from the divine, projections from the deep. Ā In his mind's eye, he sees you holding him. He glares at the island castle that holds you, glares at the fortress he can not tear down to claim you. The salt and wind and drowned claw underneath his skin. He needs to have you. To hold you as youāre merged beneath the waves.
His nails etch devotion to you along his flesh. Whispers your name, watching the crimson liquid ripple. He laps at his blood, pretending itās yours, sweet and salty, like sea-salt caramel cookies, binding him to you, in life, in death, in after life.
Dalton flings open the oak doors to your mother's great hall, stalks past the crowd of undeserving suitors. Molten eyes fixed only on you. āPrincess,ā he quips, knees bent in a half bow, smirking as your eldest brother rolls his eyes. āHave these men all gathered to try and steal whatās mine?ā feigning an abomination between confusion and hurt as he straggles a brown curl around his finger. But the malice in his voice sweeps through, the raw sanguinary ecstasy.
āIf it pleases your grace, I have brought treasures from across the known world, for my love's hand.ā His men carry in chests, open them at your feet. Dalton offers you a crooked smile, your cheeks dust pink in an innocent blush. āI thank you for your offer, Lord Greyjoy. But as you can see.ā Your mother motions at the assembly. āMany others have also brought treasures and wealth in exchange for my daughterās -ā he doesnāt let her finish. āSo they wish to take what is rightfully mine?ā he repeats, voice low, like a child having just been scolded. Ā
He throws a look over his shoulder at the men. Ehe, he can take them all on any day. His neck creaks to one side, smirk growing larger, showing red-tainted teeth.
There is an ocean of blood flooding the great hall of Dragonstone. Dalton had taken great joy in the reaping. Your screams of terror only encourage his bloodlust. He likes this role, bloodthirsty shark, carving into a school of gullible fish.
He had sliced one suitor's throat with the manās own shield. Driven the dead manās sword into another suitorās lungs. Smashed a manās head between the mouths of a chest. His axe has kissed every one of your admirers before theyād even gotten the chance to kiss your hand. The blood laps at his ankles, heās twisting an intestine, presenting it to you as a hunting dog would present its kill to its master. āThey kinda look like tentacles, babe!!ā jejune giggles bubbling from his red lips. Someone screams, or maybe itās the castle itself screaming. The world shakes, he can hear the living trampling and tripping over the dead.
Amid the onslaught of terror, Dalton is quick to grab you, to flee the castle with you between his arms. At his ship, a knight tries to free you from the kraken. Dalton bludgeons the manās face on the side of his ship. By the time the ship has taken to sea, it is hard to see the man beneath all the gore. He looks every bit āThe red krakenā, every bit the nightmare people say he is. You had always known Dalton was crazy, but once, so utterly long ago it may as well have been another life, he had been your dearest friend, almost your brother. Now he was your capturer, the monster that stole away the damsel.
He wraps your fingers against his blade, holds your hand steady and thrusts the dagger into his thigh. Your essence is utterly cathartic. Sitting atop him, distress and anguish swimming across your pretty face. He drags your arm forward, thrusting the blade into his abdomen, a wanton moan escapes his lips, head thrown back. It slithers into your marrow, as your mouth floods with a sharp, acidic taste. He pulls you down by the back of your neck, smashing your lips upon his. He makes you taste your dead suitors, pushes his depraved, deformed love past your teeth and down your throat.
Youāre drowning in blood, drowning in him. There are tentacles inside your throat swimming deeper and deeper until theyāve ensnared your heart, your lungs, your bones. Until all you are, all youāll ever be is his.
ĖįƽĖ Daemon Targaryen | ŲÆŪŁ
ŁŁ ŲŖŲ§Ų±ŚÆŲ±ŪŁ
There is blood on his hands, deep crimson spreading behind chipped nails. He imagines slipping his bloodied fingers past your lips, pressing on your tongue and making you suck the gore away. He imagines kissing your lips and tasting nothing but blood, your loverās blood, your fatherās blood, blood of knights and handmaids and anyone else foolish enough to keep you away from him. His lilac gaze climbs up the side of your tower fortress, half blinded by the midday sun. An eerie chuckle crawls past his pink lips, did your father really believe he could give you to another? Did his brother really believe he could force him to settle for any other woman? Has no one retained anything from Balerionās escapades? Do they not recall how deadly dragon fire tends to be? Do they know they are not safe, will never be safe, hidden behind steel and brick?
The ache in his muscles buzzes to the melody of your name. Daemon has engraved your essence within his bones. Certain that you shall be his, that his arms are the only ones that will ever touch you. Certain that your heart will only ever beat for him.
Your bethorde's lips grace your temples as his hands squeeze your shoulders. āWe are safe here,ā he assures, palm pressing the side of your face until you look at him. His stiff nod is laced with optimistic confidence, a little too assured. That it comes out forced and fake. But you smile nevertheless the rogue prince has been married to another, and even he would not dare attack an ally of the crown. Your fatherās castle is safe, as are you and your lover.
The coolness of the glass upon your skin melts away your nerves as you bask in the silence, a sweet breeze allowing you to relapse into summer dreams of saccharine fecundity. Your eyes flutter open, Your heart leaps into your throat, erratic, petrified. There is a blot of red, spattered along the grass, it unravels, stretching infinitely long. Covering everything until all you see is a red like the last rays of the sun before it dies.
He has infiltrated the castle, he is within your walls, lurking. He may as well be within your marrow, looking for a crack in your bones. An opportunity to pounce. The door creaks open, your blood shutters, it too wishes to evaporate before the prince finds his way to you. A body falls through the door, the force servering itās clinging head, a body you once loved, a head you used to cradle at night. You curl up in the corner of your bed. Warm tears escape your eyes. Brain matter splashes unceremoniously across your floor. And itās in your distraction, your anguish, that a hellish voice reverberates through the castle walls āHello, my dear.ā
Daemon straddles your body, his armoured force depresses you into your mattress. His blood-caked fingers slowly slither up your stomach, gliding past your chest, marring your dress in a crimson darker than his dragon, until they reach your neck. You feel like prey, like some quintessential feeble thing ensnared by dragonās tooth. Nothing is ever safe from a dragon. Daemonās fingers wrap around your neck, stealing the air from your lungs. He pulls you forward by your throat, colliding your lips with his. The impact rattles your bones. The taste of his lips shatters your heart.
-`š²Ā“- Rhaenyra Targaryen | Ų±ŪŁŪŲ±Ų§ ŲŖŲ§Ų±ŚÆŲ±ŪŁ
When she flies atop Syrax, hands outstretched, tickling the clouds, she imagines they feel akin to your flesh. Soft and free like exotic silk. And when she lands upon the trembling ground, her eyes forget to watch her step as she searches the courtyard for a trace of your essence. On wobbly legs she runs to your side, excitement bubbling in her blood, spilling out, drowning squeals of raw excitement as her cloud-kissed fingers wrap around your wrist and arm. āI shall take you flying with me one day, I promise,ā and in reply you smile sweetly, āI look forward to it, princess.ā At night she dreams an innocent dream, of biting your lips between her teeth as the clouds glide across your bodies and the wind rustles through your hair. She imagines your warm hands cupping her round cheeks. She imagines gripping the fabric of our tunic with every ounce of strength she has so you never stop kissing her. When reality sweeps through along with marrowās sun and does away with paradise, she discovers crescent marks engraved within her palm.
There is no news of the engagement, only your hand entwined with anotherās waiting for Rhaenyra as she descends her dragon. You offer an awkward smile and Rhaenyraās heart begins to crack before her mind can grasp at this horrid verisimilitude. You introduce your betrothed with all the glee of a child presenting a new doll. It may be petulant, but all she can imagine is Syraxās claws ghosting over your betrothedās darling face, until there is only a gaping hole of red. Until there is nothing but you and her left. Her heart is in her chest,she's about to scream. There are so many absences in her life, so much rage sitting idly in neatly locked chests hidden deep within her bones. All Rhaenyra has ever wanted was a family, sheās lost her blood bonds one after the other. Some in the womb and some in the cradle. She refuses to lose you too. She refuses to be replaced once more by some ineligible nymph that means to steal you away from the one who truly loves you the most.
You are the only part of her heart she still has any claim to. You are the part of her soul she refuses to part with.
She holds you tight, heart to heart, as you scream, the scent of burnt flesh and ash permeates the air like a thick perfume. But all she can smell is your ethereal scent as she cradles your head against her cheek, whispering sweets and comfort into your ear. Syrax's fire keeps raging, the screams of your intended had died out not too long ago. Rhaenyra imagines it to be difficult to scream once your vocal cords have melted. Her lips brush against the corner of your mouth, daring to venture forth, until her fingers sink into your flesh. Until the only air she breathes is you.
ź°įā”ą»ź± Jacaerys Velaryon | Ų¬Ų§Ś©Ų±ŪŲ³ ŁŁŲ§Ų±ŪŁŁ
He sees a vision through the glass, or maybe just a fleeting dream. There is endless dragonfire that melts armour, burns swords. Dragonfire that cauterizes, that purifies, leaving a scorched earth with only his love standing amidst the flames, unburnt. When he looks again, the image has fled. Evaporated like morning dew. All that remains on the other side of the window is you, sitting amongst the garden flowers, whose beauty withers in your presence. Surrounded by knights and lords vying for your favour. And he shouldnāt be jealous, he knows that. Heās the heir to the Iron Throne, heās son of the rightful black queen. But the sickly desperate batter of his heart rattles his ribcage, ringing through his bones until his tongue starts miming the syllables of Dracarys, mouth full of ash. Ā
āIām sorry,ā you mutter, fingers anxiously folding the vellum of your book. āJaceā¦Jacaerys, I.ā You stop, a heavy sigh glides past your lips, and Jaceās can feel a sting of melancholy frothing inside his heart, a dull, prolonged pain, like frostbite that refuses to leave.āI love someone else,ā you confess, eyes linger on the knights training behind the gardenās bush walls. Jacaerys tries to follow your gaze, to burn the end with his own eyes. But he canāt make out one knight from the other, all silver-iron-clad armour that catches the sunās rays in awkward angles and ends up burning his own eyes instead.
There is a stubbornness rippling through him, a blood warning boiling within his veins, he has lived through this before, or maybe his ancestors had. He pushes forward, he is not so cursed as his predecessors. āBut I love you, I canāt, I canāt live without you.ā His grip on your shoulders is bruising, he pushes you back, then pulls you forward. No, no, you are his world, his everything, you canāt belong to someone else. He wonāt let it happen, heās seen how this story ends, knows the ending by heart. He stands from your side, fingers tilting your chin up to gaze within his weary brown eyes. Ā āI want your eyes only on me, my lady. For I may be inclined to feed whoever steals your gaze to Vermax.ā His fingers glide up the side of your face. Cupping your blushing cheek with his palm, such a delicate gesture, such an iron grip. āShall I inform my mother that you have agreed to our union? Or must I eliminate a few knights as a betrothal present first? The choice rests with you, my loveā
Ā°Ėā“ Baela Targaryen | ŲØŲ§Ų¦ŁŲ§ ŲŖŲ§Ų±ŚÆŲ±ŪŁ
You look so beautiful holding her crossbow, fingers gripping the wood anxiously, excited smile, glazing over your lips. Baela can feel her heart stop. Her breath too scared to escape past her lips, lest she shatter the illusion of you. Her fingers ghost over your shoulders, positioning you like her most prized doll. āAim,ā she whispers in your ear, fingers siltering under yours. āFireā she plucks your finger from the trigger string, the bolt lurches towards the target, the momentum pushes you into her arms. It almost feels like a kiss. Like tearing out her heart and arranging it in your ribcage. Somewhere by the shoreline, the boats begin to dock, Baela can feel a bitterness blooming in her mouth. You give her a quick hug before running to the ships to greet your fiancĆ©e. Leaving her to nurse the cracks in her pounding heart.
āTheyāre so mundane,ā a fact she pushes under your skin one morning. Youāre watching the Valyrian fleet depart once more, chasing the bright morning sun. āTheyāre always coming and going, I know firsthand how dangerous that can be.ā You try to ignore her jealousy, to write it off as a concerned friend. But the way her finger thread through your hair, nails racking the back of your neck, feels strangely intimate. Sometimes Baela feels more siren than human, you wonder if she realizes that too. Her endless song about every flaw your fiancĆ©e possesses or could possess lures you deeper into a forbidden abyss. You donāt want anyone but your lover, but sometimes Baela is able to get under your skin and make you wonder a treasrous āwhat ifā.
Your fiancĆ©eās body is cold to the touch. Their corpse arrived on this morning's ship. āWe crossed through an active battle,ā one of their crewmates explains. āA loose arrow struck them from the blueā. Your heart fractures again and again. But you canāt shake how familiar the image of an arrow flying through the sky. How much it reminds you of your best friend.
Baela hugs you tightly, letting you bury your weeping face on the crux of her shoulder. You think you imagine a sigh of relief swimming out of her chest. You think you imagine the erratically upbeat way she pats your back.
āāš Rhaena Targaryen | Ų±ŪŁŲ§ ŲŖŲ§Ų±ŚÆŲ±ŪŁ
She likes the constant teasing, the way she makes doubt flourish beneath your skin. She moults her shy disposition when she is lucky enough to be in your presence. She wants nothing more than to hold you within her arms and kiss along your cheeks and lips. But that wish, much like her wish of hatching a dragon, is impossible. No dragon egg cracks under her watchful gaze, and those same weary eyes must watch you kiss anotherās lips.
Sheepstealer and her share a heart, she can not hide the rhythm of her desires from the dragon. She watches with tears in her eyes as her beast, her bonded, feasts upon the noble you were intending to marry. She cannot control the destruction Sheepstealer leaves in his wake, how he erases a noble family in the span of one night, then flies her to your family castle. And even if the kisses you allow her to steal are stiff and fearful, even if you sob as she craddles your against her body. She is still utterly satisfied.
ā Cregan Stark | Ś©Ų±ŪŚÆŲ§Ł Ų§Ų³ŲŖŲ§Ų±Ś©
You have a tendency to turn your nose up at him, he finds it cute to be so stubborn, so cold and unwelcoming to your future husband. Sure, your family, your house elders, are all wishing, praying for an influential marriage with a Greenland house. But what do Greenland men truly know of love? How can they truly love you when all they think about is furthering their own ambitions? He is the better match, the best match, strong enough to break those Greenland boysā necks with his hands. To feed them to ice, watching as their blood freezes. He can protect you, from undead creatures yet to be reborn, from power-hungry men willing to tear into your flesh and feast upon your womb. He can love you better than anyone. He will love you more than anyone.
His lips are cold, they leave frostbite across your flesh. You try to push him away, but his grip along your hips is unrelenting. The moon glows through the window, casting him in a haunting glow, painting him as a primal creature, more wolf than man. Everything about him is cold. āLord Stark, this is highly unfitting of a lord of your status.ā His teeth dig into your skin, deeper and deeper. āI have other suitors, Lord Stark you are not the only one vying for my hand.ā Your protest pains his heart. His fingers tighten around your cheeks and chin, commandeering your gaze until it rests solely on him, utterly undivided. āThey are gone, my lady. You are left only with me.ā His lips press onto yours, tongue breaching your teeth, invading the warm cavity of your mouth. His kiss feels like being buried alive within the snow, never-ending cold and frost ensnaring you until your world fades. āYou will always be mine,ā he vows, the full moon as his witness. Lips returning to your soft flesh, scattering soft kisses along your neck.
A luscious fragrance permeates through the room. Your stomach growls. Cregan laughs, blue eyes peeking from the side of your neck. Ā Had he asked the cooks to prepare dinner? How far had he planned all of this? You turn your head, following the flavoursome aroma. And there in the glow of the fire, you almost swear you see something distinctly shaped like a human hand.
ā“ļø Alicent Hightower | Ų¢ŁŪŲ³ŁŲŖ ŁŲ§ŪāŲŖŲ§ŁŲ±
The candle fire cauterizes her bleeding fingers. The prayer reverberates inside her throat, like a vine rose thorns. She canāt pray for your betrothal's death, even though the notice lingers within her bones, a sinful indulgence, a pleasant one. Instead she pleads for your love, for the fabric of reality to change, for your house elders to give you to her. She prays and prays and prays, until her lips split and her tongue does numb.
At night she dreams of your fingers teasing her hair, and her lips ghosting over the corners of your mouth. She thinks itād be easier if she forgot you all together, smiled at your wedding and disappeared. You wouldnāt chase after her, your essence would fade from her mind, your ghost wouldnāt deem her important enough to haunt. But the ache lingers, even after she is married, even after she carries the king's children. Tears still bubble in her eyes when she catches your shadow along the castle walls. Ā
It has been years, but the memory of you is still akin to fingering an open wound. It has taken years, but she is finally free of the shackles of her husband, her father. She has all the power she needs, she can have you, she just needs to reach out. Divinity works in strange ways, Divinity works at its own pace. And mayhaps this is the best time, the perfect time to have you all to herself once more. The queen brands your lover a traitor, a coconspirator of the Blacks, she has them executed. All while she covers your eyes and kisses your cheek. āWe shall go pray for their soulā she assures, her bleeding fingers intertwined with yours. Refusing to ever let you go again.
Ėā±šŖ·ā°Ė Gwayne Hightower | ŚÆŁŪŁ ŁŲ§ŪāŲŖŲ§ŁŲ±
He can feel you sitting idly in his bones. Your irksome presence threading through his memory. He never really liked you, you were just a bothersome flower whose perfume wafted through his body. Whose bloom reverberated through his bones. A pretty sight that his eyes could never unsee. Gwayne has never been very good at deciphering love from hate. He can never remember if he kisses you or strangles you in his dreams. āYou are quite the little rose, arenāt you? Iād say Iām more of a myosotis, despite my charm. But then maybe we are both doomed to rot here in Oldtowenā
āIām sorry, my lord, I fear I donāt quite understand.ā
āNo, I suppose you wouldnātā
In the end, youāre just another person who can never really love him. Itās fine, he should be used to it by now. But by the heavens, Gwayne canāt understand why thorns of rage poke from his bones through his flesh when he sees you laughing with your lord lover. Some high-born knight that brings you flowers and serenades. That the divine has blessed with the privilege of kissing your hand and pinching your cheeks. He can not help but long to take his place.
Your lord lover does not return from the most recent campaign against the Blacks. Itās Gwayne who offers you the news, as well as a shoulder to cry on. Itās also Gwayne who refuses to release you from his melancholic embrace. His teeth find solace in the plush of your lips, laughing into your mouth as you pound on his shoulders. Your love will bloom, heās all so sure of it. Heāll braid Molucella through your hair and kiss your body until it turns a shade of dusk. Heāll love you, heāll give you all the love he never had.
āĖź©ļ½”Ormund Hightower | Ų§ŁŲ±Ł
ŁŁŲÆ ŁŲ§ŪāŲŖŲ§ŁŲ±
āI love you enough that it makes it so easy to hate you. Every time your eyes look at another, I wish to carve them out. Every time your tongue forms words aimed at another, I wish to rip it out. Every time you exist for another, I wish to snuff out your existence.ā his grip leaves bruises on your forearm. His presence makes you pray your father never considers him as a suitor. For all his talk of religious devotion, Ormund is a monster masquerading as a lord.
He is utterly more deserving than all these men, he is better, smarter, none will tame you the way he can. His firm hand will lead you to devotion, to heaven. Only he will have the right to be your sanctuary, your heart must only be his.
But where did this absolute need of possession arise from? What manner of delirium could cause a man to crave his darling with his every waking breath? With his every active thought? Where was this insanity born from?
It had just come from your scent.
Youād walked past him one day through the sept, and your essence, your fragrance, had wafted through his bones, nesting deep within his marrow. A scent so unlike any heād ever smelt before. Like starshine upon gardenia. Like seashells kissed by the sun. You had made his breath fumble within his throat. You had given the austerity of his world luminescence. He tried to recreate the scent day after day. But no concoction or mixer thrown inside his beloved pomander could ever recreate you.
He doesnāt beg for your hand, nor does he strive like the other men wishing to win your favour.
Favour is a fickle thing,
A fickle thing that must be capitulated.
No, instead he slithers his way into your father's mind. Charming, euphonic voice, promising virtue, dedication, holiness.
He uses his influence, his power to humble and humiliate, to tear apart any who dare challenge him for you. Lesser men, with lesser loyalty. Only he is good enough for you.
You donāt love him, Ormound knows this. He finds no pain in this knowledge, afterall whatās a little hatred between lovers? He has you, thatās all that matters. Your submission will soon follow. Youāll learn to obey his every command, to devote yourself wholly to him.
You will learn to be his.
Ėāā§āĖHugh Hammer | ŁŪŁ ŁŁ
Ų±
The first time he sees you, he winces, he can see the ghosts clinging to you as they do him. Dead relatives that still haunt your blood, that leave rotting wounds cascading across both your bodies. And now those ghosts have led you here, to your death, to try and do the impossible. Dragonās blood, it has never served him. When he looks you over, he can see, at the very least, it has not truly harmed you. He offers you an awkward smile. āSo which one do you come from?ā he cringes at his own joke, throat growing dry. Your eyes are focused on something moving in the dark, a monster growing larger. When you reply, he can feel stitches snapping, old wounds reopening, yours and his. But your voice is so airy, unbothered, like you simply mean to discuss the weather. Like youāve learned to tame this tainted blood. To purge it of its loveless inconveniences.
āOh, who knows, one Targaryen is pretty much like the other.ā
Hugh can feel his heart hammering within its bony confines.
You are quick enough to escape the flames, but the creature persists. It hunts and devours, Hugh can see how it was his grandsireās mount. The dragon bears an uncanny resemblance to the mother that haunts him at night. His large hand wraps around your wrist, dragging you behind pillars and boulders. In a heartbeat, the roaring seizes Hughās eyes glare at the bronze fury. Whether he means to eat the girl in front of him or succumbs to her. He doesnāt know, doesnāt care. He will either claim that dragon or die trying to do something rightā¦
He begs the queen to keep you here. She does not quite comply at first, sheās too busy trying to win a war. Hugh understands, heās not really her blood, heās not royal in any way, he canāt quite make demands. Itās in the first rays of moonnight that he sees you again.
āThe queen and prince insisted I stay, she said we may need another rider soon enough.ā There is something forlorn in your voice. Who did you have to leave behind to try and grasp a destiny thatās only half yours? It matters little now, everyone heās ever loved is dead, and yours will soon follow. But heāll keep you safe, he swears it on fire, on dragon scales. He swears he will give you the best life he can. Heāll keep you on dragonstone through any ends possible. And heāll love you, heāll suffocate the ghosts and mend the laceration. Heāll fix what mothers and fathers broke within you. Youāll be his, and he will love you.
ĖĀ°š¼ Addam of Hull | Ų¢ŲÆŲ§Ł
Ł ŁŲ§Ł
Heās scared of letting his heart long, of wishing upon seastars for someone he can never have. There is a rush in his blood when he gazes upon your face, a longing so desperate it suffocates him from within. He likes to think that seasmoke was attracted to his longing, in lieu of the common blood he shares with a brother heās never met. He likes to think the dragon can understand what itās like to dream of kissing someone every night and waking to their ghost turned into dust floating in the sun's first rays.
They call him noble now, heās only had to kill a couple hundred soldiers, burn them to ash, evaporate them in flames. He did it all for you. You are the only thing he asks for after his legitimacy. The only thing he truly wants. But you belong to another, he was too late. Addam has to kill and burn and destroy to earn a legacy he was forced to bear. To earn the title that was his by birthright. Now he burns and kills and destroys to earn back a love that has kept his heart beating since he first laid eyes upon his darling. Whatās one more man, he whispers, half to him and half to his dragon. He is an heir now, noble, he has finally earned you. He can finally kiss you, the real you, and you wonāt disappear come morrowās light.
š Ā·ļ½”Alyn of Hull | Ų¢ŁŪŁŁ ŁŲ§Ł
There is a world where you and him can be together forever. Itās the only dream heās allowed himself. The only wish that beats within his heart. You donāt cry to him about your betrothal, instead, you stifle your emotions behind gold-pleated words, behind āhonourā and ādutyā. Ā Leaving Alyn to watch as you slip between his fingers like sand. Some nights, as he shaves his grief, he imagines slitting your bethodes neck with his razor. Imagine dying your lips in that unworthy manās blood and kissing it off you.
He can kiss you freely now, all it took was a war, all it took was surrendering to a legacy heās run away from his whole life. He never tells his āfatherā, his brother or even you what he did to your husband. Never tells a soul how he dunked the man's head into the ocean and let the waves kiss him dead. Itās easy to forget the atrocity when his fingers are running over your back, gliding up your spine. When his lips finally get to feel yours pushed underneath his. Alyn cradles your face, lips kissing every inch of your body, like the high tide claiming the rocks until you and him are one.
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