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Favorite Dress
Aemond Targaryen x Wife! Reader
Warnings: 18+, nipple play, mentions of public sex/nudity, body changes from pregnancy, simp Aemond. Minors DNI.
“You do not look bad,” your husband said as you raised a skeptical brow at her in the mirror. It had been nearly three years since you’d last worn the dress. Your body had changed much since then, thanks mostly to the two children you’d carried in those years. While it still fit with a few adjustments along the waist, there was not much material that could be added to the bust.
“I look as if I’ve taken a position in a pleasure house.”
He did not disagree. “You would be paid very handsomely.”
You huffed and turned back to him. “I cannot go out like this. I know it was your favorite, but it is simply too small now.”
He hummed. A finger caressed the excessive cleavage. “I think it is lovelier than before. I shall be the envy of all when they see what beauty our children have given you.”
“Aemond, I am serious! They threaten to liberate themselves at the slightest movement. All shall know what color dots their center if I dance at all.”
His lips curled into a smirk. In but a breath’s time, he’d lifted your breasts. The sudden coolness peaked your nipples. Your husband leaned forward and one in his mouth. His tongue rolled the sensitive skin before he sucked the pebbled skin. Fingers pinched and pulled at the other.
“I shall have a new dress made,” he conceded with a soft bite. “But for this evening, dear wife, this is what you will wear. And if these,” his thumbs ran over your nipples, “should become free while you frolic about, I cannot be held accountable if the whole party bears witness to us making another child.”
A/N: A fun little drabble
Okay but… purebred!reader finding mutt!simon at an illegal fighting ring. She’s all decked out, wearing all those pretty little things from her dog-show days, looking for her own guard dog.
Price has been adamantly begged her to find someone ever since her home had been broken into after that last show. The intruder hadn’t been able to get to her, but that’s not the point. That’s what leads her, him and Soap to this illegal fight.
*Who’d be better at keeping their girl safe than someone who fights for a living?*
Watching as mutt!Ghost fights and comes out on top. To say there were stars in her eyes at first sight was an understatement. Immediately making Price pull out his wallet, making damn sure he was hers by the end of the night.
Price and soap being by her side when she meets with Mutt!simon for the first time. God damn does it send him off seeing such a pretty little thing. Some primal part of him so excited to know he’d be the one keeping her safe. This pretty little lap dog would be all his to keep close, to keep by his side. Pack instinct, he supposed.
She’s dressed in finery, fur shimmering in the dull light. Meanwhile he’s in a raggedy pair of sweats, blood on his fists. What a contrast…
love this love this love this love this
simon’s leash get’s passed to price and then immediately handed over to you. your tail wagging excitedly at the sight of your new friend and it clicks for simon instantly. oh, you’re a sheltered thing. you won’t think the worst of him because you don’t know what the worst is
soap just eyes him down nervously, unsure of what to make of this new ‘pack’ member. price is only nervous for the first couple of days. once he sees how docile simon is around you, he relaxes. he just hopes the boys won’t get into a tug of war match over you
much to john’s (and soap’s) surprise, simon takes to both you and johnny. corning you both between him and the wall, cozy on his bed so he can watch over you, nuzzle into you both forcefully and cover you in his scent. it’s his responsibility as pack leader after all…
you’re not bothered by simon’s scars. his torn ears and rugged skin. no, you’re amazed by him. his size and strength are wonderful to you. you love winding him up, playfighting and invading his space until he manhandles you, nips at you and reminds you of your place under him
Gwayne Hightower corrupting his sweet Targaryen niece!
His young niece is sent to Oldtown with her younger brother Daeron, much to Gwayne’s delight.
Though she’s a Targaryen, she looks so much like her mother and Gwayne is simply infatuated with her. His niece was Helaena’s twin, the girl much more lucid and rooted in the earth than her sister.
Gwayne who takes her under his wing, allowing the pair to form a strong bond as she learns more about Oldtown and the history of the Hightower’s.
Gwayne watches as his sweet niece seems to grow even more beautiful as she’s older. He notices the attention she draws and the leering gazes men level at her. It makes something in his chest burn.
His niece was expected to return to Kings Landing when she became of age, and yet the time has passed and her mother and father have not sent for her yet. Gwayne comforts his sweet niece though he’s secretly happy and enjoying her presence remaining longer.
Gwayne finds it more and more difficult to resist his niece as she clings to him more in her sadness, his body growing warm at the idea of taking her for himself. He reasons with himself: if her mother married her other daughter to her full-blooded brother then surely an uncle is a less egregious pairing. Gwayne’s been influenced too much by the Targaryen views at this point.
Gwayne seizes the opportunity to corrupt his niece once and for all when she cries desperately in her arms. She’s sobbing about how no man will ever want her as a wife if she never returns to the capital, how her family do not love her, how her mother sent away.
He’s taking her teary face in his hands softly, brushing her hair back from her face as he looks into her wide eyes. The heavy kiss he places on her lips has her momentarily shocked before she tentatively responds. Gwayne’s slowly guiding her lips in the way he likes, revelling in the feeling as her fingers begin threading through his hair.
Gwayne doesn’t fuck her straight away, no, he waits and waits until his niece is so dependant on him, hanging off his every word. She’s visiting the sept with him each day, dining with him and letting him kiss her as much as he wants.
But once he does, there is no one in the world that he would let take her away from him. He would show Otto the bloodied sheets from their coupling and watch his face fall in horror, disgusted at the sullying of a proper Targaryen princess. Otto didn’t think he had it in him, not to do something so vile.
Gwayne gets his way and soon his pretty little niece is standing in front of him in the Sept at Oldtown, exchanging vows with him.
Alicent is beside herself. Her sweet daughter corrupted and defiled by her own uncle, someone she trusted her with.
Gwayne and his new wife are the picture of marital bliss, always giggling and mumbling to each other. The maids in the keep at Oldtown are always giggling as they walk past their chambers; the gasps and groans escaping enough to make a grown man blush.
Gwayne fucks his wife good. I said it. He’s a munch too and 100% makes his wife cum at least once before getting into the main action. He’s got his niece wrapped around his finger and anytime he wants her, he has her.
It’s no surprise when the Red Keep receives a raven announcing the pregnancy of the Targaryen princess, a babe expected no more than 9 months after their wedding (they got down to business right away!).
(Aegon’s giggling at the rage colouring his mothers expression. He loves seeing her so unsettled and makes a note to tease her AS MUCH as possible.)
but I'll know, I'll know
summary: At the ripe age of ten, the Realm’s Jewel was nominated by her grandsire the King, despite all the protests of the Small Council, the official Royal Ambassador; thus, her voyages throughout the Seven Kingdoms started, and yet another nickname was forged for her by the Smallfolk: the Wandering Princess.
pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader
word count: 8.4k
warnings: language, mention of labours and pregnancies (nyra has just given birth to aegon), the ass freezing cold weather in the north, scars, nādrēsy eats people, reader is a kid with a dream (marrying cregan) but my guy doesn't want anything to do with her, mention of cannibalism, if you catch the dante's inferno reference I will give you cookies
author's note: this took me forever but it's finally here!! enjoy :)
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Aegon is born skinny and scrawny, all twitching limbs and bloodied hair, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Dear Gods, aren’t you the ugliest thing?” you say as a midwife carefully passes him to you, fresh out of your mother’s womb. You’re sure he’s at least thrice as ugly as Joff was when he was born — and that’s all on Daemon.
You pass the babe to a nurse, who then passes him to your mother, who’s breathing heavily but still smiling. She nods to one of her handmaidens. “Go fetch Daemon, tell him it’s a boy.”
A bit after you went to your grandsire and took place in court as King’s Justice, the reason why your mother had wanted to marry Daemon so hastily quickly got out: she was pregnant, pretty surely out of marriage — not that other people aside you and your grandsire were allowed to speculate on that.
Speaking of your grandsire, he was furious once he discovered that after all, they had really married. You had never seen him so angry, not since Aemond tried to kill you; he broke vases, screamed at the men in the council and behaved insufferably for a whole sennight, before just accepting his defeat. He still refuses to open any of your mother and uncle's letters, even after word of rhaenyra’s pregnancy got out.
If it wasn’t for the babe, you wouldn’t have talked to your mother for much, much longer. But a pregnancy isn’t an easy thing, and even if you have every right to be mad at her right now, you will not let her die on the childbed without any support — because of fucking course Daemon isn’t there when she delivers little Aegon. He’s run off Gods know where, too scared to face another birthing wife in fear she might die. Coward.
“I’ll head to King’s Landing on the morrow.” you murmur as the servants finish changing the sheets and exit the room. Now it’s only you, your mother and the suckling-milk monster latched onto her breast. She sends you a bleary gaze, confused, hair mussed and skin still glistening in sweat. “What?” she breathes out.
“So that for now I can give you my help in washing off all the blood,” you reply. “And then, once they wake up, say goodbye to my siblings.”
“But… you just got here yesterday. Your brothers haven’t even seen you and you’re already running away.” well, that is true. You’ve arrived on Dragonstone after supper was already finished, and the boys had already gone to sleep; then your mother’s labours began barely after the sun rose, so they were yet to wake. Now it was well into the night, and the only person who you have seen is Helaena, who at some point came to see how things were going and offered a kind word to her half-sister.
You sigh, knowing she would've said that. “The prisons in all the Seven Kingdoms are overflowing, mother. And once the lords heard that the King’s Justice didn’t have to be paid, they either started bringing their prisoners to the Crownlands or started asking if I could come to clean their dirty laundry.” you furrow your eyebrows sadly as Aegon gurgles, hiding deeper in Rhaenyra’s chest. “I thought we already talked about that. I have to be in the Riverlands tomorrow to clean Lord Elmo Tully’s… wastes.”
She shakes her head, bewildered. “You don’t have to be anywhere! You are a Targaryen, you have the right to show up when and if you want to. I already don’t like the fact that father’s making you do a peasant’s job, but the fact that you think you have to be somewhere is simply outrageous. And–”
“Sorry, I worded that wrongly,” you interrupt her. “I am making myself go to the Riverlands by tomorrow. I actually have more than a prison to wipe out.” once again, it seems you have a list. “Yet another revolt between Blackwood and Bracken broke out, and I can’t wait to see their faces when they see that their beloved Lord Tully has called for reinforcements. Besides, travelling throughout Westeros is fun,” you add. “You know, I’m getting to know all the lords — or better, their heirs, the one that when I rule will sit on their thrones. I have become good friends with Oscar Tully– Elmo’s grandson.”
You look between her and the babe; there’s something strange in your gaze, something that says you should be doing this instead of me. “I am doing us both a favour, mother. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve caught the Hightowers trying to poison grandsire? I already had him change his food tester twelve times and between the change and Otto managing to bribe them into poisoning the King there’s at most a week. It’s never something I can accuse him with, though,” you scoff, “It’s always the poor tasters that I have to make Nādrēsy eat.”
You shake your head as Aegon falls asleep, your mother having tears in her eyes. “Your hasty marriage to Daemon and precocious pregnancy have angered many lords that hoped to marry into the Royal Family. I am merely trying to help our cause.”
“What was I supposed to do?” she whispers. “Having Aegon born out of marriage? Having a real bastard this time?”
You were just trying to say that chastity belts existed and there are many things to do rather than to copulate with your uncle, but surely you’re not going to say that to a woman who has just given birth. “How many years has it been since Queen Aemma’s death?” you ask. You know, but you want her to understand your point.
“Almost nineteen years,” she quickly responds.
You raise an eyebrow. “And when did grandsire marry Alicent?”
“Seventeen years ago.”
“See?” you point out. “Grandsire respected the mourning period well enough, yet you still resent him for remarrying and hold a particular disdain for Alicent. And you’re trying to tell me that I’m not allowed to hold against you the fact that you remarried barely four moons after my father’s death?”
She shakes her head vehemently, “That is not why–”
“It is!” you insist. “I have all the right reasons to hold my deepest disdain for Daemon and resent you for marrying him. Why?” you scoff, “Because as your daughter, I want what’s best for you. And that’s not a man who runs away as soon as he hears that his wife's labours have started. Jace, Luke and Joff may have not been father’s children, but he didn’t miss a single birth, and he was always just out of the birthing chamber.”
“Daemon has been through a lot,” she protests.
“I have been through a lot too!” you hiss. “Yet I have watched you give birth twice, out of worry that it might be the last time I see you! And I’m how many years younger than him?”
“Your uncle has seen his second wife make her dragon burn her alive for the immense pain she was feeling during the labour,”
“And he also probably killed the first one,”
She sends you a look. “And I saw my father’s carbonised body,” you mutter. “Yet me and my dragon burn down to a crisp criminals for a living. Scratch that, not even for that, it’s just to make the lords understand that once the kingdom passes down to you or to me, it will be well taken care of.”
“My father didn’t have to prove himself worthy of ruling, so why should we? The throne will be ours by right, and the people will just have to accept it.”
The door creaks open, but you don’t turn to see who entered — by the steps, you know it’s Daemon, returning with his tail between his legs. “That’s where you are wrong, mother,” you reason. “Grandsire didn’t, but he is a man. Stop acting like people don’t doubt our capability of ruling simply because of our birth. My grandmother proved herself perfectly capable of being queen, yet she was passed down simply because she is, and will always be, a woman. And that, in our world, is one of the biggest disgraces to men.” you shake your head yet again — it seems this talk is full of disappointment on both ends.
“You could be the bravest knight of the Seven Kingdoms and still be looked down upon because they think your only purpose is to birth children. I am merely trying to change that perspective.”
“Is there a problem?” Daemon has now crossed the room and is right behind you, hand on his sword, hesitant gaze towards his wife. You have to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes. “No,” you reply, back on your feet and going for the exit. “I was already about to leave.”
He blocks you by taking you by the bicep, eyebrows raised. “Why don’t you stay for a while?” he asks. “I’m sure your bastard could take a day or two without eating criminals.”
You stare at him up and down. “I’ll stay for a while when you’re either gone or dead. By your inconsistency and age, it won’t take too long. And please, take a bath,” you shake his hand off of your arm, “You stink of dragon, and even if she doesn’t tell you that, your wife suffers the smell.”
It is glorious to see the Hightower’s faces fall — mostly, it is endearing to hear the Lord Hand’s voice stutter. Because he knows you’ve got him.
“But– but the Princess is but a child!” his daughter protests, looking at your grandsire, outraged. Viserys shakes his head, “This was solely my decision, and I will not let any of you think that your opinion counts on this matter.”
“Aegon is much older,” Otto merely chimes in. He knows his case is weak. “And so is Aemond. They’re men, well experienced and highly educated. I am sorry, Your Grace, but I don’t understand your decision.”
“For starters, I don’t ride my dragon drunk,” you reply to him, the biggest smirk on your face. Alicent’s face reddens at the mention of her firstborn’s biggest problem; you only stand straighter, with now the eyes of the whole Small Council pointed towards you. “Nor am I missing an eye — but even if I was, my dragon listens to my orders. Did you hear about Vhagar's latest mishaps, Lord Hand?”
Her waking up for your uncle to climb on her saddle, only to fall back asleep as soon as he’s on, sleeping so silent that the dragon keepers thought she was dead for good — and then, once they had finally managed to reach the skies, a whole farm burned down when Aemond had simply asked her to land. Either she’s senile, or she doesn’t really like Aemond.
“Also, I wouldn’t call Aegon highly educated nor well experienced,” you add. “Maybe, yes — if you need a good brothel in Flea Bottom, he’s the man you’re searching for. For political matters?” you shake your hand. “Would you rather him falling off of Sunfyre on the way to Winterfell while drunk, or not knowing a single thing about how he should act? Or maybe send Aemond, and have the possibility of Vhagar burning the entire place down?” you scoff.
“Please, Lord Hand. We don’t want any diplomatic incidents.” you just know Ser Tyland is holding in his laughter.
“The Princess is heir,” your grandsire adds, and you pretend to act as if you don’t hear Alicent gritting her teeth from the end of the table, where you’re standing. “She is highly educated, as she is to be Queen, she knows her way with swords and with words, and her dragon is as loyal as can be. She is a skilled rider and has already ended other men’s lives via him. She is fit for this task, and as I said, if she does well, it will be hers for the time to come.”
“She is but ten summers old,” the Queen objects.
“I’m still a better option than a drunkard and a cripple,” you raise an eyebrow towards her, then towards her father, who is just about to speak. “And I would be able to make a better evaluation than you, Lord Hand, if that’s what you want to suggest. No prayers could ever woo me.”
Otto’s eye twitches. Nobody else on the council tries to say anything; the decision is taken, and since everyone in this room values their life and you look pretty threatening with your hand on the grip of your sword, they are smart enough to keep silent.
“And whose fault is it that my son is a cripple?” Alicent taunts.
You laugh. “I’m not the one who raised an ungrateful brat. You should be happy I’m here, considering that if I wasn’t and it was his fault, his neck would have been cut. Next time you have a son, maybe teach him to differentiate between a friend and an enemy.”
“That is enough, sweetling,” the King says gently. He looks around the room, at his council members. “You’re all dismissed. Sweetling, would you mind accompanying me to my chambers?”
You nod dutifully, moving to his side as the others get up and handing him his cane. “Ah, thank you,”
As much as he doesn’t like to admit it, your grandsire is getting old. He can’t walk as much as he used to, and he is getting easier to tire. Small Council meetings almost exhaust him, now more than ever, and travelling isn’t much of an option anymore.
“How’s little Aegon?” he asks, as you help him climb the stairs towards his chamber. He has yet to reply to any of his daughter or his brother’s letters, preferring to take any information he can from you.
“Growing steadily,” you reply. “He’s almost six moons now. His dragon hatched; Luke has called him Stormcloud. I went to visit them on Dragonstone last week, after settling the matters with the prisoners on Driftmark. He’s learned how to stand and babbles soundly all the time.”
The King hums as the stairs come to an end, two guards opening the doors of his rooms for you two. “That’s good. Maybe one day you can bring him and your brothers here — I haven’t seen them in ages.”
You hold back a grimace as he takes a seat by the table that sits in the main room, resting his chin upon the hilt of the cane. “I’ll see what I can do,” you promise him. “Mother isn’t fond of King’s Landing, but maybe she would let me bring them here. She has been particularly lenient these last few moons.” that’s just because she’s trying to win you back, but that’s another story.
He nods silently, gaze tender and warm as he looks at you. His eyebrows narrow, though. “The North is harsh,” he warns. “I’ve been there just once, and after I had a fever that lasted the whole way back home. Northerners are– different. Tougher, harsher, more brutal. I need you to understand what you are getting into, before I send you there.”
“Cregan Stark is the rightful heir of Winterfell,” you murmur, warmed by his worry. “The North is one of our biggest allies. To me it is clear that Bennard Stark is an usurper. And as an heir to the Iron Throne, it is only right that we treat usurpers as the law commands.” you purse your lips, “By death.”
“Northerners like to take care of their own matters,” your grandsire murmurs, “we rarely get involved, but… well, Lord Cregan is barely a man. He is but Aemond’s age, and even if the Small Council insists on not sending anyone, I can’t help but worry. An usurper who manages to get on a throne will only get greedier and greedier as time goes on. One day, we could find ourselves against the North if he ever were to succeed.”
“He has three sons,” you nod, “Cregan is but five-and-ten. And seeing northern standards, he won’t get married for at least another five years. Yes, there are rumours going around of Bennard murdering his first wife, but… it’s not rare that a woman’s death is overlooked on the promise of stability.”
Your grandsire shakes his head, sighing. “Greedy men, always grasping at everything they can take, even if it means killing your own nephew.” he presses his lips against each other, then tries to smile at you. “We will have to send you to Winterfell well equipped. I will send servants down to the market to look for coats and cloaks, but for now– there’s something I feel like you should have.”
He raises from his seat, going for the bed, kneeling carefully by it and reaching for something under it. He takes out a long silver box, decorated with dragon carvings and ruby stones; he motions for you to come near him, and he opens the case.
Inside, there’s Blackfyre.
Blackfyre is House Targaryen’s longsword, made out of Valyrian Steel, and once it was his chosen weapon. It is passed down from king to king, a symbol of power and duty, and even if you’ve never seen your grandsire wield it, you know he uses it as a scepter while holding court.
“‘Tis only fair that it passes down to you,” he says, holding it out for you to take. “Dark Sister would be more appropriate for a woman, as it is more slim and light, but unfortunately it is in the possession of my brother, and I am sure that even if I were to force him to give it to you, you would refuse simply because it came from him. Blackfyre is the sword of kings, though; and now it shall be of a queen, too.”
You shake your head, bewildered, “Grandsire, as much as I am honoured, you still need it.”
He laughs. “And for what? To hold it as a stick during court? Please, granddaughter of mine, don’t jest. With me as its wielder, it will just grow musty, as I can barely even raise it. I insist you take it.”
Reluctantly, you take it in your arms and observe it; it is as you remember, clean silver and dark handle, a ruby on its end and something resembling a dragon wing at the start of the blade. It is too long for you to wear normally, that is already clear, so you’ll probably have to wear it on your back and hope it doesn’t reach the ground.
Your grandsire smiles. “A good sword for a worthy wielder.”
The next sennight is filled with fittings and preparations for your upcoming trip to the North — which will be the farthest you’ve ever gone from King’s Landing. It will be a harsh and long journey, but you and Nādrēsy are ready for it.
The night before your departure you ask the servants for a bath; a hot one, with the water almost boiling, as Targaryens like it. You take your sweet time, sending away the maids and sinking in the bathtub, tasting a warmth you probably won’t feel for a while. Looking at the mirror sitting a few feet away from the tub, you can’t help but glare at the scar on your temple — and it seems to glare back.
It has now turned pink-ish, a little red on some days, and looks a bit like a thunder going from your head almost down to your cheekbone. In a year and a half of having it, you have yet to get used to it. For your ninth nameday, your grandsire gave you a white gold coronet that you always wear. It’s some sort of replica of his own crown, as they are much similar — the only differences being the way they fit, the colours and the Great Houses emblems; in fact, in place of those, you have amethyst stones, a nice touch requested by your grandsire.
The coronet is a great relief, as it hides most of the scar from others, and if anyone notices, it seems they value their tongue too much to comment about it. The only one who has protested is Alicent, who insists that since you are neither a king nor a queen, you have no right to wear such a thing. Your grandsire, of course, ignores her, almost as well as you do.
You only take the coronet off to go to bed and to wash yourself, otherwise, it’s always on your head. It acts as a shield between you and your insecurities, and you’re more than okay with it, especially because it is one of the prettiest jewels you own. The fact that for most of your days you now wear your usual dragon riding attire doesn’t mean you don’t like pretty dresses and shiny things anymore — in fact, you thrive on the days where you can wear your beloved gowns and show off all your jewellery. You already plan on bringing your best pieces to Winterfell.
A look at your scar is enough to bring back all the memories you only wish to bury deep in the sand — Aemond’s attack, Jace and Luke’s little faces covered in blood, your mother injured and the sight of your father's carbonised body, added to the screams of your grandmother. You really wish things had been different.
You leave on the morrow, right after breaking your fast. All the things you’ll need are already loaded on Nādrēsy’s back, near the saddle, and your grandsire comes with you to the Dragonpit to be able to bid you his goodbyes. Surprisingly, Aegon tags along.
He’s yawning for the whole ride, falling asleep at some point. He already reeks of wine and has blood-shot eyes, yet you appreciate the gesture. You don’t have that much of a relationship, aside from him teaching you the right words to insult Daemon, but still. He’s not really a bad person, he’s just… lost. Something tells you that if your mother had raised him, he wouldn’t be drowning in his cups every day all day.
By the time you all exit the carriage, he’s wide awake and a man on a mission. “Bring me the best wine you can find,” he says, with a lucidity untypical of him. You burst out laughing, “Well, uncle, I’m pretty sure they don’t make wine in the North. But I’ll look for the strongest ale I can find.”
He sighs dreamily. “Oh, sweet niece, what would I do without you?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Without me always defending you your mother would have killed you a long time ago for the sake of the family — can’t really say I’d blame her.”
He pouts grumpily while your grandsire joins you, having just exited the carriage. “Farewell, sweetling,” he murmurs, tears in his eyes, hugging you tight. “Be careful, please.”
You laugh softly. “Don’t you worry, grandsire, I’ll make sure to come back all in one piece.”
He hugs you again, Aegon standing there awkwardly — Viserys has never really shown affection for him, nor for his siblings. You always reprimand him for that, but he’s a lost cause. You do feel pity for them, to only have Alicent to love them — and what kind of love it must be! Maybe she whacks them twenty times instead of the usual thirty when they do something wrong.
After securing Blackfyre on your back again, you mount Nādrēsy’s saddle, and he roars happily, spreading his wings. “Be careful!” your grandsire screams, as your uncle yells, “Remember the ale!”
Soon after, the Red Keep becomes but a small dot on the ground, and you are to reach Winterfell.
They had warned you that the North was cold, but not even in your wildest dreams you could have thought it was this cold. You’ve been in the Riverlands, and it’s cold there too, yes, but the North? Nothing the maids had said could have ever prepared you.
It feels like years since you’ve seen a green speck of land; now it’s all covered in snow, and it’s a miracle that dragons have a particular high body temperature, because otherwise you and Nādrēsy would’ve been swaddled by the hailstorms and snowfalls, for they are violent and — have you already said cold?
The coronet by now is freezing, so cold that your head hurts. You’ve already damned enough Gods and Saints to grant yourself the ugliest spot in one of the deepest pits of the Seven Hells, and judging by his grumpiness and complaints, your dragon is suffering too. He’s constantly huffing fire in an attempt to melt the ice and snow, trying his best to protect you, and even if it’s not of much use you are thankful for him. You briefly think that Syrax would never be able to sustain such a voyage, as spoiled as she is, and despite everything it brings a small smile to your face.
Rhaenyra does treat her girls well.
The thought of your mother warms you, despite your discrepancies, and you wonder how she fares; you had written to her about your journey to Winterfell, but had not stayed long enough to receive a reply. Hopefully, little Aegon and all your brothers are well and thriving and aren’t having too much trouble adjusting to another sibling learning how to walk in the house — you know a thing or two about that. And about that, Rhaenyra treating her girls well reminds you about something…
“Ivestragon, valītsos,” Say, boy, “Ziry iksos nūmāzma jēda īlon rhaenagon naejot pendagon nūmāzma lī belmos syt ao, iksin nyke paktot?” It's about time we start to think about those rings for you, am I right?
Your teeth are cluttering against each other, but your smile is loud and clear, and your dragon roars happily. You should've gotten him those horn rings ages ago, before Joffrey was even born, but with everything that happened it just slipped your mind. You promise yourself it will be the first thing you think about when back to King’s Landing, as he has more than earned them, especially after this trip.
Your mother once said that a trip from the Crownlands to Winterfell on dragonback would have taken two days, but it takes you and your dragon five whole days, as you two are slowed by the bad weather and the constant stops to just light a fire and warm up a bit. Even as Winterfell enters your view, the snow doesn’t stop, and by now the scarf that is covering most of your face is basically frozen and crusted with ice, as well as the hairs that escaped your cowl.
“Ninkiot, Nādrēsy!” Land, “Konīr, ondoso se dōros!” There, by the walls!
You have no intentions of scaring the Starks — or, should you say, the Stark? — so, for now, as much as it pains you, your dragon will have to stay outside. As the huge door that brings inside Winterfell is slowly opened, you open the chains that bind you to Nādrēsy while in the skies, as he stirs his wings and lets out a big yawn — that to the guards probably seems like a threat, because they immediately sheath their swords, preparing to attack.
As if our dragons didn’t melt enough swords to make a throne of it, already.
“Lay down the blades!” a voice comes in. “It’s the Royal Ambassador you’re pointing them at, and I’m sure King Viserys would be dismayed if a diplomatic incident were to happen.”
You recognize him instantly — ah, first love, always hard to forget. He’s grown, of course, and now resembles more a bear than a man, especially with all the furs he’s wearing, and you take immediate notice of the difference between him and Aemond. They’re the same age — your uncle’s a little bit older, if you’re not wrong — and yet he’s still skinny and scrawny, bony, even with all the food his mother forces him to eat.
And, of course, Lord Cregan Stark is much, much taller than him.
He’s on a horse, followed by what you assume are his guards and men, and he quickly dismounts, bowing. “Princess, it is an honour to be able to host you in the Stark’s holdfast. It is a pity that it must be under such dire circumstances.”
You hide a smile. Ah, Starks. So up their asses.
“Hopefully I am not late for supper, am I, Lord Cregan?” you ask, pulling down your scarf to be able to talk better. You take out the dagger tied to your waist, manoeuvring yourself to be able to cut the cords that bind your luggages to Nādrēsy. They fall on the snow below, surely without much damage.
He gets up, shaking his head. “Not at all, Princess, we weren’t even about to eat. You have the time to change into warmer clothes before the food is ready.”
You nod. “Good.”
You easily slide off your dragon’s wing, not noticing the way the boy reaches out — afraid that you’ll fall or worse. Gods know what kind of war a dead princess in Winterfell would bring to the North. You look back at Nādrēsy, “Ōños iā perzys lo jaelā, yn umbagon kesīr!” Light a fire if you want, but stay here!
He roars, not happy at all, and you turn back at him, glaring. Your next words are yelled and incomprehensible to Cregan, as he doesn’t know a single thing about High Valyrian, but he knows well the way insults and cursing words are said, and those sound like a lot of them. It’s so scary that him and some of his men shiver — and it’s not for the cold.
Once you are done with him, he’s grumbling, quietly opening his mouth to burn a tree nearby, then hugging it with his body with a huff. You scoff, “You think you have raised a decent dragon and he turns out to be spoiled. What’s next? I’ll have to cook and cut up the meat for him to eat like they do for Syrax?”
He roars again, but this time you ignore him, walking towards the Lord of Winterfell, who stands there with his mouth agape. You held out your hand expectantly, raising an eyebrow as he looks between you and your dragon. In the end, he takes your hand in his, kissing the ring with the Targaryen emblem that sits on your middle finger, trying to ignore your worryingly big dragon.
Standing straight again, he motions over two of his men, pointing at the bags left in the snow. “Take those and bring them to the chambers we reserved for the Princess,” he then looks at you, “I took it upon myself to appoint you three maids, Princess. The King advised me to, as he said you would’ve come here alone, and as much as I would like to think that your travels were nice, the weather suggests otherwise.”
That’s because right now the wind is icy, freezing, with splutters of snow falling from the sky. You nod, “Thank you, Lord Stark. It’s warming to see such a welcome after the freezing journey.” Quite literally.
He winces. “Cregan will suffice. We’re both far too young for you to call me Lord Stark.”
You chuckle. “As you wish. I will not ask you to stop referring to me as Princess, though, I hope you know that.”
He frowns. “Of course. I would never ask Your Grace to do that.”
He gently gestures towards his horse, dark hair frizzled by the wind, “‘Tis best if we go back to the castle, Princess; yet another hailstorm is brewing. You can ride with me.”
You don’t let him repeat himself twice, letting him help you up on the saddle then quickly jumping on behind you, manoeuvring the horse towards the gates, which close behind you. If he sees the dagger you stole from him, he makes no mention of it. “‘Tis cold in Winterfell, my Princess, but I assure you that you will have the warmest room of the castle. The maids will make sure to keep the fire going; I imagine that going from the warm temperatures of King’s Landing to the constant snowing of the North mustn’t be easy.”
His northern accent makes butterflies explode in your stomach in such a good way that you think that if all men had the same tone, dealing with them wouldn’t be so difficult. You swing your legs over the side of the horse, careful not to hit it, and you focus on your hands, trying to take your mind off from your warm cheeks. “Thank you, Lord Cregan.”
He raises an eyebrow at your sudden silence. “…Of course, Princess. Anytime.”
Truth is, you haven’t seen Cregan in years. It’s now a bit more than two summers since your last encounter, when he had all but stood you up on the dancefloor, on your own birthday. And as much as you would like to feign anger, or disinterest in his regards, he’s just too… well.
He’s young, yet he’s able to hold on his shoulder such a heavy burden, being the Lord of Winterfell and going against his uncle. You can act tough all you want, but you are too a little girl who likes to listen to the love stories the septa tells you, and you wish for a husband who will treat you right — not like Daemon, who ran away from Dragonstone as soon as your mother’s labours began.
Something tells you Cregan would treat you right. (In truth that’s just your inner child's dream speaking. You’ve liked him since before you were even able to really see or remember.)
You raise your gaze, looking at the boy in question. “Are you perhaps betrothed to anyone, Lord Cregan?”
He stills, a bit awkward, the horse stopping in front of the gates of the castle, “Well, no, Princess. By northern standards I am far too young. Here, usually men marry well into their twenties, or after their eighteenth summer.”
You hum. “Not in the Crownlands.”
Cregan frowns a bit, “If you are suggesting a…” he hesitates, “Betrothal, between you and me, Princess — and forgive me if I’m wrong — I think you are far too young to think about that, and I am too. I don’t think it would work.” He’s trying to break it to you in the nicest way possible, because — yes. You are a kid, barely ten summers of age, who’s probably already doing too much for her House, and marriage shouldn’t even cross your mind yet. He doesn’t find you funny nor is he attracted to you, obviously, so there’s no way he’s ever going to marry you. Besides, princesses are expensive, known to be spoiled, and he isn’t sure if he would ever be able to fulfil your needs and listen to you whine all day.
You glare at him — and if looks could kill, he would already be in the family crypt, right beside his father. “Fine.” you hop off the horse before he can protest, strutting over the entrance, scaring the servants who are asked to show you around the place. “Princess, I should be the one to do that–” he tries to protest, in vain.
“Nonsense, Lord Stark!” you yell, dismissing him with a hand, not even turning back to look at him. “I’m sure the servants know the holdfast better than you.” and then you’re gone, followed by a maid who sends him a pleading look, inside the castle acting like you own it. If he doesn’t want to marry you, you’ll make sure to make him regret that — not only in this trip, but also in the years to come.
Ah, children’s ego. So big yet so fragile.
Cregan sighs, getting off his horse, immediately joined by Ser Rodrick, heir to House Cerwyn and in Winterfell to support him in this battle against his uncle. “What did you do to make her react that way?” he asks, bewildered.
The boy huffs, kicking a rock nearby. “I rejected her marriage proposal.”
His friend pales. “Isn’t she, like… ten summers old?”
The Stark laughs, even if he’s not amused at all. “She is.” he shakes his head, in disbelief. “Children acting like adults. The King, between all of his capable and loyal subjects, chose his petty and spoiled granddaughter who has never heard a no in her entire life to send here to help me.”
He sighs again, getting into a foetal position, commiserating himself. “She would be capable of threatening me to give Winterfell to my uncle unless I marry her.”
You ponder the option of giving Winterfell to Bennard Stark unless Cregan is at least betrothed to you, but then again, it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. Besides, you suspect he wouldn’t treat you well if you forced him to marry you.
Maybe he’s right. You shouldn’t think of marriage right now, as you are simply here to prove yourself worthy of the honour of being Royal Ambassador. I’ll shorten the trip, you think to yourself, as the maids show you your chambers and strip you down, guiding you to a hot bath. I’ll deal with the Stark usurper after supper. Besides, all I have to do is hear him out and then kill him. That was what Viserys had told you to do — Bennard had proven himself guilty, and unfortunately had too many people to support him for you to let him live. You’ll depart tomorrow after breaking your fast, and let Nādrēsy play with his preys if he wants. You could visit the Riverlands, pass by Riverrun to say hi to Oscar, and then by Dragonstone to see your brothers and mother.
One of the maids asks you if she can take off the coronet to tie your hair up, and when you nod she proceeds — only to quietly gasp at the sight of your scar. She immediately pales and apologises when you glare at her, quickly laying the coronet on a stool, going back to tying your hair up so that it doesn’t get wet.
You know it’s hideous, but the least she could do is pretend it’s not. The urge to go away as soon as you can gets stronger.
They dress you in the warmest dress you have brought, the purple one with embroidered pearls and fur sleeves, then braid your hair into a loose plait, delicately putting your coronet back on your head, hiding your scar. They make no mention of it, thankfully.
They guide you to the Great Hall for supper, and you are not surprised to see everyone already seated — you had taken a lot more than you normally would just to spite Cregan. The Hall seems to contain at least five hundred people, with four long tables and a raised platform for the Lord of Winterfell, noble guests and his closest men — you guess, since he doesn’t really have any family left — banners with the Stark emblem on every wall, covering the stone.
Cregan quickly gets down from his table, up on the platform, to greet you, offering his arm, which you — kind of rudely too — don’t accept. “I… I hope the chambers were of your liking, Princess.”
You snob him. “They could’ve been warmer. As could have been the bath.”
He nods patiently. “I’ll make sure to alert the servants to burn more wood for the rest of your stay.”
“Don’t worry, Lord Stark,” he winces, “I won’t annoy you for too long. I’ll take my leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” he asks, panicked. In all of this you are walking towards the platform, towards your table, and everybody is yet to sit down. “But– the King said you were supposed to stay for a sennight, Princess. The matters for the settlement of the succession must be–”
You groan loudly, “I know, don’t worry, you will have your throne by the time I go back to King’s Landing.” you sigh, “Men, always only caring about what is owed to them and what they want.”
That seems to shut him up, and without another word you go up the stairs that take to the table, him begrudgingly taking out the chair for you, sitting down quietly. Then everyone follows your example, relieved huffs echoing in the hall, immediately followed by a quiet chattering while waiting for the food.
It seems that everyone is on their best behaviour tonight, because Cregan’s men are unusually educated and cordial for being soldiers and guards — you know that once out of this room, they’ll let out all the burps they’re holding back now, as they chug on beer tankards (but with their pinky fingers raised politely, no doubt a try at tea parties etiquette).
Roasted honey venison with olives, peas and beans is served, and as you eat the men start to get a bit impatient — having lasted most of the day without eating, they are starving, and it shows: they are scarving down the venison like eventually it’ll come back to life and run away. Cregan glares at them, even if it shows that he himself is a bit rusty when it comes to manners, since he has bread crumbs all over his tunic. That must happen when a boy not even six and ten is left in charge of an entire household, you guess.
As dessert is served and dinner is finished, you are the first one to get up from your seat, looking at Cregan with a raised eyebrow — even now that you are standing, he’s taller than you, and he’s still seated. “Where is Ser Bennard Stark?” you ask him, determined to end this matter as quickly as possible.
He raises his brows, confused. “In the dungeons, with his sons, of course. But– surely you don’t mean to go there now, Princess, do you? It’s late. The sun has already set–”
“And I am to leave tomorrow. I wish to see him now.”
Childish and petty, Cregan thinks. But that is what you are, no? A child. The fact that you will inherit the Iron Throne doesn’t change anything, for you are still ten, and him at your age was still playing knights with his friends, with barely a care in the world. How in the Seven Hells have the Targaryen raised you?
He surrenders to your will, sighing and getting up, bidding goodbye to his men and guiding you out of the hall. Two guards swiftly follow you without being told to, and the way to the dungeons is silent. Both you and Cregan know the problem well — you have been informed of it by the Small Council, who chose Ser Bennard’s sentence, while he had lived it himself. There was pretty much nothing else to add to Bennard Stark’s case, and it was only because of his status that he had the right to be heard, even if his sentence was already declared — not that he or Cregan knew of it.
The Small Council said in the beginning that Bennard Stark had to be killed, but with him being the son of a lord, things could get messy quickly. You didn’t really understand the problem, but apparently in the North everyone’s pretty attached to the Starks, making it hard for them to… well, kill each other. A blessing by the King is needed, but yours will suffice too.
The dungeons are dimly lit and cold, with guards standing in front of each cell, vigilant and awake. Cregan guides you in front of one of the cells, and kicks at the metal bars of it. “Uncle, you have visitors.”
Ser Bennard Stark is a gruff man, thin from his prison days, face unshaven and bleary eyes. “He looks like you haven’t been feeding him,” you comment. Cregan snorts. “We do. He just refuses to eat.”
A guard brings you a seat, and you thank him and sit down. The man in the cellar looks at you, forehead pressed to the bars. “Who is she, dear nephew? Your playdate?” he’s sarcastic, that much you can tell. You already don’t like him.
“Uncle, this is the Princess firstborn of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velayon. She is here as Royal Ambassador to evaluate your case.”
His uncle raises his eyebrows, looking at you up and down. “I don’t believe that. She’s barely a babe out of the womb.”
You glare at him, tapping your foot on the ground. “And you look like the worst scum out of Flea Bottom. But I guess looks can be deceiving.” you sigh heavily, crossing your arms. “Ser Bennard Stark–”
“Lord Bennard Stark,” he interjects.
You narrow your eyes. “I’ll call you whatever in the Seven fucking Hells I want to. You are no Lord, and I am a Princess, so you are to speak only when interpelled. Are we clear?”
He makes no sign of a reply. “I said, are we clear?”
“Please, uncle, you have already embarrassed this family enough,” Cregan reiterates. In the end, the man opts to make a small approving sound. You lean back in your seat. “Good.”
You take a small piece of paper out of your sleeve, having prepared it earlier. You open it, and show it to him. “This is the order of the Small Council– your three sons will be executed as soon as your matters are settled, with or without you. They have no titles and are young, so there shouldn’t be many against it. You, however…” you tilt your head, “Your life sits in my hands. You are a knight, crowned by my own grandsire the King, and you are the son of a lord — a lord that was well liked and loved by his people.”
You sigh again, a bit tired from your journey, passing the paper to Cregan for him to read. “So, Ser, give me a good reason why I should let you live.”
“For instance, my good for nothing nephew ruling Winterfell alone would make the castle crumble to pieces in hours.”
You turn around, feigning confusion, staring at the walls and at the ceiling. “What a strange thing to say. He’s been ruling alone for almost three sennights and Winterfell still stands strong.”
The man narrows his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be playing with your dolls and learning the alphabet?”
You stay silent for a moment, your foot still tapping against the floor. “And shouldn’t you have died of starvation by now? It would have made a lot of things easier. Do you know that there are people condemned to die of starvation?”
Your head turns to Cregan, who stands by your side and tilts his face to look at you. “Have you heard about that lord in the free cities?”
He thinks for a bit, then nods, and your gaze returns to the prisoner, “I think it was in Qohor. They locked up a man in a tower, with his four sons, and just waited for them to die, as they were left without food or water. They say he was the last one to die, and apparently, he ate the remains of his sons once he went mad from hunger. Unfortunately you don’t seem to understand the situation you’re in. Have you got anything to defend yourself against the accuses of usurpation?”
He starts yelling, slamming against the bars, hands reaching for you and his nephew. “That throne is mine! I won’t let children take it away from me!”
You laugh. “I guess we’re done here.” you rise from your seat, Cregan standing beside you to block Bennard’s attempts at reaching you. “Thank the Gods; my dragon could really use some breakfast tomorrow.”
“It is northern tradition that the Lord of Winterfell executes the prisoners–”
“Do I look northern to you?”
“No, Princess, but–”
“You have to understand that if you ask for the Crownlands’ help, then the matters are going to be resolved in the Crownlands’ ways,” you mutter, glaring at him. Bennard and his sons are tied to a tree, screaming and thrashing around, as Nādrēsy stares at them hungrily — he likes his preys scared, even if they’re a bit too thin for his usual liking. He’s waiting for your command. “Besides, my dragon’s hungry.”
“But my uncle and cousins are still Starks,” he tries again. There are guards who are watching the exchange intently, stealing scared glances at your dragon. Some people of the smallfolk who heard about the execution have bundled up at a fair distance, not wanting to get near Nādrēsy. “It is best if they die in our ways.”
You raise an eyebrow, staring at him like he’s crazy. “Lord Stark, you do not realise that by trying to steal your right, they threatened the Crown. And by threatening the crown, they threatened me, and my whole family. It is right that I seek justice in the name of the Targaryens.”
He backs up a little bit, hesitantly nodding after a brief pause. You nod back. “Please never question my judgement ever again. There is a reason why I was chosen to be Royal Ambassador, and it is not because I am spoiled or the favourite of my grandsire.”
Looking at your dragon, eager to have a taste at his relatives, Cregan understands why you have been chosen. Nādrēsy is scary, and his reputation precedes him, surely making any exchange easier.
His uncle and cousins die screaming, swallowed like flies by the dragon’s mouth, not even chewed on. The northermen can just stare, realising that if they ever were to be confronted by that monster, they would stand no chance. They look at their lord then, hoping that he never angers you in any way.
The matter is settled, so you are now ready to fly to the Riverlands, and once the sacks with your things are tied to Nādrēsy’s back you are free from your obligations and can go. You bid goodbye to Lord Cregan, thanking him for the hospitality, and climb on your dragon’s back, taking a hold of the reins, before stopping.
“Oh, I almost forgot– Lord Stark!”
He perks up, worried. “Is there any problem?”
“No, no, everything’s alright. Just… where do I find your best ale?”
𝘿𝙖𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 & 𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙘𝙚! 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧/𝙤𝙘
𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘢𝘪𝘳. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘙𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴 11𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥.
Warning: targcest, (niece and uncle) 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
one: ✶ two: ✶
Prince Daemon Targaryen, Lord of Flea Bottom, as he was now deemed in hushed tones had nothing on his mind except his marriage with Lady Rhea Royce.
He had thrown quite the fit when it was announced, his own brother had agreed with the marriage, which lead to the eventual ceremony.
Daemons own grandmother, Alysanne, had arranged the two to wed, others in the council nodded at the offer. The Royce’s were the second most powerful house in Vale, on paper it was a good match for a prince who was second born and wasn’t sent to inherit anything.
But the others had neglected one crucial detail. Daemon Targaryen was vicious, and only marched to the beat of his drum.
Having been wed to an intolerably plain women that bored him was terrible, not being able to return to Kings Landing whenever to visit with his sweet niece had irked him, Runestone felt like exile.
Above all else his bride was not of Valaryen descent, even if Rhea bore children, it’s likely that they would never become dragon riders. To Daemon being wed to a women of brown hair, akin to horse shit, dark emotionless eyes, and that dull bronze armour, had to be the most humiliating action that had ever been done to him.
—
Daemon had finally been able to return to Kings Landing, where they would celebrate his nieces 11th name day.
Rhaella had written to him non-stop. Their were times where he had just finished his reply before another one of her letters had come again.
It’s sure that she has grown into a lovely girl, a flower with no thorns. The girl was gentle to even the roughest thugs for goodness sake.
Daemon had not held back and gotten her more things than any child should own, but it was his wonderful niece. She was no ordinary child.
—
“Kepa!” Fathers Brother
As soon as Caraxes had situated himself on the the ground, Daemon slid off his the wyrms wings and had leaned down, opening his arms towards his niece.
The young girl was dressed in frills and lace, she looked like a cake. Rhaella jumped into his arms and tried to embrace his neck.
“Lēkianna” Child of the older brother
Daemon embraced the girl in his end, tensing and crossing his arms across her back, as if she’d fly away as soon as he relaxed. He untucked her from his chest and pecked her forehead.
“Eman missed ao tolī olvie” I have missed you to much
He whispered in her hair, and slowly caressed the now messy silver locks.
Soft. Her scent had mixed with that of the Dragons den, like smoke, citrus and flowers, and something else he cannot name.
Rhaella squirmed into the crook of his neck and giggled. “You’ve gotten larger uncle. Mayhaps Caraxes will have a harder time riding with you”
He chuckled back, moving his arms to end at her waist, tickling her in the process.
Rhaella laughed uncontrollably while flailing in her uncles hold.
“You’ve gotten cheekier with no one to test you I see”
Rhaella didn’t listen and continued to climb all over his chest, finding herself on his shoulders, with Daemon having a strong hold on her legs.
—
Rhaella’s name day celebration was well underway, many lords of the area had attended and brought gifts, ranging from jewel encrusted jewelry, to soft animal shaped pilwe.
The young lady of the hour had last been seen with her twin sister talking to other young maidens from distinguished houses.
Currently she was no where to be found.
On a grassy hillside, the pair of Daemon and Rhaella had escaped the roaring festivities. Viserys had always liked his feasts.
Rhaella had come up to Daemon and requested for him to take her away from the all the ‘scary people’, as she put it.
He had taken Caraxes out of his den and flew to a small grassy Island littered with wild flowers.
Rhaella had been entertaining herself by sticking flowers of all shapes and sizes into Daemons hair. The silver locks now filled with blues and yellows. His back was facing her as he lounged on the grass.
“You look prettier like this Kepa” Rhaella muttered in a hushed tone, her fingers desperately trying to keep the red flower from falling off his head.
“Are you saying your uncle is not attractive?”
“Noo” Rhaella gasped and encircled her small arms around his neck once more.
Daemon chuckled and slowly stood from his spot, dragging Rhaella up in the process.
“We should return, the people would be devastated if the young princess was to run away with her uncle” He carried her, pressing her small body into his tuniced chest.
“I refuse!” She grumbled into his clothes, gripping onto the maroon leather.
“You mustn’t sweetling”
“But I should”
“Stop it” Daemon taunted, reaching Caraxes who was enjoying the sun.
Rhaella sighed for the seemingly thousandth time, and continued to bury herself into her uncles body. “If I must you must also stay”
Daemon peered down at the young girl, her ears were red with embarrassment, and warm to the touch.
“As the young princess wishes of me” He laughed, earning smacks from the girl.
𝘿𝙖𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 & 𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙘𝙚! 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧/𝙤𝙘
𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘢𝘪𝘳. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘙𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴 11𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥.
Warning: targcest, (niece and uncle) 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
one: ✶ two: ✶
Prince Daemon Targaryen, Lord of Flea Bottom, as he was now deemed in hushed tones had nothing on his mind except his marriage with Lady Rhea Royce.
He had thrown quite the fit when it was announced, his own brother had agreed with the marriage, which lead to the eventual ceremony.
Daemons own grandmother, Alysanne, had arranged the two to wed, others in the council nodded at the offer. The Royce’s were the second most powerful house in Vale, on paper it was a good match for a prince who was second born and wasn’t sent to inherit anything.
But the others had neglected one crucial detail. Daemon Targaryen was vicious, and only marched to the beat of his drum.
Having been wed to an intolerably plain women that bored him was terrible, not being able to return to Kings Landing whenever to visit with his sweet niece had irked him, Runestone felt like exile.
Above all else his bride was not of Valaryen descent, even if Rhea bore children, it’s likely that they would never become dragon riders. To Daemon being wed to a women of brown hair, akin to horse shit, dark emotionless eyes, and that dull bronze armour, had to be the most humiliating action that had ever been done to him.
—
Daemon had finally been able to return to Kings Landing, where they would celebrate his nieces 11th name day.
Rhaella had written to him non-stop. Their were times where he had just finished his reply before another one of her letters had come again.
It’s sure that she has grown into a lovely girl, a flower with no thorns. The girl was gentle to even the roughest thugs for goodness sake.
Daemon had not held back and gotten her more things than any child should own, but it was his wonderful niece. She was no ordinary child.
—
“Kepa!” Fathers Brother
As soon as Caraxes had situated himself on the the ground, Daemon slid off his the wyrms wings and had leaned down, opening his arms towards his niece.
The young girl was dressed in frills and lace, she looked like a cake. Rhaella jumped into his arms and tried to embrace his neck.
“Lēkianna” Child of the older brother
Daemon embraced the girl in his end, tensing and crossing his arms across her back, as if she’d fly away as soon as he relaxed. He untucked her from his chest and pecked her forehead.
“Eman missed ao tolī olvie” I have missed you to much
He whispered in her hair, and slowly caressed the now messy silver locks.
Soft. Her scent had mixed with that of the Dragons den, like smoke, citrus and flowers, and something else he cannot name.
Rhaella squirmed into the crook of his neck and giggled. “You’ve gotten larger uncle. Mayhaps Caraxes will have a harder time riding with you”
He chuckled back, moving his arms to end at her waist, tickling her in the process.
Rhaella laughed uncontrollably while flailing in her uncles hold.
“You’ve gotten cheekier with no one to test you I see”
Rhaella didn’t listen and continued to climb all over his chest, finding herself on his shoulders, with Daemon having a strong hold on her legs.
—
Rhaella’s name day celebration was well underway, many lords of the area had attended and brought gifts, ranging from jewel encrusted jewelry, to soft animal shaped pilwe.
The young lady of the hour had last been seen with her twin sister talking to other young maidens from distinguished houses.
Currently she was no where to be found.
On a grassy hillside, the pair of Daemon and Rhaella had escaped the roaring festivities. Viserys had always liked his feasts.
Rhaella had come up to Daemon and requested for him to take her away from the all the ‘scary people’, as she put it.
He had taken Caraxes out of his den and flew to a small grassy Island littered with wild flowers.
Rhaella had been entertaining herself by sticking flowers of all shapes and sizes into Daemons hair. The silver locks now filled with blues and yellows. His back was facing her as he lounged on the grass.
“You look prettier like this Kepa” Rhaella muttered in a hushed tone, her fingers desperately trying to keep the red flower from falling off his head.
“Are you saying your uncle is not attractive?”
“Noo” Rhaella gasped and encircled her small arms around his neck once more.
Daemon chuckled and slowly stood from his spot, dragging Rhaella up in the process.
“We should return, the people would be devastated if the young princess was to run away with her uncle” He carried her, pressing her small body into his tuniced chest.
“I refuse!” She grumbled into his clothes, gripping onto the maroon leather.
“You mustn’t sweetling”
“But I should”
“Stop it” Daemon taunted, reaching Caraxes who was enjoying the sun.
Rhaella sighed for the seemingly thousandth time, and continued to bury herself into her uncles body. “If I must you must also stay”
Daemon peered down at the young girl, her ears were red with embarrassment, and warm to the touch.
“As the young princess wishes of me” He laughed, earning smacks from the girl.