Fan of multiple things

Maekar shakes his head and rides off with a grumble. Baelor smiles at you pityingly as he follows his brother. You choose to ignore them both. Just as they have ignored your desperate pleas for freedom since you were entrusted to Maekar’s care. 

You lead your horse to the stables and see a rather large stable boy waiting. Gods above, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man so big. Must’ve been kicked in the head as a child, poor thing, he looks utterly lost. 

“Would you ensure she has some oats and a good groom?" You run your hand over your mare's mane as you approach him. "She does hate muddy roads, and I’m afraid that’s all we’ve had,” you tell the boy. 

He blinks big blue eyes up at you before frowning. “Beg pardon, m’lady, but I’m no stableboy.”

“Oh,” you tilt your head and smile. “That certainly makes more sense.” He lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You find yourself endeared by such sheepish behavior. It’s as if he has not one idea how to act around a woman. 

Perhaps he doesn’t. It seems a skill lost to most these days. 

“You there! Fetch me a nice wench and have her brought to my rooms.” You glance over your shoulder at your betrothed and scoff. 

“How very princely.”

Aerion bares dragon-like teeth at you in a stiff smile that makes you grimace. “Until my lady flowers, I’m afraid I must find entertainment in other forms.”

“Better them than me,” you grumble, swinging your leg over your saddle. 

“Here,” the large man steps forward, offering his hand. You smile, taking it gratefully as he eases you from your mare, steering you away from the thick puddles of mud. 

“Flirting with the stable hands, now?” Aerion taunts, failing to hide the venom in his tone.

“He’s no stable hand,” you scold Aerion. “He’s…” you glance back at the man for some help. 

He straightens, puffing his chest proudly. “A knight, your grace.”

Aerion’s eyes flit up and down the knight before he scoffs. “What a sorry state the realm is in that you are a knight.”

Aerion slips from his horse and heads into the keep. You’re going to apologize to the man when Aerion’s monster of a horse bucks out at one of the true stable hands. The man flies back, blood spraying from his face as his body slams against the ground. 

You jump back with a sharp gasp as the knight rushes past you. He reaches Aerion’s mount and hushes her, grabbing the reins as he soothes her. You can’t help but be awed at the display as he leads her quietly to the stables. 

“It’s alright, girl,” he whispers and you smile, following after him with your own mare. 

“I don’t believe I got your name, Ser.”

“Oh, um, Dunk- Duncan,” he quickly corrects. “See Duncan the Tall.”

“A pleasure, Ser.”

“And you, m’lady?” He asks, still calming Aerion’s wily horse. 

You give him your first name and then smile, “Waters,” the last name of all bastards born in the crownlands. “Soon to be Targaryen,” you sigh. 

Dunk’s eyes go wide and you can’t help but laugh. “Fret not, sweet knight. I hold no true importance. I am betrothed to Aerion, the very same man who that beast belongs to,” you nod toward the horse. 

“I am sorry for how he spoke to you. Could I make it up to you in some way?” Dunk begins to shake his head no. You appreciate the attempt at honor, but all men want something.

Slowly, his eyes drift back to the keep before he faces you once more. “Actually, m’lady, I’m trying to get my name in the lists. But I need a knight to vouch for me. All others have forgotten Ser Arlan of Pennytree. But he did always boast of his joust with Baelor Targaryen, perhaps the prince might remember.”

You let out a huff of laughter and nod your head. “It won’t be too hard for me to get an audience with him. Besides, if any man remembers a hedge knight, it would be Baelor. Come along, Dunk.” 

His feet thud against the mud as he follows quickly after you. You glance over your shoulder and smile at the hopeful look on his face. Perhaps you’ve just found a reason to be interested in this damnable tourney. 

“Will you be gracing us with your presence today, cousin?”

You glance at Valarr and sigh at the smirk on his face. “Only if you allow me some of that wine you keep in your tent.”

He laughs and nods, leading you out toward the field. “But of course, my lady.”

“Enough,” you scold, shaking your head at his antics. You'd rather be treated as a bastard than a proper lady, and he knows it. Always teasing you with formalities that only serve to remind you of the noble place you will soon be marrying into.

The king might have decreed you legitimate, but you still carried a bastard’s name. And a bastard's dislike for higher-borns. 

Though Valarr was a rare exception to your hatred. Maekar had never quite mastered parenting after your aunt had died. His boys ran wild from him and slipped between his fingers. At least Baelor had brought up an honorable man.

Valarr leads you to his tent on the edge of the jousting field. He ducks inside while you sit on a chair outside the tent. He returns with two goblets generously filled. 

You doubt he’ll drink much. He prefers to be clear of mind when competing. But you’ll happily finish his. The drunker you are, the quicker this will go. 

Aerion rides out onto the field. His ridiculous armor clinks with each beat of his horse's hooves. He travels down the fence, stopping before you and Valarr. 

Valarr tenses immediately. A wise instinct on his part, considering how much Aerion threatens his own brothers, he could hardly care much for a cousin. 

“Do not worry, Valarr, I will not embarrass you. Not yet, at least.” You roll your eyes at his cocky demeanor as his gaze drifts to you. “I wish only for a kiss of luck from my beautiful betrothed.”

You choke slightly on your wine and cut him a sharp glare. “Perhaps a kiss of victory after, darling," you grit out.

Aerion’s eyes narrow and he tilts his head. “No,” he drawls, a lilt to his voice that has your body tensing on instinct. “Come here, love.”

There is no sweet lover’s lilt or crooning affection in his tone. It is wholly and entirely ownership, domination over your body and soul. You are something that has belonged to him since you were first forced to go to Summerhall. No means nothing to him. 

You place your goblet on the table and rise to your feet. Your boots slip against the mud and he grins as he watches you struggle. Placing your hands on the pommel of his saddle, you push up to your toes. 

Aerion slides the front of his helmet down and leans until you’re face-to-face with a metalworked demon. “Come on,” he taunts, voice echoing beneath the helm. 

You force yourself to press your lips to the cold face, to the twisted visage of death he wears so proudly. He lets out a laugh, jerking back and urging his horse forward. The pommel slips from your hands abruptly and you nearly fall to the mud. 

You glare at the back of his head and wish you would one day grow old enough to see him hanged or worse.

Oh, how he loves to taunt you like that. With little moments that show you the rest of your life. Visions of him commanding you as he sees fit. For all that you are is also his. As it always has been and always will be. 

If you weren’t so stubborn and intent on living. You would have let the Stranger take you years ago. Slipped Tears of Lys into your supper wine and entered the long sleep as a child. 

Valarr offers a pitying look as you walk back to him. It only serves to anger you further. It’s not as if he or his father ever said a word in your defense. No, you were Maekar’s burden. If he wished to marry you to his mad son, then you were a sacrifice that might benefit them in keeping Aerion subdued. 

You throw yourself back down in your chair, tipping your head back and downing as much of your wine as you can swallow without drowning. Aerion looks toward you before he faces his opponent across the field. The horn bellows from the seats above and you avoid Valarr’s stare burning into you as the other men charge. 

It is of no surprise to you when Aerion ducks to the side, a coward’s attempt at getting his opponent off balance. But he does not give the man time to recover. He turns his horse around and drops his lance low. 

“It’s too low,” Valarr mutters, straightening up in his seat. 

“Indeed,” you mutter, taking another swig of your wine. And, again, it is no surprise to you when Aerion drives the lance into the neck of his opponent’s horse. But that does not mean you enjoy listening to the piercing screams of the beast as it dies. 

“Gods above,” you look over at Valarr and scoff. It is astounding to you that Aerion’s family is still surprised at his cruelty. 

Your betrothed flips up his helm, grin wide on his face as the horse writhes, crushing his rider’s leg. The goblet in your hand spins against the table. You run your fingers over the gold and the jewels embedded in it. 

The crowd shouts profanities at Aerion, cursing him for such poor sportsmanship. They riot, shoving up against one another as a violent, hungry wave of hate. Their screams fill you, remind you of the many injustices the Gods have dealt you. 

The goblet is flying from your hands before you can think. Aerion flinches, jolting forward as it slams against the back of his helmet. You get to your feet just as he turns. But someone from the crowd sends a rock flying into his face before the full force of his anger can find you. 

“Cousin,” you ignore Valarr, lifting your skirts and storming from the field before you have to take in the full consequence of your recklessness. You have had enough Targaryens for a lifetime. You need to be in the presence of someone who hates them as much as you do. 

Lyonel’s tent is full and rowdy. They do not let the energy of today’s match dim their mood. Nor their generosity with their wine. You sit toward the back of the tent, sulking as you drown your sorrows. 

“M’lady?”

You jolt at the voice and whip around to find the knight from the stables. “Ser Duncan,” you greet, wiping Dornish wine from the corner of your lips. “Please,” you nod to the seat beside you. 

He offers a tentative smile before sitting on the bench. You let out a quiet groan as the table dips, gripping the edge of your seat so you don’t slide toward him. You’re sure a man like him is aware of his size, but you wonder how much he truly understands the effect it has on those around him. 

“Did you enjoy the match today?” You ask dryly, already certain you know the answer. 

Dunk blanches and shakes his head. “No offense meant, m’lady.”

“Nonsense,” you wave him off with a little laugh. “There is no bigger critic of my betrothed than myself. It was unseemly for a prince and absolutely abhorrent for a knight. Did you not wonder where that goblet came from today?”

Dunk chokes on his wine and sends you a wide-eyed look. “That was you?”

You let out a weary sigh and nod. “I am not keen to go back to the keep and face the consequences of my action.”

“No,” Dunk mutters, shaking his head. 

You slam your hand on the table and Dunk jolts. Pushing off the wood, you stand on wobbly legs, warmed by the wine. “I wish not to think of my future husband. Would you dance with me, Ser?”

He blanches at the idea. You cannot fault him. You would not be eager to take the hand of a woman destined to marry such a cruel man. “M’lady, I shouldn’t-“

“I understand,” you cut him off. “Perhaps it’s time I retire, anyway. Face the music as is so often said.” You bite your lip, brushing off your skirts. You take in a shaky breath as you struggle to imagine how cruel Aerion might be tonight as he sneaks into your chambers. 

Just as you turn to leave, Dunk jumps to his feet. You startle at the abrupt movement and he rocks on his heels. He’s slumped, like he’s unsure what to do with all his height. You have a few ideas. 

“Perhaps, one dance,” he amends. You smile and let out a huff of laughter. You hold your hand out, smile only widening when the size of his palm completely dwarfs your own. 

“Lead the way, Ser.” You sweep your arm out toward the dance floor and he eagerly leads you to it. His dancing is clumsy, but it’s more enthusiastic than anything your betrothed might ever give you. 

He doesn’t care how he looks as you spin him about the floor, or how many times you step on his toes. He leads you through one dance before relinquishing control and letting you lead him through two more. 

It is, perhaps, the most fun you’ve had since your tenth name day. The last year you remember being happy. He is a breath of fresh air, a man who reminds you of a time before you became Targaryen property. 

When the dancing is over and sweat dots your temple, you take a seat with Duncan once more. You pick at honeyed bread while he devours a turkey leg nearly as big as his own bicep. You watch him with rapt attention. Such different mannerisms from the properly bred and behaved nobles. It is endearing, in a strange way. 

“Might I ask you something, m’lady?” You nod your head with a smile, taking another drink of your wine. “You don’t seem to love the prince. How is it you came to be betrothed?”

“It’s sweet that you think love might have anything to do with a noble’s marriage.” Dunk flushes, ducking his head, and you smirk. “Aerion’s mother is my aunt. After my own mother passed, she took me in. They didn’t know who my father was, so I was named a bastard. But when Maekar noticed just how enchanted my cousin had become with me, he had the king legitimize me. He thought promising Aerion my hand might tame his son. But I’ve spent long enough time around him to know that when Aerion becomes tamed is the day dragons return to Westeros.”

You scoff and shake your head, “Aerion often likes to tell me he can forgive me the impurity of my bastard blood for the sake of the love he holds for his mother.”

Dunk's face is aghast as he listens, lips parted with disgust. You snort into your wine. “Trust me, I’m just as disgusted by a Targaryen’s tendency toward kin-fucking as you are. The day I actually have to marry Aerion, I’ll likely fling myself from the highest window. But!” You slap Dunk’s shoulder and he jolts.

“That is not tonight, so distract me with a tale of your travels, hedge knight. I wish to hear of this Ser Arlan you love so much.”

Dunk hesitates for a moment, looking like there’s a word of sympathy he wishes to give you. Blessedly, he simply nods and does as you ask. Regaling you with a ridiculous tale of his master’s drunken fights with gold cloaks and Lannisters alike. 

The tourney ends up being far more enjoyable than anything you had ever expected. You can lay credit to that on Dunk’s shoulders. The nights you are here are spent dancing in Lyonel’s tent, getting drunk off Dornish wine and listening to stories you scarcely believe are real. 

But your mornings, unfortunately, are owned by your kin.

You break fast around Lord Ashford’s table. There has been silence since Aerion’s incident on the field. He has been more temperamental after Baelor forced the prince to give his horse to that knight he’d dishonored. 

“It is barely past dawn,” Maekar grumbles, glaring down the table as Daeron orders a flagon of wine from one of the servants. 

“I know and I am already unfortunately sober,” he smiles, taking a deep swig. You bite your lip to hold back your laughter. They had found Daeron at an inn the night past, you don’t think your uncle has been able to get information about Aegon’s disappearance from him, yet. You’re certain it will be even more unlikely, considering how intent Daeron is on drinking himself to exhaustion. 

“Have you enjoyed the tourney?” Baleor directs at you, attempting to dispel the tension between father and son. 

You hum and look up from your meal to Aerion. He sends you a smirk that makes your blood boil.

“It is as all tourneys are,” you vaguely respond, wishing for your own goblet of wine right about now. Perhaps Daeron’s drunkenness is not a weakness of character but a sorry consequence of prolonged exposure to Targaryens. 

“That’s hardly an answer,” your betrothed interrupts. Baelor shoots him a tired look. “Give us your honest feelings, my love.”

You suck in a sharp breath and lean back in your chair. “Honest?” He nods and you grin.

“I am ashamed that the man I am to marry has been the only one to perform so poorly that a riot broke out. I am disgusted that I had to listen to an animal screech in pain while it waited to be put down. And I am entirely sick of lord Ashford’s gruel and soggy bread.” You shove your plate away and get to your feet. 

Aerion’s face has gone bright red, his hand tightening dangerously around his knife. Maekar lets out a tired sigh and pinches his brow. “You obstinate little-”

“Enough,” Baelor interrupts your betrothed. “Do not insult our host,” he chides you, making no mention of how you’d disrespected Aerion. Most likely because he knows it to be the truth. 

“Apologies,” you mutter, glancing at the man in question, who was staring down at his plate with flushed cheeks. “But I do recommend you spend more gold on your crops rather than elaborate displays of wealth for the monarchy. Excuse me,” you snap, storming from the room. 

They would not have an obstinate bastard to deal with if your uncle had simply granted you freedom after your aunt’s passing. No, instead, he swore to marry you to your cousin. To sate the itch Aerion seemed to crave for the old ways of Targaryen blood purity. Even if you were not pure. 

By now, you should be heavy with Aerion’s child. You should already be wed and tamed by marriage. But Maekar had sworn that Aerion would only marry you once you had been flowered. After long over a decade, you think Aerion would have caught on that you’d flowered when you were thirteen and had been hiding it ever since. 

Just this morning, your blood came. A servant had caught you burning the sheets. But they did not know of any such deal made, so you had hope it would not get back to your betrothed. 

Rushing down the steps of Ashford Hall, you wonder what you might entertain yourself with until Evenfall. Until you can see your hedge knight again. 

You stand in Lyonel Baratheon’s tent once more, hovering at Dunk’s side while he pillages the desert table. “Are you really going to be able to eat that all?” You wonder, eyes wide as you take in the three tarts balanced in his palm. 

Dunk gives you a proud grin, “‘Course-”

“Is that a fucking Targaryen in my tent?” Lyonel’s voice breaks through the revelry. He stands in the middle of the tent, eyes narrowed as he glares over at you. Dunk stiffens and shifts to stand in front of you. 

You place your hand on his arm and step around him. “Call me that again and you’ll lose your tongue. Won’t be the laughing storm much longer.”

Dunk whips around with an aghast look, but you pay him no mind. Lyonel is quiet for a moment longer before bursting out into laughter. The people in the tent laugh along with him, the liveliness returning as they go back to their drink and dance. “I have missed that barbed wit of yours.”

He strides forward and pulls you into a rough hug. You pat his back with a grin. “I’m sure you miss any wit out in those forsaken Stormlands of yours.”

Dunk’s eyes dart between the pair of you and he frowns. “You two know each other?”

Lyonel glances toward him, but ignores Dunk in favor of questioning you. “What’re you doing with my giant?”

“Oh,” you chuckle. “He’s your giant now, is he? I met him after he was introduced to the hospitality and grace of the Targaryens.”

Lyonel groans and shakes his head. “Your betrothed, then?”

“And his beast of a horse.”

You glance over at Dunk to see him looking bewildered. If not a little relieved that you’re not getting your tongue taken for speaking to a nobleman so brazenly.

“The monarchy likes to make a scene of visiting the lords and ladies of important houses. I have met Lyonel quite a few times during those tours.”

“Yes, and she’s the only royal I haven’t wanted to kill the moment I met,” Lyonel adds with a smirk, taking a swig of his mead. 

“How flattering,” you drawl, shooting him a sharp look. 

“Tell me, how is it that I have not seen you?” Lyonel questions, leading you over to his table. Dunk hovers behind you both, hand still laden with sweets. 

“I imagine you’ve been too drunk to recognize the face dancing with your giant.”

“And what an interesting dance partner he makes.” You hum your agreement as Lyonel throws himself down in his chair. “Entertain me, Waters, I grow bored of the same Lord’s prattling on.”

You shoot Dunk a sly look that he returns with a hesitant smile, cheeks now full of tart. With a slight laugh, you sit down, preparing to regale your Lord with whatever wild tales you might think of. 

“How long have you known Lyonel?” Dunk asks as he walks you from the tent and back on the path to Ashford. 

“Since I was a girl. Though I have grown up and I don’t think he ever plans on it.”

Dunk laughs and shakes his head, “I don’t think I’ve ever met such an interesting man.”

“I doubt you ever will again,” you tell him. You look back at the tent before tossing him a weary glance. “You know, I don’t think you’ve shown me your pavilion, yet.”

Dunk flushes, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. You worry for a moment that you were too forward. “That’s because I don’t have a pavilion, m’lady. I sleep under the stars as any proper hedge knight would. I have only a tree for cover.”

“Hm,” you let out a little laugh. “Trees leak.”

Dunk chuckles, glancing over at you with a soft smile that makes something inside of you melt. “That they do.”

“Would you show me, Dunk? This grand tree of yours. The night is far too young to return to the dragons of Ashford.” Dunk hesitates at the mention of your family, sending you a worried look. You offer a smile, nodding toward the path. 

“Alright,” he huffs out, only slightly reluctant. “But I’ll have you back before dawn,” he swears.

“Whatever you say, sweet knight.”

Dunk gives a firm nod and takes the hand you hold out to him, rough callouses a pleasurable change to your own smooth palms. You hold onto his arm as he leads you toward this tree of his.

It lies beneath a stone wall and isn’t half as large as you’d been expecting. But the trunk is wide enough for one to lie against and you suppose that’s all that matters. The rest of his camp is empty, his squire apparently quite enamored with the puppeteers at the tourney.

“Hm,” you hum, circling the base before resting with your back against it. “You know, I’m still not quite convinced that this is any better than a pavilion like Lyonel’s.” Dunk hovers a little way away from you, hands tight around the hilt of his sword as he watches you. He almost seems ashamed. 

“Dunk,” you frown, “I’m only teasing.”

“Yes,” he nods and lets out a strained laugh. “I know. But… you’re used to castles and- and grander things than a hedge knight has ever known.” He moves closer to you as you wait beneath the boughs of the elm tree. 

“Yes, and with gold and glory comes cruelty, entitlement, and some of the worst men to ever grace the seven kingdoms.” You step closer to him, reaching out for his hands. He releases his sword in favor of holding onto you. “Do you truly think I care for those things?”

Dunk finally meets your eye, and slowly he shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. 

“No, sweet knight, I don’t.” Your eyes dip to his lips for a moment and you see him do the same. It would be foolish, stupid, even, to do this. You could be damning him to Aerion’s anger and revenge.

But, it’s as you said, nobles are bad people. Selfish people. You never said you were any different. 

You push onto the tips of your toes and press your lips against his. It’s stiff, at first, hesitant on both your ends. Just as you begin to pull back, Dunk’s hand cups the back of your head, and he’s tugging you forward. You let out a slight gasp against his lips, clutching onto the front of his shirt as he walks you backwards. 

Your back hits the rough bark of the tree while his other hand squeezes at your waist. The pommel of his sword digs into your stomach and you grimace, trying to ignore it and instead focus on the feeling of his lips against yours. The taste of Lyonel’s mead that still coats his tongue. 

He undoes his roped belt with one hand, letting his sword drop to the grass in favor of tugging you even closer. Your body arches into his as he tilts your head, deepening the kiss. His thigh shifts, slotting between the loose skirt of your dress. You’re shocked by how brazen he’s being. You’d expected rejection, a claim that this was dishonorable to do as a woman promised to another. 

But Dunk seems to care not for propriety as his hands drop to your hips, urging them to action. You let out a little moan as you grind against the firm muscles of his thigh. The girth of him alone is enough to have your skin buzzing with pleasure. He’d once told you his master used to call him thick as a castle wall. The old man certainly had a point. 

The number of times you’d thought about mounting him is shameful to say the least. But you hadn’t actually thought it would happen. Certainly not under a tree, with nothing but the stars above you. Though you can’t say you’re complaining. Not as his lips leave yours, trailing down your neck and shoulder, before he drops to his knees before you. 

“Dunk,” you whisper, staring down at him with wide eyes. For once, he’s caught you off guard. 

“Would you allow me this, m’lady?” he asks, eyes wide as his hands skim the hem of your skirts. You cannot think of any reason you might say no. But you’re so flustered, you can hardly get the words out. So you simply nod, nails biting into the bark of the elm as he lifts your skirts to your hips. 

Again, Dunk exceeds expectations. You’d thought there’d be hesitancy, a sheepish look as he delved beneath your skirts. But your permission is all Dunk needed. He wastes no time in shoving your smallclothes aside, pressing his lips to your core and taking in your taste like a man starved. 

“Gods above,” you gasp, hands jumping from the tree to Dunk’s hair. He lets out a groan as your fingers tangle within the strands; the sound vibrates through you. Your head falls back against the tree as he lifts your leg onto his shoulder. 

His tongue flattens against you, swiping between your folds as his hand lifts to your core. One thick finger breaches inside of you, and your hips jolt against his face. His nose bumps against your bundle of nerves and you let out a gasp, chasing the shock of pleasure. A rumbling moan vibrates against you as you use him. 

You can’t tell who’s enjoying this more, you or the knight kneeling between your legs. But each buck of your hips incenses him further, until he’s stretching you wide with two fingers and you’re struggling to gasp out his name. 

The pleasure hits you in a wave, thighs twitching and tightening around his head as your hips convulse. He lets you ride out the feeling, never stopping his ministrations as you catch your breath. He only relents when you begin to slow, pushing his face away rather than pulling him closer. 

You open your eyes to the stars shining through the leaves of the elm. Perhaps he had a point about a tree being better than a tent. It is a much prettier sight than a roof of silk. “M'lady?” Dunk questions, thumbs rubbing lazy circles into your thighs. 

You glance down and nearly laugh at the sheen of your release on his chin. The way your leg is still hiked upon his shoulder. “Gods,” you whisper, rubbing your hands down your face as you slowly stand straight. “I hadn’t expected that,” you tell him honestly.

The man grows flustered, as if he had not just devoured you moments prior. “Was it too much?”

“No,” you’re quick to object. He gets to his feet and you smile. “Do you need any…”

You trail off as he begins to shake your head. Brows furrowed, you glance down to see a slight stain on his pants. If you’d thought him sheepish before, his cheeks are now burning a bright red. He can scarcely meet your eyes. 

“Well, I can’t say I’ve ever met a man to take so much pleasure from a woman’s,” Dunk says nothing, rubbing the back of his neck as he stares at the ground. “Thank you, sweet knight,” you press a kiss to his cheek and he finally meets your eye again. “I wish I could stay with you a while longer, but,” Dunk nods his head and you offer a sorry smile. 

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks, almost eager. 

“Most certainly,” you promise. “Perhaps I can return the favor.”

His eyes fly wide and you let out a laugh, pushing away from the tree and him. “Until tomorrow, Ser.”

“Tomorrow, m’lady,” he says, giving you a soft smile that makes your chest ache. Were the Gods the type to spare any mercy, it would be Dunk you marry. Or a man like him. Not the dragon you are about to return home to. 

You offer a brief wave before making your way back to the path. Reluctantly traveling back to Ashford.

Suddenly, the idea of sleeping beneath a tree did not seem as silly as it once had. No, the thought fills you with a mourning ache of something you will never truly have. 

When you return to the keep, you race through the servant's entrance to your bedroom. It is not empty as you’d expected it to be. Aerion sits on your bed and you go still in the doorway, heart jumping to your throat. 

He tilts his head with a sharp smile. “And where have you been?”

You swallow thickly, fingers trembling around the door as your mind empties. No answer comes to you. After what just happened with Dunk, you’re too petrified thinking that Aerion might discover the truth. 

But Aerion does not wait for an answer. He gets to his feet, walking to your vanity and pouring himself some wine from the flagon the maid had left. “I was looking for you, so we might celebrate together.”

“Celebrate?” You finally find your voice again. But you’re still too afraid to step from the doorway. To be alone in this room with him. 

“Yes,” he turns with a wide smile that shows off his sharp teeth. He’s never looked more like a dragon.

“The maids here, love, are not as loyal as the ones at Summerhall. They tell their prince the truth because they know what’s best for them. And today, I heard that you have finally flowered.”

Your entire world stops. The elation from a night with Dunk is gone, scattered against the cold stone of Ashford. Aerion stalks closer and you wish you could run, but you have been frozen with terror. He knows the truth, now. You can no longer hide from your fate or run from him. He will never let you free. Not now. 

He stops just beside you, head dipping to your ear. You pray he cannot smell the events of the night on you. “When we return to Summerhall, we will be wed. Until then, you will remain locked in this room.” He pulls back, pressing a light kiss on the corner of your lips. “Wouldn’t want you to get any ideas of running away, would we?”

Aerion walks past you and lightly nudges you into your room. The door clicks shut behind him, and the lock falls in place after. But you just stand there, still. Sick with disgust and terrified by what your future now looks like. You are doomed. 

There is no escaping this.

Two nights follow with no word of what’s going on at the tourney. No news of when you might leave this place. You pace within your room like a caged beast. You have already tried pleading with the guard outside your door, but he will not release you. You wonder if Maekar knows what his son is doing or if he would even care. 

You think of Dunk, of the promise you’d made to return. You wished you had been able to keep it. You imagine how that night could have gone. You imagine a night where you convince him to run with you and you leave the Targaryens far behind. It’s a laughable idea, one that never would have come true. Especially not now. 

The lock on your door clicks and you tense, quickly running to grab your empty flagon of wine. A poor defense, but Aerion had left you with few options. But it is not your betrothed who finds you. It is his father.

“Uncle?” You question, the flagon dropping to your side. His face is grave, even more serious than it typically is. But beneath that, he wears a similar sadness to one you’d only seen when your aunt had passed.

“What’s wrong?” You question, and as wicked as it is, you pray he has come to deliver the news that Aerion perished during a joust. 

“Sit down,” he instructs. Frowning, you obey, taking a seat before the fire. He paces toward you, hands tucked tightly behind his back, but he does not sit. “I had not known that Aerion had you locked in here,” he tells you, cutting his eyes toward you for a moment. 

Reluctantly, you actually believe that to be the truth. “Baleor is dead,” he tells you, such a blunt delivery that you almost don’t believe him. 

“What?” you scoff, almost laughing. 

But he nods and does not laugh as if it were one big jest. “My son,” he shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “He got into a fight with a hedge knight over some puppeteer’s honor.” Your heart stills at the mention of a hedge knight. Your hedge knight?

“The knight demanded a trial, and Aerion invoked a trial of seven. Baelor died fighting for that knight. But that is not why I’m here.”

“Why?” You ask, but something in his face, something of the guilt he wears, tells you that you already know the truth. 

“I once thought that you might be the answer to Aerion’s madness. I know I was wrong. But I had little other choice.”

“You had plenty of choices,” you snap and he whips his gaze back to you. The glare he shoots you has you backing down, sinking further into your seat. 

“I will be sending him to the East,” he grits out. “Perhaps there he might finally calm.”

Your stomach drops. The East, the Free Cities, as far from Westeros as you’ve ever been. Further still from all that you’ve ever known. Stuck in a foreign city with Aerion. His father wouldn’t be there to hold him back, to protect you. 

You almost drop to your knees, beg for mercy, but Maekar is not done. “I release you, girl. You are no longer bound to my son. After what he has done, he does not deserve to marry you. And you do not deserve to be married to him. Consider yourself free from us, I know how much you’ve longed for that.”

“Uncle,” you get to your feet and he holds up his hand. He has no interest in empty platitudes. You nod, biting your lip so he can’t see you smile while he grieves. He turns to leave, but you stop him. “The knight, the one Baelor fought for. Who was he?”

Maekar scoffs and when he looks at you, you swear there is blame in his eyes. “The very one you brought to him. So he could be enlisted in the games.”

It was humming that Dunk awoke to. A foreign melody he’d never heard in Fleabottom. But it reminded him of the sort of songs the Sisters would hum to the sickly orphans. The type who wouldn’t make it through the night. 

His left eye was fuzzy, a smudged shape becoming clearer as he slowly blinked. The humming stopped abruptly and Dunk missed the sound already. It reminded him of how he used to feign sickness for an extra serving of bread for him and Rafe. How kindly the Sisters would bless him. 

“Calm, now, Dunk.” Her voice is soothing, low and calm. The type one would use to soothe a restless babe. “They’d told me that the maester hasn’t seen to you yet. I need you to be still.”

Dunk groaned and nodded lazily. “There you are,” she whispered. A stool scraped against stone, slippered feet padded away from him before quickly returning. 

The feelings of his body were slowly returning to him. The pain brushed against the edges of his mind. A burn in his thigh, aching, weeping pain through his stomach. A hundred other bites of agony, but he couldn’t feel them. Not fully. 

“I’ve given you milk of the poppy,” she tells him softly. “I was afraid you might not make it through the night.”

Dunk can only grumble, eyes rolling lazily about as he struggles to recall what brought him here to this kind voice and sweet melody. 

Something cool and damp presses against his forehead. A cloth that she pats down before her humming begins again. “Awake yet, Dunk?”

Another grumble and she lets out a laugh. “Consider yourself lucky. I do not think this is a world you’re ready to wake to.” Cold fingers press against the skin of his stomach, checking a wound there before she pulls his shirt back down. 

“Rest,” she instructs. “You will need all that you can get.” Dunk’s asleep before she leaves the room. 

Your uncle had told you that Baelor had taken up the Maester’s attention, though there was nothing they could do for a dead man. So you’d seen to Dunk’s injuries the moment you’d been freed from your room. You had been trained by your mother as a girl how to heal. A skill you kept up as you grew older. 

You weren’t as knowledgeable as a Maester, but you were decent enough to know boiling wine was the best thing for the large hole in Dunk’s side. A result of Aerion’s lance, apparently. You didn’t know how your former betrothed was ailing, but you intended to leave Ashford before you had to find out. 

As soon as you were sure Dunk wouldn’t die in his sleep, you’d left him. You’d packed what little belongings you had and bought a white horse to travel with. Before you left, though, you thought it wise to see Dunk one last time. 

He had been moved from Ashford Hall, back to his elm tree. You rode your new mare down the path, your bags attached to your saddle. Stopping at the stone wall, you slipped from the mare and jumped over the muddy rocks. 

You found Dunk slumped against his tree, staring out at nothing. He did not move as you approached, merely blinked, the light gone from his eyes as you sat beside him.

Your stomach twisted, unsure what you should even say to him. It has only been a handful of days, but it feels like a lifetime has passed since you’ve seen him last. 

“How’re your wounds?” You ask, fiddling with a loose thread on your skirt. 

“Were you there?” He asks, ignoring your own question. “At the trial?”

“Aerion had me locked in my rooms. A servant told him I’d flowered and he wanted to make sure I could not run before he wed me. I tended to you after, though. When the Maester could not see you, I did my best to keep you alive. ”

Dunk’s head lifts at that. He turns to face you and you offer a weak smile, but he doesn’t return it. “Probably saved me, he’s a shit maester.”

You scoff, “That he is.” You clear your throat and shift uncomfortably. “I came to thank you, Dunk. Were it not for you, Maekar would never have released me from Aerion. I am free now, because of you. I owe you my life.”

“You owe me nothing,” he grunts, turning his head to stare back into the distance. Something burns within you, pity or anger, you cannot tell. But this empty look in his eyes, the disconnect in his face, it does not sit well within you. 

With a short sigh, you press your lips to the only spot on his cheek that is not bruised. “Thank you nonetheless,” you whisper. He doesn’t even twitch. Pulling back, you get to your feet. “I hope I might see you again one day, Ser.”

You’re almost back to your horse when you hear him. “I don’t. I bring only pain and death to those around me.” You glance back at him but shake your head and mount your mare. You’ve only just received your freedom; you cannot risk staying here much longer. Not even for him. 

Weeks of traveling on your own have already proved far more interesting than any time spent with the royals. It reminds you of when you were a girl. When it was just you and your mother. Before her sister had found you and you’d been cursed to be trapped within one keep for the rest of your life. 

You still have the same mare from the Ashford tourney, though you’ve yet to settle on a proper name for her. She’s sweet, with a gentle disposition that’s far different from any other horse you’ve ridden. Perhaps something like Sugar might work. 

Leading her to the side of the road, you dismount. You tie her to a low branch on the closest tree and rush down into the forest. You lift your skirts, squatting as you make water beside a stream. Perhaps today you might finally settle on a destination for where you want to go. 

You’ve been riding aimlessly, but that doesn’t seem to be providing you with much luck. The number of bandits and sellswords you’ve come across this past fortnight has been worrying. You might have to part with some gold and invest in a decent dagger. 

“Sweetfoot!” The sounds of hoofbeats come to a stop along the road. 

You freeze from where you’ve squatted and glance over your shoulder. “Do you know this horse, ser?”

“Aye, but I sold her at the tourney. What’re you doing out here, girl?”

You frown, you would swear that you recognize those voices. Rising, you drop your skirts and rush back up to the treeline. A towering man stands beside your horse, petting her nose and smiling down at her. 

Gods above, is that… “Dunk?” You question, wary as you approach. He jumps back from your horse and his head whips toward you. 

His eyes widen as he takes you in, traveling up and down your body as his lips part quietly. “You?” He stutters out.

“Me,” you laugh, racing toward him. He pulls you into a tight embrace that you return eagerly. It has been far too long since you’ve seen a friendly face on the road. And you are more than relieved to see that he is far different from the broken man you’d left behind. 

“What are you doing with my horse?” He questions, puling back. 

“Your horse?” You glance back at the mare and frown. “I bought her at Ashford.”

But he’s no longer listening to you. He’s finally noticed the bruise along your cheek, the jagged cut decorating the bridge of your nose. His palm cups your chin, tilting your face as he runs his thumb lightly across the markings. “What happened?”

“Bandits,” you tell him. “Attacked me a few nights past. I was lucky to get away-” You cut yourself off as you finally notice the boy on the horse behind him. Your jaw drops and the boy’s eyes widen with recognition. “Aegon?” You squeak out. “Tell me there are no more Targaryens with you?”

You glance back at Dunk and he shakes his head, but his eyes are still trained on the injury. “No, Egg is my squire now. He’s traveling with me. Perhaps you should, too,” he mutters, frowning. 

“What?” You and Egg both demand. 

Dunk startles at the sudden tone of your voice and he backs up a step. “Well," he stutters, "you just said you got attacked. It might be safer for you.”

“Well of course it would be, look at the size of you. But are ladies really fit to be travling with knights?”

Egg rolls his eyes from where he’s seated. “Have you never read a fairytale?”

“Oi,” you snap, glaring over at him. “I’m the one who introduced you to damsels and knights, you little brat.” He shrugs, shooting you a smug grin that makes you feel like you’ve walked into a trap. 

“Then you know very well, with a knight is the best place for a lady to be.” Sometimes that boy is too smart for his own good. 

Dunk steps back with a smile. “He has a point. Besides, it’d be nice to travel with Sweetfoot again.”

You grin, already knowing your answer. “Just the horse, ser?”

Dunk flushes and shakes his head. “No, no, not just the horse. I mean it would be nice to be with you again, as well. Not again as in-”

“Relax,” you laugh, cutting off his rambling as you mount your horse. “I would be most grateful for you and your squire’s company. If you would have me?”

Dunk’s shoulders drop and he gives you a soft smile. “Of course I would have you.” The sharp smile you send him makes his cheeks burn red at the unintended insinuation. 

“Where are you going, anyway?” You ask Egg. 

He smiles, “I’ve never been past the red mountains. I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like beyond them.”

“So have I, what luck it is that we’ve found each other, once more.” You turn toward Dunk as he mounts his horse. “Perhaps the Gods favor bastards and hedge knights most.” 

Dunk smiles, but Egg cuts in. “And squires,” he adds with a huff, urging his horse past you both. 

“And squires,” you add with a reluctant smile. It seems your fate hadn’t been cursed as you’d once thought. You just needed to endure the dragons until your sweet knight came along to slay them.

a/n: I have little faith in my smut in this one but, hey, what about that plot?

Taglist: @lolabunnyworldss @juniebugg @kitkat1690

end. — I do not own the characters or the show A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Monotony in Flea Bottom was a blessing.

Westeros was not always a kind place, but it seemed Flea Bottom bought out the worst in people. You had found yourself there after a series of small tragedies in your life. The death of a parent, a bout of sickness and the theft of what little coin you had carried had ushered you to King’s Landing the way an undertaker would direct a funeral parade.

Your serving job in the tavern was the best thing that could have happened to you. The owners allowed you to rent a tiny room upstairs for a small amount of your already small wage. They watered and fed you and did not work you overly hard. A blessing, indeed.

You hummed to yourself as you swiped your cloth over the tables. No matter how frequently you cleaned them, they never quite seemed to lose that greasy, sticky feeling they had acquired over the years.

You liked to keep yourself busy, though, so you worked your way around the room clockwise until all the tables were as clean as they would get.

You tucked the cloth into the pocket on the front of your apron, frowning. The Mole’s Head was tucked away in the outskirts of Kings Landing, and so it could be rather quite on weekdays. There were always a few locals who turned up every night and you served them happily, glad for the company. Apart from them, Tuesdays were brutally dull.

Grabbing a jug of ale, you made your way back around the room, offering top ups and slipping coins into your pocket as you went. At the table furthest from the door, you paused.

You did not recognise the man there. You tilted your head a little before glancing around. It appeared as though he was alone.

Tapping your fingers on the edge of the jug, you debated whether to wake him up. It was not as though he needed more ale – or any alcohol, for that matter! – for he was slumped over, cheek pressed into the table, drool pooling around his face.

The tavern was due to close in half an hour. Not for long, of course. Just long enough for things to be tidied and money to be counted. It would open back up at seven in the morning, and you would begin your work again at midday.

You walked back to the bar, refilling a jug of wine and dropping it at a regular’s table. He pressed coins into your palm and you thanked him, distracted.

“Do you know that man?” you asked, jerking your chin in the sleeping stranger’s direction.

Joel followed your gaze. “Never seen him before. Want me to get him out of here?”

“No, thank you,” you shook your head. “We’ll leave him be for now.”

There were many reasons why people drank. To socialise, to celebrate, to forget. You had seen it all within the year you had worked at The Mole. You felt as though you’d become rather adept in guessing exactly what each person’s reasoning was.

You stared at the stranger with the boldness of someone who knew they were unnoticed. His hair was tangled and unwashed but it was an interesting shade of yellow. His clothes looked expensive, all neat stitches, rich dye and careful embroidery. You recognised the colours of House Targaryen. Could it be that he worked at the Keep?

If so, he had come a long way just for a drink. There were a dozen taverns between the Keep and The Mole.

This man was running from something, you decided. A lover, or children, or duty, perhaps. You had run once too, from the sorrow that was drowning you and taking over your life. Funny how you had both ended up at the same place.

The stranger had chosen the shadiest, loneliest corner of the bar to drink in. You were the only one working and so it must have been you who had filled his cup; and yet you could not remember the colour of his eyes or the sound of his voice or even what he had ordered. Maybe wine, you thought, but you could not be sure.

Something like guilt prickled in your chest. It was easy to go unnoticed in Flea Bottom. Sometimes all that someone needed was for someone to see them. Markis and Ana had seen you, that summer’s day, and had given you a job that you sorely needed. They had stopped the rapid decent you were in and you would be ever thankful to them for it.

At the bar, you rested your face on your hands and propped yourself up on your elbows. It was almost closing time. The tavern was getting even emptier. Only Joel and the stranger were left.

Joel stopped at the bar, dropping his empty mug with a ‘thud’. “You sure you don’t want me to throw him out?”

“No,” you said quickly, “he, um, paid for a room upstairs. I just remembered.”

Upstairs there were three rarely used rooms. They were dust filled and the sheets were thin and moth-eaten. Once there was four but now one of them, the smallest, belonged to you.

Joel offered to drag the stranger upstairs but you shook your head and ushered him out. When he was gone, you paused, thinking.

You would wake the stranger up, you decided, and if he was too inebriated to make it home, you would help him to a room upstairs. The upstairs was so rarely used that Markis and Ana were unlikely to notice.

You felt like it was your fault for overserving him. Ana did not typically care about that sort of thing; money was money. But you would feel terribly guilty he was to take to the streets and have something happen to him.

Straightening your shoulders, you made your way over to the table. You stood in front of it, wringing your hands, wishing the man would just wake up himself. What if he was violent? It was too late now. You’d made your bed and now you had to lie in it.

Tentatively, you reached out and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. You shook him as gently as you could and, when that did not seem to work, you grabbed a handful of his clothing and pulled.

The man shot up with a curse, waving a dagger that you had been unaware of. You squeaked and took a step back, holding your hands in front of you to show that you meant no harm.

“Please, my lord, I was just waking you up,” you explained.

It took a moment for the man to see you. He was blinking furiously, yellow hair plastered to his cheek, sweat drenching his face. He could be handsome, you realised, were he not so drunk.

“I-I,” the man swiped a trembling hand over his face. “Where am I?”

Sympathy panged in your chest as you told him. “There’s an empty room upstairs if you’ll have it, my lord.”

The man seemed to calm at that. He got unsteadily to his feet. He fumbled with the dagger for a moment before sheathing it and pawing at a drawstring bag at his side. His fingers dipped out of sight for a moment and returned with something shiny.

You blanched at the gold dragon. You could count on one hand the number of times you had seen one. The entire tavern was hardly even worth that much, let alone a creaky old room.

“Never mind that,” you said, “let’s just get you upstairs.”

The man blinked at you, dazed. When he did not move, you took the dragon from him and tucked it back into his coin pouch, ignoring the way his eyes burned into the side of your face.

“Can you walk?” you asked.

The man took one step, hip colliding loudly with the edge of the table. He swore and swayed on his feet. You panicked for a moment before tugging his arm up and sliding beneath it, bearing more of his weight than you thought yourself capable of.

“Together, then,” you said between gritted teeth.

It felt ridiculous. Between several near-falls, pausing to lock the doors, and navigating the twelve uneven steps, you felt as though an hour had passed by the time the pair of you made it upstairs.

You steered him into the room furthest from yours and closest to the stairs so he could make his way out in the morning. Sweating, you let the stranger go. He fell back onto the bed with an ‘oomph’, dust flying up from the disused sheets like foul confetti.

Both of you began coughing. You opened the one tiny window the room boasted and breathed a sigh of relief as the cool night air began seeping in. The stranger had gone quiet, and when you turned around, you half expected to find him asleep.

He was not. He peered at you with bleary eyes, fingers caressing the coin pouch at his side. He looked rather pitiful.

You tried to smile. “Wait here a moment.”

You dipped back downstairs, filling a cup with water before returning. The stranger was still awake and he watched as you placed the cup on the single rickety side table. Suddenly shy, you wiped your hands on your apron and glanced about the room.

“I’d feel better if you slept on your side,” you admitted. “In case you vomit.”

“In case I vomit,” the stranger echoed, nodding. “Would you, ah, help me? With my boots?”

“Oh! Of course.”

You knelt at the end of the bed. With deft fingers, you yanked apart the laces and pulled his boots from his feet, depositing them at the end of the bed. You glanced up and caught the man’s eye. You felt to flustered to decipher the look he was giving you and so you got to your feet and retreated to the door.

“The doors are locked at the minute, but they’ll likely be open by the time you wake,” you blathered, “you’ll be good to go by then. Um, sweet dreams?”

The stranger stiffened for a moment, eyes widening, before they landed on you and seemed to come back into focus. “Sweet dreams.”

Embarrassed, you left the room and fled to your own. With a curse, you shut your door and crouched on the floor next to your straw mattress.

“Have sweet dreams?” you whispered. “As though he were a boy? Oh, how humiliating.”

You wriggled about on the floor for a moment, willing yourself to just melt into the boards and disappear forever.

Once you were calmer, you considered your door. It had only a flimsy lock, one that you did not often use. The man had seemed harmless enough, but he was still a man. You slid the lock across and retreated to your mattress.

It was strange trying to relax, knowing someone else was sleeping only a few doors down. You tossed and turned for a short while before sleep came to take you. If you had dreams, you did not remember them.

The stranger was gone by the time you awoke. The bed was turned over neatly, certainly tidier than he had found it, and the window had been closed. It was like he had never been there at all.

You went about your routine with a bounce in your step, pleased by your good deed. You could hear the sound of the tavern downstairs as you washed your face and dressed yourself. You neatened your own room before descending the stairs.

Ana was waiting for you at the bar. She handed you a plate of buttered bread and helped you into your apron before disappearing to her own home out back. Ana and Markis lived in their own small home on the back of the property. Between the three of you, there was never a need to hire anyone else.

You ate your lunch between serving customers, fetching them bowls of hearty soup whenever they asked and topping up their cups. The tavern had a brief burst of business around midday before settling once again, leaving you with only a handful of regulars and a tattered paperback book you were attempting to get through.

Your father had taught you to read as best he could but you lacked the confidence and tried to practise whenever you could. Book hidden beneath the bar, you flipped through pages between top-ups and idle conversation.

Absorbed by your menial tasks, you almost didn’t notice him coming in.

He looked different this time. Nervous and twitchy. Tidier, maybe. His hair had been combed through and his clothes looked freshly washed. His face, too.

You were right. He was handsome.

He made his way to the same table as the night before and seemed to settle down. You flinched when he made eye contact, suddenly remembering your duties. You filled a pitcher of wine halfway, grabbed a cup and made your way over.

You placed both things in front of him. The man placed a coin on the table and your eyes widened, recognising the same gold and emblem from before.

“My lord,” you began, “this is too much –“

“No, no,” he interrupted, “please. This is for last night.”

You pushed the gold back across the table, toward him. “Truly, there is no need. I will only accept money for the wine.”

The man swallowed. He picked the coin back up and rubbed it between his fingers as though looking for imperfections.

“Then why?” he said finally. “Why did you – why were you so kind to me?”

You stood still for a moment, thinking. Then, “I find kindness is sorely lacking in Kings Landing. And you looked as though you needed it.”

You hurried through the last part; nervous you were overstepping. After an awkwardly long pause, the man slipped the coin away and instead presented you with several copper stars. You thanked him gladly and took the money, returning to the bar and squirreling it away.

Unlike the day prior, the man required no refills as the day progressed. You kept busy with all your usual tasks and tried to ignore the man who seemed determined to stare a hole into the side of your skull.

Every time you glanced over at him, he was already looking at you. He sipped slowly at his wine, observing you over the rim as you bustled about.

You made another lap around the room, topping up Joel’s cup as he chatted with a friend. He jerked his head in the man’s direction.

“Same man from yesterday. He bothering you?”

“No, no,” you brushed him off.

At least you didn’t think he was bothering you. The man’s gaze certainly made you feel something, but you did not feel confident enough to put a name to that feeling.

Deep in thought, you didn’t notice the drunken man swaying toward you. You yelped when the unfamiliar man jostled against you, hands squeezing at your thighs as he cackled into your ear.

Joel got to his feet and snatched the man up by his collar, dragging him toward the door before you could catch shriek. Hand on your breast, you sucked in a shaky breath and watched as Joel hit the man with an open-handed palm.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed that the man had also gotten to his feet. He was stood, hands braced against the table, eyes glued to you. You had no doubt that he would have dragged out the drunkard himself had Joel not gotten there first.

Still slightly shaky, you went over to him. “Can – can I get you anything?”

“Does that happen often?”

“Well,” you murmured, “sometimes. But Joel usually takes care of –“

“Who is Joel?” the man asked, eyes shooting up to your face.

You gestured over your shoulder. “The man who dragged him out. He watches over me.”

The man was still on his feet. You saw his jaw clench and his eyes dart behind you before he sat back down.

“Forgive me. I never asked your name?”

Surprise briefly took your words before you remembered yourself. You told him your name quietly and with more than a little uncertainty. “And yours, my lord?”

“You may call me Daeron. No need for formalities.”

There was something in the way he said it. Something pleading, something slightly desperate, that made you choke on air. You struggled to decipher his tone for several moments before even registering exactly what he had said.

Your blood ran cold. “My prince.”

The man – Daeron Targaryen – looked up at you with eyes like fresh rainwater puddles. How had you not seen it before?

“Please,” he insisted, reaching out to touch your hand, “Daeron.”

“My prince,” you dipped your head, “please, tell me if you need something. Anything.”

You turned your back on him and rushed back to the safety of the bar. Joel watched you, glancing suspiciously between you and the prince, before going back to his conversation.

Your heart was thudding in your breast as though it might tear right through the skin. You had liked him better when he was just a sad stranger, not a Targaryen fucking prince.

You busied yourself cleaning glasses, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your hands and the repetitive process. How stupid had you been, really? The golden dragon, the clothing, the hair. Dirty yellow but – perhaps silver in certain lights?

You scrubbed a palm over your face and tried to regain your composure. There was no use in panicking. The prince had been kind and had done nothing untoward. You would serve him as you would anyone else in the tavern and never tell a soul he was there.

Daeron did not call for you the rest of the evening. He drank slowly from the same pitcher you had originally given him and watched you openly as you performed your duties. Ever the coward, you did not go over to check on him, instead reasoning that he would call you if he required anything.

As the sky darkened and a new wave of customers came in, you began to forget about the lost Targaryen in the corner. Eventually you turned only to discover that, at some point, he must have slipped out.

Relief swept through you like a tidal wave. Lighter, you wiped your hands over your apron and turned your attention onto the customers. This, you were familiar with. This, you could do.

The hours marched on and soon Ana appeared to relieve you for the rest of the evening. It was past eleven and you were due back downstairs by seven. You grabbed your book and tucked it into your skirt pockets before tugging off your apron and hanging it on the hook, wishing Ana a good evening as you disappeared upstairs.

It was like an entirely different world. Dust hung in the air and stirred as you walked through it. Sound was muted and you felt utterly alone, but all the better for it. It was easy to pretend that Flea Bottom wasn’t crushing in around you in the peace of the upper rooms.

You paused outside the bedroom Daeron had stayed in the night before. How simple he must have thought it. You huffed a laugh and continued toward your own room.

Once inside, you toed off your shoes and stretched your arms above your head. You pulled your book from your pocket and tossed it onto your straw mattress before finding a candle and lighting it, settling in for an hour or so of slow reading.

When you hit the mattress, something tumbled to the floor. You frowned and chased it until it rolled to a stop. You recognised the glint of gold and shock rose as it dawned on you exactly what it was.

You raised it to the candlelight. Some part of you could not held but admire the golden dragon, even as horror dawned in your chest. It had been on your pillow, placed gently in the spot you rested your head every night.

Daeron Targaryen had been in your room.

You had never held a golden dragon before. It could’ve been your imagination but you felt as though it carried its own heat, warming your palm as you turned it this way and that. In the candlelight it shone, obnoxious and lively.

It felt as though it was burning your skin.

You got to your knees and shoved it into your mattress, hiding it amongst the compressed straw until you were sure you would struggle to find it yourself. You felt numb as you sat on that same straw, crossing your legs and pulling your book onto your lap as though you actually intended to read it.

Your eyes scanned over the words but they did not register. The only thing on your mind was a question, repeating over and over again in its refusal to be ignored.

What was Daeron paying for?

The room, you told yourself. He was paying for the room. Overpaying, but why not? He was a Targaryen prince.

You told yourself that repeatedly, right up until the point you were tucked beneath scratchy blankets and falling asleep. At no point did you actually believe it.

Thursday slipped by without an appearance by Daeron. You were still nervous, casting glances over at the entrance every few minutes right up until you went upstairs.

 The entire time, all you could think of was the golden dragon tucked into your mattress. When you got to your room, you had stuffed your hand into the straw until you felt it. You had ripped your arm away as though it had burned you and slept uneasily knowing it was just beneath you.

Friday was busier and you were thankful for it. You carried jugs and bowl of soups until your arms developed a pleasant ache and your feet were sore in your worn shoes. Since it was busy, Ana was assisting you in serving and you got good work done between the two of you.

You were not sure how you knew he had arrived. A flash of yellow hair, the hint of black and red. The tavern seemed suddenly smaller and you knew that a dragon had entered and made himself comfortable at his table.

You were not sure when it had become his table but it felt right to refer to it as such. People drifted away when he approached and made themselves comfy elsewhere until he had the entire table to himself.

You breathed a sigh of relief when Ana made her way over to him. Interaction with him seemed impossible at this point. Should you bring up the coin? Maybe you had time to go fetch it from upstairs and return it?

You jumped when Ana’s hand cupped your elbow. She looked you up and down, surprised by your suddenly jumpiness. “The gentleman has requested you.”

“Oh,” you said dumbly.

Ana smiled encouragingly and gently pushed you in Daeron’s direction. You stumbled a little before regaining your balance, wine nearly sloshing over the sides of the jug you were holding. You felt a line of it dribble over your fingers, sticky and bitter.

The difference between Daeron on that first evening and Daeron now was like night and day. He looked sober and looked worse for it. He was well groomed, eyes heavy and attentive on you as you made your way toward him. You, on the other hand, felt dishevelled and in need of a good soak in the tub. You wanted to drop the jug on the table and flee behind the bar.

Instead, you filled up Daeron’s cup without looking at him, heart hammering in your breast. Droplets of wine spattered on the table as result of your trembling hands.

You straightened up and met his eyes. “If that is all, my lord –“

Before you could turn, Daeron had reached out and grabbed your wrist. His slightly slick palms betrayed his otherwise calm appearance. He used his grip on you to tug you toward him until you were practically astride him, his thighs caging you in.

Mortified, you looked over your shoulder to see who was bearing witness to your shame. Ana looked surprised but made no move to free you. Money was money and Daeron looked like someone who had a lot of it.

Again, you thought of the gold dragon beneath your bed.

“Please,” he said, “drink with me?”

You heard the pleading note in his voice. It reminded you of the first time you had ever seen him, how the misery had seemed to seep from his pores and congeal around him. What, you wondered, did a prince of the realm have to be so miserable about?

It was hard to be under his full focus. The candles around the tavern made his eyes glint and shift. He looked every bit the blood of the dragon. He was devastatingly handsome, all soft waves and begging eyes, and his hand was smooth and warm where it held your wrist. It was the sort of hand that had never seen a hard day’s work.

“I cannot,” you murmured, “it would be inappropriate. And I have other customers.”

Daeron blinked as though he was only just remembering there were others in the bar. Still, he did not let go of you. He looked around and his lip curled in disgust. It was so different from his previous expression that you flinched and took a step back, pulling your arm from his hand in a jerky motion.

Daeron got to his feet as though he would follow, arms outstretched toward you. “Please! Please, just, sit with me for a moment. I need – I need –“

Daeron placed a hand to his chest as though he was struggling for breath. You paused in your retreat, concerned. His eyes were fluttering and he was swaying on his feet. Worry quickly stomped out your trepidation as you stepped forward and tucked yourself beneath his arm for support.

“It is alright, my lord,” you soothed, “it is terribly warm in here. Let’s get you outside for some fresh air.”

You lead Daeron to the door leading to the alley next to the tavern. The lights and noise faded away as the door swung shut behind you, leaving you with Daeron in the darkness. You blinked rapidly, trying to get used to the change in lighting as you helped Daeron lean his back against the crumbly brick wall.

His breathing was still fast. You looked around, half expecting the kings guard to appear and slay you where you stood.

Daeron’s hands fell heavily on your shoulders, dragging your attention back to him. He was shakier than you were comfortable with so you allowed it and tried to ignore the way you relaxed into his hold.

He allowed for no complaints as he dragged you into his chest, wrapping his arms around your back tightly and tucking your head beneath his chin. For a moment, you did not breathe. All you could smell was leather and some kind of scented oil. The aroma melted your brain and turned you to mush in his arms.

You could hear his heart thundering in his chest, though now yours surely matched it, and you could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

You were not naive. You had been with men before. You had fumbled about with several boys in your younger years, clumsy and unpractised and unsatisfying, and you had had one lover since coming to Kings Landing.

You felt those same feelings rising at Daeron’s touch. The stirring in your stomach and the way your nipples seemed suddenly sensitive against the fabric of your top. Every inch of you seemed to come alive, eager for more touch, but your brain knew what your body did not.

This -Daeron Targaryen- was not for you.

You shivered as you felt the stirring of his manhood beneath his belt, lazily nudging into your stomach. His breathing was still fast but for an entirely different reason now. There was interest there, no doubt, but you would not have him.

You almost laughed. Never had you imagined that there would be a day you would have the interest of a Targaryen prince. But what was interest? It was not monotony, nor food in your belly, or a roof over your head and privacy.

It was chaos. And you would not allow yourself to fall into the same hole you had been in before you had come to Kings Landing. You would not go back to that place.

Placing your hands on Daeron’s chest, you firmly pushed back. There was a moment where you were afraid that he would not let you go but then his arms were falling away, allowing you to step back and look up into the hurt on his face.

“I will get you some water,” you said, clearing your throat. It felt bone dry.

Daeron stilled, eyes flickering over your face as he tried to decipher your emotions. You kept your eyes downcast as you made to move back inside.

Daeron’s hand found your wrist once again, tugging you back to him with firmness. You gasped as your shoulder hit his chest and his other hand found your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

He pressed his lips to yours, saving you from any weak protest you may have been able to conjure up. His hand remained on your face, as though scared you would pull away before he was ready. You melted in his arms and shoved the shame away for a later version of you to deal with.

Daeron kissed like a man starved. You could taste the wine on his lips, on his tongue, as he lapped at your mouth with tender strokes. You let your own lips part with a sigh and felt Daeron groan at your acceptance, chasing the taste of you right into your mouth.

You let him have you like that, all pliant and wanting. Let him kiss the need from your lips and hoped he might take it all so that you could forget he even existed. He seemed to push his own need back into you; you could feel the hard line of his cock press into your belly and had a brief moment of madness where you considered what it would be like to be taken like that, shameless and hungry.

You practically had to tear his hands away from your face. Something like a whine rumbled in his chest as he chased your lips, stealing several more kisses before you pushed him firmly away.

Both of you stood there, chests heaving and knees weak. Dazed, you brought your fingers to your lips and felt the way they had swollen from his attention. Daeron’s eyes darkened at the movement and it wasn’t until he stepped forward, hands reaching again, that you shook yourself from your reverie.

“I have to go,” you said quickly, diving for the door and rushing inside as though dogs were at your heels.

You waited for a moment to see if he would follow. When he didn’t, you found Ana and made some excuse of an upset stomach and a headache that threatened to split you apart. She looked concerned but did not push, instead suggesting that you take the rest of the evening to yourself.

You took her up on her offer and took the stairs two at a time. Once you got to your room, you pushed open your tiny window and sucked in greedy lungfuls of the evening air. Your skin felt as though it was burning. You pressed your hand to your forehead and found it cool to the touch.

With a sigh, you threw yourself onto your mattress and closed your eyes. The darkness made the warmth between your thighs feel even more intense. You squeezed your legs together, sending tiny jolts of pleasure through your system. Slowly, you reached for the skirt of your dress and began to tug it up your legs.

Air caressed your exposed thighs as you let them fall apart. You could feel the slick gathered in your undergarments and felt oddly embarrassed. It was not like you to be so careless, so reckless. You tightened your hands into fists. All you wanted was to relieve the pressure a little bit, to touch your –

A floorboard creaked from right outside your room. You shoved your skirts back down and sat up, feeling caught. A quick glance told you that you had remembered to lock the door and you breathed a little easier.

It was not unusual for a customer to wander drunkenly upstairs. But this was not that. You could not be sure how you knew, only that you were certain Daeron Targaryen was outside your room.

You quietened your breathing and listened hard. There was a slight groan from the wood as whoever it was placed a hand against the wall of your room, as though they could feel you on the other side.

Cautiously you lowered yourself back to the mattress, hands bundled at your chest and skirts in disarray about your knees. You remained like that, half scared, half aroused, until eventually the footsteps faded and you heard the sound of someone descending the stairs.

Only then, when you were sure you were alone, did your fingers delve into your undergarments to bring you relief.

Daeron returned to The Mole’s Head every evening for the next three days, or so you heard. Ana told you over quiet breakfasts and meaningful glances. She was obviously curious about whatever had happened but, sensing your reluctance to talk, did not press the matter.

She and Markis had also allowed you time away from serving, sensing your warring emotions and confusion. You had been content in the kitchen, away from the eyes of regulars and Targaryen princes, but today would see you serving again. You could not hide forever.

But that was not until the evening. For now, you busied yourself with the market. You took your time wandering between stalls, attempting to keep your mind blank and body busy. Children raced about the place, knocking over baskets of fruit and pinching things whenever backs were turned.

As you walked at a leisurely pace, the buzz of anxiety was still very much present. You carried a holey bag with you and practically strangled the thin straps between your fingers. Your hands were relentless on the fabric, twisting and pinching and pulling as an outlet for your otherwise concealed emotions.

So absorbed were you in your actions that you almost did not notice the carriage approaching from behind. The smear of black and red in your peripheral vision had you jumping back, clearing out of the way of the approaching horses.

You kept your gaze down as the coach got closer. People began craning their necks, curious about who was inside such a fine vehicle, and with the Targaryen emblem no less. You beat your own curiosity down with a stick, urging the carriage to move faster and out of sight.

It did no such thing. Your mouth parted as the coachman directed the horses to a stop several feet in front of you. You made to move but then the door opened and familiar hands were reaching for you, pulling you into the shaded privacy of the coach before you could even shout.

Daeron pulled the door shut and sat back opposite you, something resembling sheepishness rounding his shoulders and softening his features. Thoroughly shocked, you could only stare. Daeron knocked on the roof of the coach and you rocked forward in the seat as the coachman directed the horses back into a lazy trot.

“You have been avoiding me,” Daeron said simply.

You were stunned.

“I do not understand why,” he continued, eyes searching your face, “when I know that you enjoyed our kiss as much as I. If you feel even a fraction of what I do, then I know the distance must be painful for you.”

The words may as well have been spoken in a different language. You held your hand up and squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself awake. When that did not work, you sank back into the seat.

“It was just a kiss,” you said softly, “and you are a prince.”

Daeron’s face twisted with scorn. “Just a kiss?”

The words sat heavy on the air for a moment. You felt warm and flustered and wished the coach had windows to crack. The soft sway of it had you feeling vaguely nauseous and was ramping up your anxiety to levels unheard of.

Daeron seemed to think for a moment, his face smoothing into something soft and cunning. He sank to his knees in one swift movement. The coach had little room and it left his chest brushing your knees with every rotation of the wheels.

You flinched at the contact but Daeron was having none of it. He laid his hands on your thighs with a boldness you had not expected. His fingers squeezed the fabric, making indents in the soft flesh as his breath stuttered out of him. Despite your words, you did not brush him away.

“I can give you more than a kiss, sweetling,” he murmured, “I can give you everything you could ever want. And I will have the same from you in return.”

“My prince –“

“Daeron,” he lazily corrected, hands bunching in the fabric of your dress.

“Daeron,” you whispered, “please, you can’t.”

“But I can,” he insisted. He spoke as if he were trying to convince you of the fact. “And I so fucking want to.”

You could feel your lids getting heavy as Daeron began to push the bulky fabric of your dress further up your legs until it was bundled around your waist. You could not tell if he was shaking or if it was just the movement of the coach.

Daeron pressed his nose into the crook of your knee and inhaled. It tickled and had you shifting in your seat. Afraid you were going to push him away, Daeron opened his mouth and set his teeth to the soft skin there, sinking them in just enough to have you go still.

He pulled away, blinking up at you with watery eyes that screamed desperation. He laid his cheek on your thigh, eyes falling to the junction between your thighs that he had consumed his every waking moment since he had woken up in the tavern over a week ago.

He reached for the fabric that concealed you from him, tugging at it as though it had personally offended him. He cooed softly when you lifted your hips and let him tug it down thighs until you were completely bare.

“My sweet, kind girl,” he mumbled, eyes fixated on your cunt. “It is easier like this, no? When you cannot hide from me?”

His words were making your head spin. Daeron wriggled his palms beneath your ass and spread you wide, notching your knees over his shoulders. You squeaked as his breath hit your swollen folds, so sensitive that even the air felt like a physical caress.

After that, he wasted no time. It was like he knew that the longer he dragged things out, the more likely you were to come to your senses and go tearing from the coach. And he would not have that.

Daeron laved his tongue over your clit like he had done so a dozen times. He found your most sensitive spot with ease, flicking his tongue over it until you were clamping a hand over your mouth to keep in your noises.

The sight of him there, on his knees, face buried in your cunt was almost enough to have you shooting over the edge. Daeron must have sensed it in the way you pressed your cunt to his face, near grinding your clit on his nose as you approached your peak.

Daeron pulled him face from you with a groan. Your arousal coated the lower half of his face. His cheeks were ruddy and his eyes sparkled in the light that snuck in past the closed curtains. He pulled one hand from your ass and reached down and palmed his cock through his trousers, hissing through his teeth as he worked the sensitive head.

“Tell me you want me,” he urged, “just me.”

He was cruel. You canted your hips and whined a little, near dizzy from the denial. You would say anything if it meant he would put his mouth back on you.

“I want you, Daeron,” you managed, “only you. Please.”

He dove back in with gusto, tongue spearing your cunt as his nose nudged at your clit. You nearly yelled from the combination of sensations, torn between your clit and your entrance. Daeron’s eyes were glued to your face as he ate you out like a man who had not eaten in weeks.

Whether it was his tongue, his nose, or the fact that he was palming himself eagerly like a virgin boy, it did not matter. Daeron drove you over the edge like he had known he would from the second he set eyes on you. You knew that once you hit the bottom, he would not allow you to get back up. You let him do it anyway.

Daeron pulled away from you with reluctance and only after you’d pushed at his head, too sensitive to handle the soft lapping of his tongue at your spent cunt. He made no move to wipe his face, seeming to enjoy the scent of you on his skin. He did not finish himself, instead reaching to pull down your skirts and arrange you as he liked. It was unlikely he was content to remain that way for long.

He did not return your undergarments. You watched as he stuffed them under the seats and did not bother protesting. There was little use in arguing with a prince, you had come to realise. The gentle pulsing of your cunt eased the sting of realisation a little.

You tried to speak through your dry throat.“I have to go to work.”

“I will go with you,” Daeron said quickly, leaving no room for argument.

You watched as he licked his lips, eyes never leaving yours. You could still see the outline of his cock in his trousers and knew he intended to use it later. He seemed a little less intense now, a little more rounded after being placated.

Daeron squeezed your knee. “I will not be parted from you. Not after this.”

There would be no more monotony in your life. Not after Daeron had had his tongue inside you and his hands grasped at you like you were something he was afraid to lose.

additional mini Daeron PoV

The very moment Daeron had awoken in a dusty room with a golden dragon still weighing heavy in his coin pouch, he had been curious.

Daeron was not the curious sort. Usually he was too lazy, too drunk, too bored to be curious.

But there it was, burning hot in his gut as he left the stuffy room and stood awkwardly in the corridor. He could tell it was well past seven by the sun steaming in and the noise downstairs.

He looked from the stairs to the other doors. He wondered which one was yours. He stood there for a moment longer before turning back to his own room.

Daeron found himself closing the window and making the bed in the way he had seen the maids do. He almost laughed whilst doing it; perhaps he was still drunk.

🍷

Daeron returned that afternoon after a morning of pretending he wouldn’t. There was no harm in curiosity, he told himself, and he wanted to get a better look at the tavern girl who had refused his money.

You did not notice him when he entered, nor when he made himself comfortable at his table.

It gave him time to study you. You were pretty, he discovered. The type of beauty that one might not notice at first glance but was ultimately irrefutable. He admired the way your hair was working its way out of its style and the way you smiled easily at the men who occupied your attention.

Daeron wanted you to smile at him like that. The need rose unbidden and burning hot, clawing its way up his throat until he choked it back with a gulp of bitter wine.

You brought over some wine and Daeron tried not to feel smug that you remembered what he had been drinking the night before. Even he did not always remember. Again, he tried to give you money. If you took it, then that would be the end of it, he told himself. His curiosity would be sated and he could go back to the Keep, eventually return to Summerhall, and never think about you again.

Instead you smiled softly when he asked why, and said something about kindness. You, in a dusty tavern on the edge of Flea Bottom, wearing worn down clothes and surrounded by people who would kill you in a heartbeat for what Daeron was offering.

When was the last time he had experience kindness before you? Daeron could not remember.

When he snuck into your room that night, Daeron told himself he was only being kind in return.

🍷

Daeron did not pretend his visit the next night had anything to do with curiosity. This was about need and about the fierce possession that had raged in his gut when he had seen you be groped by that fool the day before.

Daeron needed kindness in his life. More than the small, stupid men who occupied so much of your time. Daeron needed you, he decided.

He looked at your warm but tired eyes, at the way you subtly tried to thumb through a book beneath the bar. He thought about the poky mattress in your tiny room and the absence of any possessions. He thought about the spark in your eyes whenever you caught him staring and the way your hands shook when you poured him a drink.

Perhaps Daeron could be something you needed, too. He would make it so.

a/n- people have been asking a lot for the mmc povs so i thought i’d include a mini one this time🫣

please leave comments, likes + reblogs if you enjoy my fics and would like to see more♥️

images from Pinterest

You walked through what looked like the Red Keep. Oh, how you missed all of it. Someone would call you entitled, some Targaryen loyalist perhaps, you were merely a former princess sent to exile. Daughter to the ultimate traitor. Daemon ‘The Pretender’ Blackfyre.

You wanted to soak it all in. Had the utmost desire to lay on the ground and rest your back on the marble floor of the castle. Eager to feel something you used to occasionally feel as a child whenever you’d secretly have sparring sessions with your father. Eager to see his face once more. 

As you run your hands through the lines of columns the ancient building consisted of, you heard a roar. Something that you’ve only heard in your dreams. And then you knew, the Gods were taking their chances in informing you about an important matter. And having these dreams for as long as you could remember, it was never for a good reason.

No one else knew about the dreams that you’d have. Other than your father, who had now become nothing but a part of the ground you step on. You had told him in a moment of trust, and in reality, you deeply wish you hadn’t. Since your father decided to profoundly hold you to your “gift”, as he’d like to call it, and use you for it every time he needed guidance regarding his war. The rebellion he had started in hopes of claiming the Iron Throne. 

You grew sick of it. So sick that you almost considered it your biggest flaw, or when feeling too miserable, your greatest curse. Along with being born to a man who seemed to have his ambitions rank higher in his priorities rather than the well-being of his wife and children. 

The Gods had been cruel to you. You had been convinced of that the minute they dared to show you how your father would die. How the black dragon would fall under the red dragon’s claws. How the red dragon so mercilessly was gnawing on the insides of the black one, how two little identical dragons had been evidently waiting for the beginning of their eternal sleep, Aegon and Aemon. With the audience of all kinds of wolves and lions staying idle. Almost glaring at the black dragon, even during the peak of his downfall, as if the red dragon should feel honoured that the others didn’t have the courage to intervene. 

He’s yours, make sure everyone sees what happens when they try to take our privileges. We own all of the seven kingdoms. 

So after his death, you tried to bury it, the guilt of not alarming Daemon soon enough and of course, your curse. No matter how many nights you’d stay awake, the dreams would find you. Every single time. You thought it wasn’t fair. Why would the Gods put you through such torment while having caused no harm? Why had they chosen you to give this power to? Would there be a singular time where your premonitions would be beneficial to you, and not to merely inform you about the greatest misfortunes awaiting you? 

You quickly realized that those questions wouldn’t be answered. At least for a long time. 

Another roar. You turned your head towards the source of the sound, to observe the clear blue sky with very few clouds in it. You swallowed thickly, afraid of what you were about to witness. You had grown too aware of that roar, the last time you’d dreamt of it, was when you were watching your family get eaten alive. Is it my turn now? Was your doom officially on its way? You thought. 

There it was. A red dragon, medium sized, with forest green lines etched on its skin. You thought it was beautiful. Was this what your ancestors would see with their bare eyes on a random day? Maybe you were a Valyrian afterall, in spite of all the Targaryen loyalists trying to alter the narrative.

However, there was something different about this dragon. You hadn’t seen this one before. Strangely, the feeling of warmth and comfort filled your body while your gaze raked upon the creature. And as time seemed endless, you could’ve sworn the dragon turned its gaze upon your figure. 

Your breath inevitably hitched, intimidated at the dragon’s fiery eyes piercing through your skull. Even with a great distance between you two, you took a small step back, instinctively hiding behind the shadows of the castle to feel more protected. 

You felt your pulse quicken. The deep burgundy red dragon approached you midair, its wings sending waves of cold air your way, making a few strands of your hair and the hem of your gown push backwards. Oddly enough, this time you took a step forward, feeling some kind of strange familiarity between you and the ancient Valyrian creature. 

One beat. 

At some point, you had walked to the spot where your vision was allowing you to fully witness the dragon in all of its glory. It let out another roar and flew an inch back, almost afraid of you. Your eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. 

Two beats.

You raise your hand, extending your palm out to the dragon, feeling the need to showcase your care for it. The presence of the unjustified need of comforting the dragon and taming it too intense to evade. Surely, you had gone out of your mind, had you not? 

Three beats.

The dragon tilted its head in evident confusion, approaching you even more, shadowing your entire figure now. You were sure you had begun shaking, not sure of what, since you were wholeheartedly in awe by the actions of one of what were called; the most violent creatures to befriend humans. 

Four beats.

The dragon couldn’t possibly land inside the gardens of the Red Keep, as it would destroy everything. But the dragon ceased to move. Its wings suddenly froze forcing the creature to drop to the nearest surface. Which was inevitably the peak of the castle, the material crumbling under its weight. 

Five beats.

You gasped, panicking as you approached the peak, pieces of sandstone dropping a few feet away from you. The dragon had now begun to cough, so viciously you could swear it was fatal. The dragon spared you one last glance, releasing a desperate roar from its throat, as if to propel you in assisting it. 

Your breath had gotten heavier, your eyes prickling with tears feeling useless that you were just standing watching the dragon actively take its final breaths. And you realised; this happened every time. Dream or not, this is how it always worked out for you. You would get all of these premonitions the Gods giving you sacred information for you to use them to your advantage and you never did. Never had the courage to. 

In reality, you always stepped back last minute, as if your throat could never release the words that needed to be said in order for you to prevent bad from happening. It’s your fault, you thought, your fault your family’s dead. Your fault that the rest of your blood is being crucified on the daily. Everything’s your fault. Everything—

You jumped up from your mattress, strands of your hair stuck on your forehead and neck caused by the sweat your body had produced. You sat up, breathing heavily, slowly processing your surroundings. Something was about to happen, you just couldn’t decipher what. And you weren’t sure if that frightened you or not. 

—————————

You wanted to vomit. Truly, you did. 

It had gotten to a point where you kept replaying the arrangement in your head. “The Blackfyre girl shall marry one of our own,” the Hand of the King transferred his Grace’s words to your mother, Rohanne. As her eyes filled with tears, wondering whether to deny and continue risking your life in Essos, or accept and sleep every night in hopes of giving you the life you deserve.

But then again, who was she to be able to decide so freely? Who was she to deny King Daeron’s order? The man who put a sword right through her husband’s heart for considering himself righteous to the Iron Throne? 

Rohanne could not deny the realm. Could not deny its orders. So of course, she had to let Prince Baelor know that the arrangement be settled. “My Prince,” she carefully asked, feeling an unusual sense of softness from the Targaryen before her, “please wed her to someone kind. Protect her if you wish. My daughter is merely a child—“, “I do not have a say in this manner, my lady.” Baelor replied softly, a close look of sympathy laying upon her.

“My father,” he let out a sigh, finding a proper way to word his demand, “wishes to take one of your children not for unity. On the contrary, as punishment.” Rohanne laid one of her palms across her mouth muffling her sobs. Attempting at her best not to show any vulnerability to the Targaryen who played a part in butchering her family and its supporters. 

“I’ve heard whispers that she is to be wed to my brother’s oldest.” the Breakspear informed her, wanting to ultimately assist the mother, broken and wrecked sitting opposite him. “Daeron is a category on his own, my lady.” he said, his lips almost pressing into a thin line at the image of his alcoholic niece slurring and stumbling around appearing in his mind. 

On the contrary, Rohanne became even more terrified at the Prince’s words. As she had been expecting the worst from a line of men despising her blood. Her children and her legacy. Reminding herself that the same hate killed her two precious baby boys and her husband, Daemon I Blackfyre, ready to reign and conquer Westeros by claiming his right to the throne. As it seemed, the Gods had other plans, permitting the Targaryen dynasty to further continue with King Daeron II and his fellow allies slaughtering every Blackfyre while successfully exiling the rest to Essos. 

So there she was, Rohanne of Tyrosh, speaking to Prince Baelor Targaryen, attempting to decipher whether the man meant well for her daughter, or not. Trying to understand whether the young lord was patronising her by boasting about the incidents her daughter would have to endure. The punishment for being a Blackfyre she mandatorily had to witness. However, Rohanne couldn’t seem to detect such intention from him.

She had observed Baelor during the very few days of peace and harmony among the two Valyrian houses, where he would talk to her husband like a brother would. The memory made her heart ache, in a way that she’d hoped there would be someone to protect her. To protect her little girl. 

The man’s two-toned eyes slightly frowned at her expression, noticing and reminding himself that the woman is in clear distress. Sending an immediate realisation that he had been practically negotiating the betrothal of one of her children. The young Prince made a mental note to himself, to not act in such an ignorant way ever again, towards any human being. As he had been dreaming to become the fairest King since he saw the atrocities he was forced to commit a few years prior, because of his father’s command. “To protect,” King Daeron II would claim, “to take what is rightfully ours.” and just like that, those phrases his Grace would constantly mutter loudly or under his breath, would not stop echoing in the dungeons of Baelor’s mind.

Baelor swallowed softly, a worried expression etched on his face. He leveled down to Rohanne’s height, placing his palm gently on her shoulder, seemingly convincing enough to grab the sobbing mother’s attention. “My lady,” he raised his eyebrows in an attempt for her to be slightly comforted, “excuse my words. I only meant that my nephew has undutiful tendencies. He would not hurt your daughter, wouldn’t even consider it.” he told her and his gaze hardened. “I wouldn’t allow it.”

Rohanne’s eyes continued to tear up. Not necessarily because of dread. Now, it had become a feeling of both fear and relief. Fear of her daughter walking around the Targaryen’s royal court completely submitted to them. And relief, because the young Prince seemed promising. She should’ve expected this, the gentle and heart-warming aura of the King’s heir. Rohanne had noticed it long ago, just a while after being integrated into the Blackfyre family line. Maybe, just maybe, the woman had to hope for more now. Afterall, she knew her daughter was no fool. 

The first-born daughter of Daemon Blackfyre and Rohanne of Tyrosh, was disciplined. Not loud or demanding,but observant and strategic. Rohanne had made sure of that. Hiring secretly Maesters—who had presented themselves as Blackfyre loyalists—that enhanced the intelligence and the political senses of her remaining children. Rohanne would make sure they would matter, that all seven kingdoms would see that her and Daemon’s blood was no usual combination. There was no other reason she was even open to hearing such a proposal from the young lord across from her. 

“I hope you won’t, my Prince.” Rohanne choked out, “I hope you will not have to stain your hands with your people’s torment and blood.” she gritted through her teeth. 

What neither of them knew was that the aforementioned Lady Blackfyre had been listening behind the door, with tears threatening to spill from her eyes, as she witnessed her entire future unfold right before her. Not to mention, watching her mother break down hearing such news, having not seen her be so emotional since the assassinaton of her late husband and sons. 

You tried to muffle your choked out sobs of pure guilt. Your existence had brought your own pained mother here, your survival had made her negotiate your future which forced her to practically ship you away from Essos. Away from home, away from your family and\ soon marry a Targaryen and carry his babes. A Targaryen who’s a part of a lineage that destroyed yours, that demolished everything that was promised to you. And yet, this sort of life seemed better compared to the one the rest of your blood was living. 

Lost in your thoughts, the Prince had departed from your small traditional Essosi apartment, and your mother was left on her own. Wiping her tear-stained cheeks, sniffling and fixing her attire. You were already guessing that she was on her way to break out the news to you. But you already knew. You already had heard. That you were to be married to a man with whom you’ve never met. That all of your dreams had been thrown out since the minute your father had been murdered, and it wasn’t going to get any better. Not for former princesses like you with a traitor’s blood running in her veins. 

Or so you thought.

And therefore, here you were, days after an emotionally charged conversation with your mother took place, in your bright colored Essosi room, discussing the plans of the wedding ceremony and your arrival—or perhaps return—to Westeros, specifically at the Red Keep. Initially, you wouldn’t meet your soon-to-be husband before your wedding. The following week, you would pack your things, wear the Valyrian gown Westerosi handmaidens would specifically sew for you and get married. 

Get married to Daeron Targaryen. You were told his name was. The oldest of The Anvil’s children and sons. A drunk fool who was named mad by the council because of his nonsensical comments about his dreams. Family and society deeming him as doomed that half of it was owed to his wine consumption.

With this information, you might have seen why Baelor Targaryen proclaimed your future husband as “a punishment” or that Daeron belongs “in a category of his own”. However, the Prince had also mentioned the lack of harmful behavior in his nephew. And that specific sentence of Baelor’s alone played some role of comfort in your mind. As long as he wouldn’t hurt you, or embarrass you—which essentially seems too much to ask for—you could easily settle within the Targaryen family currently conquering the Seven Kingdoms.

Your mother tried to reassure you by telling you that the feast would be a celebration in the name of the Blackfyre-Targaryen bond. The reintegration of the Blackfyres into nobility. But you weren’t sure about anything, actually. You wanted to scream and protest and yell and do whatever you could that would indicate your hatred for this wedding. The fact that you would be enforced into an eternal bond, supposedly to unite two lovers—as the sacred vow states, at least—while this was all occurring for your humiliation and to simultaneously celebrate the bend of the remaining Blackfyre line, continued to infuriate you as the day grew closer.

Your curiosity peaked and you would often find yourself, especially a few days before the wedding, asking your mother questions about your betrothed. Is he beautiful? Is he adored by the royal court? Would he be considered prepared regarding any sudden acquisitions of power? Interesting questions that you would often state to your mother and receive nothing but a shrug or a simple nonchalant answer from her. 

As it was said, you were furious. You’d grown furious during all of these years of losing family, friends and allies over your father’s rebellion. You had every reason to even attempt to make political moves and present yourself strategically, as the court would also agree. As much as the capital was expecting a former princess, fragile and vulnerable, they also weren’t stupid not to expect a dragon full of fury. Hatred, metanoia and dread. Daeron II Targaryen was aware that you would do the most to see his head on a spike, but he also knew how his grandson was. 

How Daeron Targaryen carried himself, mad and semi-conscious because of the alcohol overpowering his blood in his dragon body. Even before the rebellion, you were known as kind, friendly and sweet. The king knew too well about your tendencies to look after people. To take care of them even when they didn’t fully deserve it. A ladylike behavior of a princess, one would rightfully say. However, this was innate of you. Something you probably had inherited from your Tyroshi roots and your mother specifically. 

The king was aware of the match he had arranged, of the benefits that would come out of it. And certainly, the strength of the bond between you would serve the realm and mostly the ongoing Targaryen dynasty. 

So here you were, in your final journey to King’s Landing. Standing in what seemed a Valyrian carriage, merely alone. Your mother couldn’t be present, she wasn’t needed and the court simply didn’t want to witness the wife of the traitor and the mother of his children. On the contrary, they wanted to see her daughter, prey on her and comment on her. Enjoy the sight of Lady Blackfyre willingly getting wed to a real dragon, unlike her family, which would inevitably transform her into one too. Hosting a celebration additionally for the further elimination of pure-blooded Blackfyres. 

It was only you and your handmaidens present in the carriage, occasionally listening to their chatter about the wedding they were heading to and you paying no mind to it. You had no energy or strength to utter a single word. Potentially, this could’ve been the worst day in your lifetime so far. But surely, it was one of them, since your collection of those seemed to be growing since the day your family’s name was associated with the word “rebellion”. 

Westeros remained as beautiful as you had remembered it to be, with its fertile valleys inhabiting so many beautiful creatures and their offsprings, a piece of your heart was glad to be back. Since the minute you settled in Essos, hiding from danger at all times, you had made it clear with yourself that it was no place for you to live in. 

You were born and almost fully raised in Westeros, mostly at Blackwater Rush. This is where you were supposed to live and grow into the beautiful woman you always aspired to be. Very similar to your own mother, she seemed like. Therefore, witnessing the raw beauty of Westeros once more almost made your eyes spill tears from the intense nostalgia clouding your brain. It was as if you never left, nothing truly changed. Maybe, just maybe, your twin brothers were missing. Young and free without a care running around the gardens of the Red Keep and the sounds of their laughter echoing around the castle.

For now, you pushed those thoughts away, seeing the Royal castle approach in your vision making the knot in your stomach tighten so intensely, you were in awe of your ability to keep breathing. Your wedding was supposed to happen in only a matter of time. Therefore, the only thing you could do was brace yourself for the teasing remarks from other noblemen and practically for your humiliation ritual. 

Daeron. The name that has been circling around in your mind for days since you heard it slip past The Breakspearer’s lips. You wished, truly wished, by all the Gods, old and new, that your Daeron would be your soulmate. Someone who you could grow to love instantly and have the feelingreciprocated. Even so, that seemed very unlikely.

Or so you thought. 

—————————

As you stepped out of your carriage, your ceremonial wear grew heavier with every step you took to approach the Great Sept of the Red Keep. You wanted to cry, scream, perhaps steal a blade from the nearest knight or anything sharp enough to protect yourself and leave. Escape and never be seen in the South ever again. Maybe you’d go to the North, you’d heard it’s quite cold there, mayhaps too cold for you. But you’d take anything other than this, than practically throwing all of your life away just so the Targaryen dynasty would safely continue. 

But you couldn’t. You didn’t even have the energy to slightly act upon those thoughts. You merely walked towards the entrance of the sept, feeling two knights a few inches behind you. How terrible must they feel to be protecting the Blackfyre girl. 

As you reached the portal of the sept, you saw an honourable presenting man. Dark curls falling on his forehead, two different shades painted on each eye of his, he turned around to look at you. And yet, you didn’t feel that he was pitying you with his gaze, it was as if he was trying to comfort you.  

The corner of the man’s lips slightly lifted, giving you a small smile and extending his arm towards you. You felt a bit lucky to have him to escort you to your husband. Everyone’s gaze was about to be on you, so you were even grateful for the little things. Including the man beside you. 

As you linked your arms with his, your Blackfyre cloak seeming suffocating now that you were one step away from the interior of the sept, you turned your head to observe the man. His side profile was breathtaking, visible lines of a few wrinkles accompanied by a sharp jawline and—

And then it hit you. It was Baelor Targaryen. 

This was the man that tried to comfort your mother in the news of your arranged marriage by his own father. The man who insisted that he protects you whenever it is necessary. Now it all made sense. Of course the man whose heart was full of empathy had smiled at you right before walking with you towards the unexpected. Of course the same man who your father grew fond of, as you recall him expressing so, had to introduce himself to you this way. You find yourself highlighting the irony to the Gods internally, knowing there was a possibility they might actually hear your thoughts. Dragon dreamer and everything.

As your eyes started getting watery again at the realisation, you subconsciously tightened your grip around Baelor’s arm, staring ahead. And there he was.

Daeron Targaryen in all his glory.

Daeron’s eyes slightly brightened landing upon your figure. You were gorgeous, a gift that had been sent from the Gods. He had himself wondering whether he was deserving of it. However he couldn’t help but detect something familiar in you. He couldn’t exactly define what, but something made him think he was meeting you for the second time in his life, and a flicker of hope glistened in his doe starry eyes.

The first time you meet his glance, you feel a spark rush through your body. Your breath quickened and your eyes stopped to sense the need to fill with tears. Daeron was breathtakingly beautiful. You couldn’t help but notice the worn out expression on his face, your eyebrows frowning at that observation. Daeron had somewhat visible dark circles under his abyss-like eyes. Previously, wearing a look on his face that seemed to have been miserable.

Daeron uncontrollably straightened his posture, his hands tightening around each other behind his back, getting lost in your gaze, something he was sure he would constantly crave as your marriage went along. 

You made your way next to him, tearing your gaze away from his, meanwhile feeling his still stuck on your face. As if he was actively trying to process how someone like you would have to put up with his situation. 

Your gaze shifted from him to the Septon standing a few inches away from the both of you. The Septon judgementally observes the groom, with his sights still set on his wife, having already forgotten of his ceremonial duties. 

You heard a breathy chuckle come from attendees, as you turned your head to see the source of the noise, you saw a silver-haired Targaryen wearing a smug grin on his face. Seemingly having just stopped mocking your husband. You glared daggers at the cocky Targaryen relative, which propelled him to raise his eyebrows at your reaction when his eyes found yours. Please don’t let it be one of his brothers, you swiftly wished. If that was the case, that would mean you’d have to tolerate someone like him for days on end. And right now, you were certain it wasn’t something you needed.

The Septon cleared his throat and Daeron finally let his eyes rest from painting you in the canvas of his memory with a shaky breath. You exhaled deeply and turned around, closing your eyes as you slightly flinched when the tips of his fingers made contact with your shoulders. His pupils dilated at your reaction, his assumption being proven right, you had already been scared of him. Oddly, he found himself deeply affected by it, usually behaving in a careless manner. Daeron wasn’t so sure yet if you had meant to be good for him or not, but he was sure that you would turn his life upside down. 

The groom softly removed your cloak, letting it fall on the floor. The Black Dragon on it now crumpled and weak, just like you had dreamed many times. The Prince grabbed a cloak whose crimson red and ebony black colors were warmly welcomed by the sweet candlelight of the sept. An almost intimidating red dragon, a shade slightly lighter than the rest of the cloak, sewn into the middle. 

You felt Daeron’s hands on your shoulders once again, now clipping the Targaryen cloak on you. Your back proudly now carries the Red Dragon who brought the doom of your family. Lost in that thought, you managed to applaud yourself internally for not breaking down right there and then. 

As his hands distanced themselves away from your body, you swiftly looked around and noticed the intense silence prevailing in the sacred temple. The ritual presented itself as too powerful, almost as if the Gods were present, staring at the two of you who had been cursed with the same blessing. The union of their chosen ones. 

It felt too heavy for you, everything felt too heavy. Your husband’s gaze, the Targaryen cloak, the presence of the Gods, your dream, everything was coming all at once. You turned around, your shoulder almost touching with Daeron’s and waited for the Septon to begin his speech. This is it then, you thought.

“Let it be known that Lady Blackfyre and Daeron of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” the Septon spoke fiercely. You and Daeron turned to face each other, “With this kiss I pledge my love…” speaking in unison, “and take you for my lord and husband…” you followed as composed as you could and Daeron already thought your voice was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. “a-and take you for my lady and wife.” Daeron added, his face lifting slowly to meet your gaze. 

“I declare you man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” the Septon finished and indicated that Daeron should proceed with the traditional gesture.

And there he was, Daeron felt all too giddy to make the move. He was feeling overwhelmingly blessed to be able to touch his lips with yours so freely. Oh how if Daemon The Pretender had won the rebellion, men would lay on your feet. And somehow, Daeron was the man capturing you like this. 

He let out the quietest noise in frustration of this feeling as he leaned in close to you. With you having to raise your chin high enough to assist him. Daeron wanted to devour you, he wasn’t sure of his purpose, of his greatest desire, but now he was able to define it. Consume you one way or another. Because what he was also sure about; was the fact that he would become more addicted to you rather than wine or rum. 

Daeron’s lips locked your top one between them, letting himself kiss you sweetly and have him hoping you’d feel his hidden whispers through it. You closed your eyes and started moving your lips against his, almost as if you had done so numerous times before, as if you had even kissed another person. Let alone like that.  

The attendees erupted into applause as your union had officially been declared solid in the presence of the Seven Gods. As you pulled away from each other, your expression turned melancholic the minute you tasted some grape-like flavour on his lips. When you raised your face to look at Daeron, it’s like he knew that realization had hit you there and then. So he looked away with flushed cheeks and a troubled expression. 

You had a long night ahead of you and this had been just the tip of the iceberg.

—————————

You and your husband had long sat at the head of one of the many tables placed across in the Great Hall of the Red Keep. It had been a few hours since you had been wed and you still hadn’t spoken a word or even turned to glance at your husband. You had been lost in your thoughts, simultaneously too aware of your surroundings, hearing another clank of a golden goblet roughly being placed on top of the wide table. 

Had this been the fourth drink Daeron had downed in the span of the last few minutes? You weren’t so sure. Perhaps you’d lost count already since the faces of your twin brothers couldn’t stop appearing right before you. Looking at you all angry and bloodied. 

Something snapped you out of your thoughts as someone sat on the empty seat next to you. Instinctively looking at the person responsible for the commotion and the irritating noise the chair made when it was pulled.

Oh. Of course. 

The smug looking dragon who had laughed in pity at your husband earlier during the ceremony. Perfect. This is all you need right now. 

Daeron had been too oblivious to realise what had occurred a few inches away from him. Replaying the view of your eyes in his mind, since you hadn’t looked at him since. And he’d survive off of the crumbs he’d had. He could ask you why that was the case, but he also  couldn’t stop thinking about how easily you flinched when he lightly pressed his fingers on your shoulders. And he would hate to scare you away even more, despising living up to the reputation that named him “useless” and “a failure”.

“Lady Blackfyre.” the smug prick looked at you in mischief. With you choosing to completely ignore him, he let out a breathy chuckle, similar to the one he had let out earlier. “I see you’re not much of a talker yourself.” he commented in mockery. 

“Although since I am your husband’s own brother,” he emphasized on the last word and you could feel yourself getting sicker, “I suggest we live on friendly terms. We’ll see each other quite a lot.” he saw no response from you still and leaned in close to your ear. 

“It’s a shame you know,” his voice hardened, “I’ll have to put up with the whore wife of a traitorous bastard.” the Targaryen exclaimed. “I rebelled against it—against our family welcoming your blood back to our dynasty.” he hummed in fury, replaying the memory of him opposing the idea to Maekar intensely.

Your jaw tightened in fury as well, you wanted to scream; You think I want to be here?! You think I had a choice?! You remained quiet once more now staring your dead twin brothers ahead of you in the eyes, them still invading the line of your sight. “You will be the downfall of us. You will infect us, so you better not dare to—“

“Aerion.” a low voice was heard from your other side. Your husband now having abandoned his intimacy session with his drinks and glaring at the man invading your personal space. His shadow looming over you. Aerion, as you learned his name was, leaned back. Taking a few beats to shift his glare from you to his brother, his smirk now widening. 

Aerion stood up, with you now being sat in between them. “Brother,” he called out to him, “I see you’re done daydreaming for the day—“, “Leave her.” Daeron growled in a low tone. Aerion let out a humourless chuckle at his older brother, almost in disbelief at this unusual behavior towards him. You had just been married and Daeron was a changed man, Aerion noted.

“Pardon me, Daeron?” his eyes blazed with growing irritation. Aerion had been commanded by his brother to leave you, making him seem smaller to the rest of the guests, something he truly despised. “Leave her, Aerion. She’s not yours to torment.” Daeron had stepped closer to him now, looking down at his face, Brightflame’s eyes had now widened in surprise.

Rarely had the Drunken dragondreamer behaved so boldly especially to his younger brother. Aerion made a mental note to himself that perhaps having you here would be better than not having you at all. At least something had manned up his brother, and had given him balls heavy enough to stand up to him.

The corners of Aerion’s mouth lifted, his gaze intently observing Daeron. “I was merely speaking to her wasn't I, brother?” his eyes move to your figure, seated perfectly still on your chair. “I am sure she can speak for herself,” he let out a humorless scoff, “the Gods granted her a tongue. Did they not-“

“Enough, nephew." 

And surely, that’s what convinced you to execute the movement of turning your head towards the man whose command belonged to. The\ heir of The Iron Throne spoke fiercely, the man who made the ultimate promise to your mother that he would protect you. Any chance given. 

You stared at him, almost ridiculously one would say, a glimmer of hope evident in the orbs of your eyes. Daeron had noticed, of course he has, it’d only been a couple of hours since he’s been graced by your presence for the first time and you hadn’t even bothered to look at him fully. Your starry eyed husband sensed a feeling of envy, examining the admiration you had for the man. And yet, for once more, Daeron couldn’t help but feel ashamed.

He had gained the courage to prove himself to you, to a woman he had just married, to a woman that had already convinced him to drink two cups less than usual, and he’d failed. Daeron pulled his attention away from the both of you, his fist curling in disappointment. He could feel his uncle’s eyes swiftly absorbing him closing off to himself, and Baelor let out a short sigh. 

Aerion had now dropped every mischievous element from his expression, intimidated by the Prince’s command while also noticing the shift in your stance. Being reminded once more of the effect Baelor Targaryen had on every living person. His uncle simply was aware of the way he should carry himself, a trait every other relative and Aerion wished they had inherited. 

Brightflame looked down in embarrassment, the blood rushing up to his cheeks, his pale skin brightening with a soft shade of red. “I think it’s high time we let your brother and his wife carry on their wedding night in their chambers.” Baelor insisted smoothly, giving you an out of Aerion’s claws and you couldn’t be more grateful. 

Baelor looked over at you, still stuck in the trance his voice had put you in, and then to Daeron. The Prince indicated your husband takes you to your newly renovated shared bedroom, by tilting his head towards you, his gaze locked on his newly wedded nephew. Daeron’s eyes swiftly widened and turned towards you, “My lady, if you will-“ before your husband could finish his sentence, you scraped your chair backwards harshly. Quickly walking in the direction of the guards awaiting to escort you to your room.

—————————

Daeron stuttered, slightly taken aback by your gesture and followed you right after like a lost puppy. 

You both had been walking for a bit, and you had been awfully ahead of Daeron. How could you be walking in such a haste without becoming worn out by the non-stop movement of your feet. The Blackfyres should’ve been known for their speed, he thought to himself, otherwise your need to be away from him had been too much for you to bear. A scenario he didn’t like the sound of. First one it is then. 

In reality, the truth was far from his thoughts. Well, the Blackfyres were certainly not recognized for their speed in any aspect and secondly, you didn’t feel the intense need to have a fair distance from him. In fact, you weren’t sure what caused your speed. Perhaps the way the halls of the Red Keep felt all too familiar. Maybe because you remember running in the same halls with your brothers and you swore you could still hear their pants and little steps amidst the noise of your own right now. 

The way your mind wandered back to when your life had been colorful, you hadn’t taken account of your almost collision with the door of your private chambers. You only did when the warmth of two hands settled on your shoulders, firmly enough to stop you from moving and potentially hurting yourself. Your whole body went numb, you could sense your husband towering over you and panting heavily near your neck. 

“Be careful, wife.” His voice had lowered, quiet enough only for you to hear. You felt a shiver run down your spine at the name he had called you by, your breathing got heavier and your gown even more suffocating. 

Daeron had remained there, hesitant and left in awe by his very own gesture. Perhaps the Blackfyres were also affiliated with witchcraft, because he couldn’t explain the sudden change in his behavior when it came to you. However, if this is how he’d come to be in his life, Daeron didn’t necessarily deem it as something negative. 

He swallowed thickly and extended his hand over to the doorknob, twisting it around painfully slow. Almost as if his intention was for you to observe his hands, you internally cursed him for that. You couldn’t deny that your husband had neat hands, however. His veins contrast to his fairly pale skin, pushing themselves up against the force caused by his movement of twisting the doorknob. The way his fingers curled around the knob, almost caressing it but simultaneously gripping it tightly. Those same fingers holding your other shoulder firmly and—

The door opened, revealing your private chambers, Daeron’s hand that had been placed on the doorknob had returned back to your shoulder, and the realisation hit you. You were actually warm, concerningly warm. His cold hands lowered themselves to rub the sides of your shoulders comfortingly and by instinct, you shrunk them to yourself. 

You heard him mumble a small apology and step back, his hands now off of your body entirely. Letting out the breath you've been holding this entire time, you took the initiative to step inside the room, Daeron following you suit. 

Your eyes explored the room, reminding yourself how long it had been since the last time you’d witnessed a bedroom like this. Your chambers in Essos were the complete opposite of the place you were currently stepping foot on. Which oddly enough, propelled you to understand that you would probably never see your former residence again. And if you would, it probably wouldn’t be under pleasant conditions.

You heard the door softly slam and moved towards the vanity placed near the medium-sized windows. As Daeron stopped in the middle of your room, the sound of his steps on the wooden floor disappearing, he noticed the way your ceremonial wear was clinging to your figure. Showing off carefully what could be easily called every man’s desire. As time went on, it truly had become harder for the Targaryen man to consider accurately the reason the Gods paired the both of you. 

What could he give you that would live up to what you actually deserved? He’s painfully aware of how he’s let practically everyone down, and he deems it inevitable that he also lets you, his wife, down. Although Daeron had no idea when that would occur, he was sure of it. Perhaps, he’d dream about it sooner or later, and drown himself in royal wine until his mind forgets his incapacity to satisfy you. 

Daeron imagined the way your waist would fit perfectly around his grip, the way you’d shudder feeling his weight pressing into yours and the man had to practically swallow a desperate groan. He threw his head back in frustration and let out a swift sigh.

You softly caressed with your fingertips the jewelry placed on top of the vanity, seemingly untouched and prepared for your scent to mark them. You’d long noticed the stillness of your husband and distanced your fingers from the royal wealth staring right up at you.

Before your brain could process, your mouth functioned quicker. “You are my husband.” you began and you could feel the sudden snap of Daeron’s gaze piercing your skull, being met with your beautifully braided silver hair. “Precisely, my lady, it seems that-“,“You called me wife a moment ago.” you fiercely pointed out. As if demanding him to call you that for the rest of his time breathing. 

“I-I suppose I did-”, “So why ‘my lady’?” you interrupted once more. You turned around, almost glaring and angry at Daeron for such a thing. “If you desire to make my time here, as your wife, any less insufferable than it already has been, you cease to use such formalities to call me.” Daeron’s mouth parted slightly, feeling a tiny sense of warmth settle in his stomach. And here he thought you hated it. He nodded quickly, “Of course, my lady-“ he was met with a raise of your eyebrow, “My wife. I mean.” Daeron quickly corrected himself, cursing his stupid heart that seemed to slow down whenever you’d give him the slightest attention. 

You let out a sigh, feeling sorry for the way you’d behaved to him just now, but you had met him for the first time earlier today. This was your first legitimate conversation after your marriage, you still wouldn’t let your walls down that easily and allow him to witness your vulnerability shine. 

Daeron felt his heart skip a beat with every step you took that brought you close to him, awfully close. Close enough that made his knees weak, his eyes attempting to etch every single detail and line on your face to his memory. You boldly placed your palm on his shoulder, in an attempt to even his heavy breathing, “It almost seems as if you are afraid of me, husband.” you purred.

You looked up at him and gained the instant feeling of recognition, almost as if you have looked at these eyes before, and you dismissingly turned that thought down by thinking it came from a collision between the two of you during the time you were a noble. But it wouldn’t be too long until you realised the reality of things. 

“No! You’ve mistaken me, my wife.” Daeron was quick to deny your claim, which had suddenly made him more sober than ever. “I purely want to ensure your feeling of safety.” you let out a humourless scoff as you turned around, now your back facing his body. 

“You want to ensure my feeling of safety, husband? Then, help me take this ridiculous dress off.” You knew the consummation of your wedding was to be expected of you in the following day, so you might as well make it worthwhile. Deep down, you felt lucky that it would have been Daeron and no one else. Had you not been so defensive of your admittance of this intense connection you had already felt to him, you would’ve been gentler, softer. 

Daeron felt heat sprawl all over his cheeks, his hands suddenly going numb and the strength of his arms shrinking with every passing second. “Yes,” he let out a shaky breath, almost passing out at the thought of what was about to follow. “allow me to…” he trailed off, losing the ability to form coherent sentences the moment he untied the knot holding your dress together. 

The sight of your bare back immediately made him feel the painful rise of his crotch. He let out a low groan, desperate to feel your skin kissing his own. Daeron’s eyes lingered on your bare rear, shortly enough until you turned around to catch him doing so.

You were incredibly surprised by your own movements, you’d never done this before, your instincts were merely basing your decisions off the whispers you’ve heard from noble ladies on seducing their husbands, and also by a little vague piece of advice your mother had given you weeks prior to your wedding. The basics, as she claimed herself.

Absorbing the way your husband was now staring at you with such hunger and desire, you felt shyness consume you. While your lower body was all tingly and hot, you felt a heat pool between your legs. Inevitably pressing your thighs together in seek of any kind of friction that would relieve the pressure away. 

Daeron Targaryen was a gorgeous looking man. With his enchanting pleading brightest eyes and every other single one of his features complimenting them satisfyingly, it almost felt like being worshipped by a God. And damn all seven kingdoms, Daeron felt like dropping to his knees right there and then. 

Attempting to maintain your bold demeanor and instinctively biting your lower lip out of pure anxiety, you swept the fabric softly off of both your shoulders. The clothing now long gone from your body, hitting the wooden floor gently. Feeling the way the cold air raised every strand of hair in your body and harden your nipples. Your bare figure was now fully exposed to your husband’s gaze, and Daeron dedicated a quick prayer to whatever superior power conquered them all. His eyes raked your body intently, fully convincing your boldness to disappear from your attitude. 

As you went to cover your body, your arms obscuring your breasts to his gaze, Daeron immediately grabbed ahold of both of your wrists, “Please,” it almost sounded like he was begging, “let me take care of you. My sole desire is to make you content, dearest.” another name you’d realise sooner or later you adore endlessly. 

Your breath hitched, suddenly at loss for words observing that the roles have reversed. Your doe eyed gaze collided with his pleading one, and after a few beats had passed, you softly nodded. Allowing him to take care of you the way he intended to since the second he laid eyes upon you. 

His arms snaked around your waist slowly, moving carefully with absolutely no haste with the intention to make this moment the longest he’s ever experienced. If Daeron Targaryen could decide what drink he’d want to keep consuming for the rest of his life until he drowns in it, he would choose his wife. With no hesitation. 

He pulled you closer, your palms landing on his chest, your exposed own pressing on his torso as he placed a firm grip on the back of your neck. Forcing you to stare up at him fully, Daeron leaned in closer with the desire to claim your lips with his own, but just before doing so, he looked into your eyes once more, “I shouldn’t have you. I am not deserving of it.” he breathed out.

You frowned softly at his remark, “You’re my husband.” you leaned in even closer, both of your lips now almost touching feeling his swift breaths meet with yours. “And I’m your wife,” he let out what almost sounded like a whine, and you swear you could feel his hardened clothed cock press into your bare cunt. You moved your face next to his ear, whispering to him the rest of your sentence, “show me how a man cares for his woman.” you distanced your face from his and absorbed the way his eyebrows had frowned as if he had been dying of thirst. Needing to drink you whole.

Daeron’s hips inevitably bucked against your clit, experiencing the new sensation that sent jolts right through your body. With that, you uncontrollably let out a soft whimper, subconsciously asking for more, and that was the confirmation your husband needed. Having remained the grip on the back of your neck, he pushed your face so his lips could collide with yours.

Instantly, Daeron let out a soft groan in the middle of tasting your perfectly shaped lips. You and him moved with perfect sync, while he slid his other hand on your back down to your bare bosom. Making it your turn now to let out a sound of satisfaction, with your back arching and your body leaning against his touch. Daeron squeezed the soft flesh there and moved his mouth from your own down to your neck. 

With your eyes closed, you titled your head backwards, giving him full access to shower your neck with all the love it craves from him. You felt your husband’s mouth working hard to create marks on your neck, taking his sweet time with staining your pretty skin with different shades of purple. At some point, you slid your fingers through his silver golden locks, gently pulling them which forced out a soft growl from the back of his throat. 

You let out a sweet noise when Daeron gave extra attention to a specific spot on your neck, making you feel all kinds of things, and also the need to grind your clit on your own thigh, feeling light waves of pleasure rush through your body. Daeron could feel some kind of commotion coming from you, making his eyes snap open.

Your husband took in the image of you practically rutting against your own thighs and almost cursed at himself for getting carried away in your neck long enough you’d seek any kind of relief on your own. But you were so intoxicating, so much that he had acknowledged the fact that the list of things he adored about you wouldn’t end anytime soon.

“Allow me to take you to our bed, wife.” Daeron suggested, his voice making you snap out of practically getting off on your own. As inexperienced as you were, you hadn’t properly realised that this sort of movement was very close to giving you the pleasure you needed to feel.

As you looked at him, for what seemed like the thousandth time tonight, heat flooded your cheeks once more ashamed of the state your husband had probably been observing you in for a short while. “Please.” He begged for the second time clearly so far, so how could you not let him? 

“Take me.” You said and it almost seemed like a demand, you wanted to untie the knot in your belly as soon as possible and the existence of that tension was nothing but the offspring of Daeron’s attitude towards you since the moment you entered this room.

Daeron swept you softly off of your feet, his gaze locked on yours, nothing else worthy enough of it. Your husband placed you softly on your shared bed, now having your fully exposed and bare body in full display right before his eyes. 

You saw Daeron untie his breeches and as they dropped down, you could feel your mouth weirdly drool at the sight, curious as to why that may be. Daeron’s cock was now on display a few inches away from you. You couldn’t help but feel a bit intimidated, Daeron’s size wasn’t small but he wasn’t big. Maybe too big for you, no wonder you were intimidated. Daeron was well groomed, few silver golden curls around his cock, tip all angry and needy for some kind of release. And all at the same time, you desperately needed to be the one who’d give it to him. You were his wife after all.

“Take off your shirt.” You stated straightforwardly, making Daeron’s eyebrows raise for a split second, and executing your command right after. Exposing his well toned upper body to you, suddenly getting the will to run your fingers all over it. “Is that better, wife?” Daeron asked in almost a nervous demeanor, and you hummed approvingly, getting warmer by the minute. The sexual tension was so sharp it could cut like a sword.

“Open your legs for me, sweet wife.” Daeron instructed, sensing the feeling of your inexperience especially having witnessed a few seconds ago your reaction to his own cock. As you obeyed his order, Daeron almost moaned at the sight of your glistening cunt. He hadn’t even done anything to you and he could almost see you dripping and staining your freshly washed bedsheets. 

“Gods,” he let out a soft moan slowly approaching your cunt with two of his fingers, running them up and down your folds, merely testing your slickness. You were so wet Daeron was about to embarrassingly come right there and then, as if it wasn’t embarrassing enough how hard he had been prior to even kissing you. “you’re soaking.” He remarked, almost confirming it to himself. 

“Daeron,” you moaned out, feeling his fingers make contact with your folds, leaning against his touch. “please make it go away. It aches.” and with those words of yours, Daeron was sure he wouldn’t last very long. He nodded at your request, “I’ll take care of it. Trust me, wife.” he reassured you as he spit gently on his palm, leading it to his hardened cock. Driving his shaft up and down twice, he softly placed his knees under your thighs, his cock now inches away from your pulsing hole. 

“This may hurt at first,” he lovingly warned you, his cock pulsing in his palm thinking about how tight you’d probably be, with him being your first. “tell me to stop and I will.” Daeron informed you, and you softly nodded. Oddly fully trusting him with your body in such an intimate way already. 

Daeron entered his tip inside of your cunt and it already began to squeeze him, hissing softly as you grew worried for the man. Have you done something wrong? Daeron went completely still, not moving an inch while you felt your cunt stretching and adjusting to his size making you let out a soft whimper in pain.

Your husband held his weight by resting both of his palms on either side of your face, your legs now folding higher than when he was sitting upwards. “You’re so tight. Fuck.” he let out a desperate whimper, “Won’t last at all if you keep squeezing me like that.” he said against your shoulder moving an inch forward. Now almost half of him was inside of you, making you hiss in pain, complaining about it with the sounds you made. 

“I know sweetest, I know.” Daeron pressed a soft kiss on your shoulder to reassure you, moving as slow as possible not just to extend his time left, but to also make it as less painful as he could for you. “It’ll feel good, I promise.” He continued as he felt your fingers run through his locks once more, noting that it almost played a role of comfort to you.

You could gradually feel the pain disappear as Daeron began to move with more ease and an increased pace. Not too much but not too little. Your cunt had now adjusted to his size comfortably enough to welcome the pleasure in your body and getting closer to untying that damned knot in your belly. 

Your husband was now busy with your breasts, thrusting as slow as needed to suit your comfort and he seemed to have found it judging by your needy moans of pleasure. Even with his tongue circling around one of your nipples and his fingers pinching the other, he could sense your enjoyment. 

“So perfect,” he murmured against your breast, “don’t know what good I’ve done to have you here like this.” he said and felt your cunt clench around his cock, now almost fully inside of you. Giving him the courage to speed up a little bit more as he felt his climax approaching, his moans mixing with yours.

The knot in your lower body wasn’t just about to untie now, snap perhaps was a better word to describe it. You’ve grown to enjoy the feeling of being filled up so perfectly by your husband, seemingly moving on your own against his thrusts for him to go even deeper. With that movement of yours, you assisted Daeron in finding the spot that would finally relieve you from this ache.

Daeron thrusted a few more times in that same spot and the grip you had on his hair evidently tightened, your eyes snapping shut and letting out a high pitched moan with your back arched and your legs trembling. “It’s alright sweetest, I’m here. Look at me.” Daeron talked you through your orgasm right after you finished observing the white light that your closed eyelids presented to you. You’ve never felt like this before, and if Daeron Targaryen could make that happen, you never wanted it to stop.

Daeron stayed still until you came down your high, ensuring your proper satisfaction. As you recovered Daeron moved inside of you a few more times until he let out a low moan against your shoulder and painted your insides white. You thought to yourself, that you hadn’t seen a prettier sight before, which was your husband, all sweaty and panting finishing inside of you as you felt your womb welcoming the warmth of his seed and settling in it. 

Daeron looked up and pressed a kiss to your lips, despite being worn out. Shortly after, he pulled out his softening cock and laid his head on your chest. Roughly falling asleep on the spot, as finishing inside of you might have been the most intense orgasm he’d ever experienced so far. 

You observed your sleeping husband, still feeling his load claim its spot inside of you, realising this man that you’d been so worried about would also be the man that you’d potentially spend the rest of your life with. And maybe, just maybe, that didn’t seem as bad as you expected. It was still too early to tell, and for some reason, you felt that the Gods would be knocking on your door with some news soon enough. Therefore, you allowed yourself to let loose, appreciate the peaceful moment you were currently in and prepare for your life amongst the Red Dragons. 

With all the strength you had, you pulled the duvet over you and your husband, who continued to lay his head on your bare chest, as sleep took over you only a few moments later. And for the first time in years, you sensed that the Gods wouldn’t be at your door tonight, that for once you’d have a peaceful sleep, free of premonitions and visions regarding your future.

—————————

You assumed it’d been a while since you fell asleep, however, you could feel movement near you and worried grunts fill the silence of your chambers. 

You softly opened your eyes, letting them adjust to the lightning of the few candles decorating the space around you, and they quickly darted toward the man whose head was still on you. 

Daeron had now been sweatier than earlier, his body shaking and twitching as if he was trying to get away from something, and fierce inaudible mumbles were escaping his twitching mouth. You placed your palm on his cheek and he was concerningly cold and that made your eyes widen in worry.

You had just made the observation your mother did to you right after she’d wake you up from one of your visions. Your mother would always tell you how sick and worried some of your dreams would make her, because during them, you’d be in the exact state your husband was right now next to you.

And then it hit you, the Red Dragon in your dream, the Gods have been telling you all along. And the more you think the more you realise his need to drink, to forget, an urge you’d find yourself often to fulfill. You just didn’t have anything at your disposal, other than daydreaming and seeing your dead family appear in front of you on many occasions. The lack of sanity has caught up to you on a concerning amount, its most recent presence being your wedding feast the day before. 

The Gods have a funny way of planning things. And only then did you understand what that meant.

Daeron Targaryen shared the same gift you’d been cursed with for as long as you could remember. 

His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.

“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.

Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.

Instead, he saw you.

You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.

While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.

You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.

“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”

“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.

You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”

“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.

But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”

Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.

You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.

The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.

Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.

“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”

Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.

Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.

But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”

Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.

“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”

“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.

Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.

Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.

Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.

From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.

To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.

He waited for you to finally lose your cool.

But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.

You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.

A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.

“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”

You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.

An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.

Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.

“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”

“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.

Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.

“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”

You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.

“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”

He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.

“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”

“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”

The room went silent before you spoke again.

“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”

The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.

A breathless laugh escaped him.

“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.

He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.’ Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”

“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.

He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”

“Of course,” you smiled.

As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.

Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.

The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.

You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.

“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”

“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”

“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”

“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.

The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.

Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.

Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.

“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.

“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.

“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.

Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.

You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”

“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.

That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.

During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.

He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.

“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.

Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.

“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”

His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.

The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.

Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.

Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.

A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.

You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.

Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.

“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.

“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”

Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.

Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.

Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.

You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.

Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.

However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.

The feast was deafeningly loud.

You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.

Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.

He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.

Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.

But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.

He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.

“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”

“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”

Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.

His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.

The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.

You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”

Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”

Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.

“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”

“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.

Daeron shoved some hair out of his face as he sat nervously at your bedside. He chewed on his lip, tapped his little foot, but his anxious eyes never strayed from you. You were tired, he could see it painted around your eyes and mouth, the way you groaned if you shifted and how your breaths were often heavier than not. He could see it in the way you attempted to smile but could never reach it fully, the way your eyes fluttered every once in a while and you threatened to fall back into sleep. He could even see it in the way you caressed your own belly, round and protruding from under the sheets, ready to release the babe at any moment. 

“I can almost see the thoughts running around in your head like little people, my little owl,” you called to him, smiling a bit brighter than before when he glanced up to your face. You held out your hand to him and he abandoned the stool he had been sitting on to slip in beside you on the bed, tucking his legs under the sheet and turning to snuggle heavily into you. He wrapped his arm over you, in the lower space between your belly and chest, and then pressed his face to your neck, sighing long and low. He was practically trembling in your arms and you frowned as you began caressing his back, soft little motions of your fingertips up and down the lenght of his spine. 

“What is it, my little owl?” You asked quietly, tilting your head to press a kiss to the top of his head. You loved his bronzey curls, soft and so different to your Aerion and Aemon’s pale white hair, to your little Daella’s hair so perfectly matching your own. He did not say anything at first, just lay there and breathed you in before slowly lifting his head up and asking, 

“Why do you call me a little owl?” He looked sad asking it, pouting, but you just huffed a tired laugh and reached out to press your index finger to his nose. Your boy was ten namedays old now, and he was smarter by the minute. 

“Owls are creatures of the night, you know. They stay up all the evening long, live their lives in the evening, and they fly silently, barely noticeable, but they are intelligent, known to be wise. You are like my own little owl,” at this you smiled and caressed his soft face, his forehead and plump cheeks, tickling him under the chin. “When you were a babe, you would stay up all night, even when you were not crying, you would simply stay awake and blink up at the ceiling. Even now, though you attempt to pretend otherwise, I know you are awake most nights. And though you are quiet, my little one, I know how clever and how wise you are, right up here,” you tapped his forehead again. 

Daeron nodded then sat up and leaned against your belly, resting his head there on top of his folded hands. He blinked slowly at you, then began tracing the embroidery on the bedsheets, circling flowers and leaves. You could sense his worry, could sense that he wished to speak but did not know how, so you simply reached out and continued to caress his hair as you spoke. 

“It is the same way Aerion is my little dragon. He is fierce, he has the temper of one. He used to scream and cry like a dragon roars. He would go so red I once thought perhaps he would breathe fire.” At this Daeron huffed a small giggle, pressing his face to your stomach to hide it. 

“And Aemon is my little fawn, because though he is timid, he loves being around his family. And Daella is a little mouse, because she is still very small, and sometimes when she scrunches her nose it reminds me of a mouse,” you giggled at yourself, at the nicknames you came up with for your children, random but fun. Daeron nodded, as if it was all very serious and important. 

“What will the new babe be?” He asked then, his voice going quieter, more grave, and you hummed in thought. 

“Hm, our Aegon,” you pondered aloud, and then you furrowed your brows and looked down at Daeron. “I am not sure yet. What do you think he will be, little owl?” 

Daeron too hummed in thought, still tracing the patterns on the sheets. He did not answer for a while. 

“I think,” he began mumbling, “he will be like a dragon too. But not in the way Aerion is.” He frowned a little, pinching and releasing the fabric now instead of simply tracing it. “I think he will be like those large old dragons, like Balerion and Vhagar. Regal and majestic, not- not angry.” 

You smiled at that, pinching his cheek and humming in delight. 

“That makes me very happy,” you told him softly. 

Daeron did not say anything for a little while, just lay against you and listened to you hum, but then he opened his mouth once more and mumbled, “I have been having dreams again.” You paused, going very still, and looked down at him. You shifted, sitting up a little, then returned your attention fully to your son. You caressed his head once more, nodding at him to go on. “They scare me.” You could feel his lips moving against your stomach with the way he pressed himself down to you, and your heart panged in your chest. “I cannot understand what they are trying to tell me. I just…” he murmured something you could not understand this time, but you prompted him to repeat it with a little ‘hm?’ of your own. “I hear the babe crying. It is screaming and crying and cannot be soothed. And… And I hear you. I can hear you screaming. I see you in the bed,” and he began to cry, soft little whimpers, tears rushing to his eyes as his breaths began to shake. “I can see you, mother, and you are all bloody, all over. And-and-” his hands clenched into the bedsheets, into your dress underneath them. “You are crying first, mother, you are crying and shaking your head and begging, and then you just stop. And sometimes you are just laying there, eyes closed, and sometimes you are all clean again and holding the babe and smiling at it and-” 

“Shh, shh,” you quickly reached out and waited until Daeron had crawled back up, had thrown himself over you and wrapped his arms tight around your neck. You hushed him, softly and gently, kissing the side of his little head as your throat filled with a lump you could not swallow. “Hush now, little one, hush now,” you soothed, clenching your own eyes shut as you hugged him tight. He was still bony the way some children were at this age, all gangly limbs that he would slowly grow into, and you simply clutched him as tight as you could, attempting to breathe slowly as the images he had conjured filled your mind. But no, no, you could not focus on that either. 

“Mother, please, do not- do not-” he began blubbering too much before he could say anything else and your own face crumpled, eyes filling with tears as you shook your head and shushed your boy again. 

“No, no, do not even think such thoughts dearest,” you whispered to him, rubbing your hand up and down his back, kissing his hair, his forehead. “It is only a dream. Sometimes dreams can be very scary. Sometimes they scare us even when we are awake. But it is alright. Mother’s here.” 

You clutched your boy tighter and silently cried against the top of his head. You felt like a liar. You knew the realities of the birthing bed. Though your past pregnancies had done well enough, you could never be promised true safety. You could not make any promises to your son. And it made you feel sick. It made you feel like a sick, sick, liar. 

“Mother’s here,” you whispered to him once more, and he nodded, though he continued crying for a while longer. 

By the time Maekar returned to your chambers, both Aerion and Aemon had come to join you and Daeron as well. Daella had already been put to sleep by the nursemaid, but Aerion and Aemon refused to leave your side, just as their brother. Daeron curled up under one of your arms, Aerion took the other, and little Aemon, still a chubby toddler to you, clambered all over your pregnant belly (sometimes making you huff when he knocked the wind out of you). 

Though Maekar let out a long groan at the sight of his bed full of children, he was secretly pleased to see his brood all smiling and laughing, curled up with their mother. It filled his heart right to the brim. 

You smiled brightly at him as walked over, reaching your hand out to him. He rounded the bed and first leaned down to press a tender kiss to your lips before he began tickling and ruffling up all the boys on the bed. He paused in his mission to check on you, reaching up and cupping your cheek to tilt your head up to him. He frowned at what he saw, noting the tiredness in your eyes, the darker tint underneath, and he was instantly all business once more. 

“All of you, to your own beds now,” he ordered, picking Aemon up and waving his hand at Aerion and Daeron. Aerion pouted, brows furrowing with anger as he began to argue, but Daeron just curled up further and pressed to your arm. “I said now,” Maekar repeated firmly, glaring at Aerion until the boy huffed, pressed an angry kiss to your cheek, murmured a ‘goodnight, muña’, and then stomped off. “You as well, Daeron,” Maekar ordered, now turning his gaze to his eldest son, but the boy had his eyes closed and pressed his face to your arm. 

You frowned a little at him. Your boy had always been clingy, had always preferred to stick to you more than anyone else, but he had not been like this, not for a long time anyway. You caressed his head once more, noted how fragile he still looked, but sighed and nudged his nose with the tip of your finger. 

“It is alright, little owl,” you whispered, coaxing him to look at you. “Father will put you to bed, he will tuck you up tight, give you enough kisses from the both of us, and when tomorrow comes, you and I will find ourselves something fun to do together, just us.” 

Daeron pulled away from you finally, blinking his big eyes up at you with a spark of hope. You wanted to cry, wanted to gather him up and keep him secure with you forever. 

“Promise, mother? Just us?” He asked, voice small, and you nodded, leaning forward and pressing a firm kiss to his forehead. 

“Promise, just us.” 

Daeron nodded then, kissed your cheek one last time, and hauled himself off the bed, reaching up to hold Maekar’s hand as he walked both boys out of your room. Your husband turned to offer you one last look, murmuring how he would return shortly, and you only blew him a kiss in return. 

It was late that evening, when all the candles had been blown out and the hearths had dimmed down to embers, when the owls hooted and all the princes and princesses slept, that the birth began. 

Daeron was not meant to be awake. He should have been asleep. He knew both mother and father would be cross at him for being awake. But he had heard footsteps rushing outside of his door, and sleep never came easy in the evenings, so he could do nothing but leave and follow. 

He caught a maid just turning the corner at the end of the hall, running quickly and disappearing, her plain gown just a flutter. He frowned, rubbing the residual tiredness from his eyes, and followed. He could hear more commotion around the corner, and he found all the flurry of activity outside his mother and father’s bedchambers. 

“We need more water, hot and cold both. And cloths, Minara, more cloths!” 

“Someone have the fire stoked-” 

“Where is Septa Cyren-” 

“Has the maester been-” 

Daeron shoved himself close to the wall and stayed there, his heart pounding. His eyes flitted this way and that, following all the people who came rushing in or out of the chambers. He caught snippets of conversation, words that trailed off when the doors opened, and then screaming. 

It was loud. A curdling scream, pure pain. Daeron had never heard anything like that. It was a howl, really, something a dying animal might make, he guessed. His hands trembled further as the scream began to die off. He could only see the wood of the chamber doors, the barest peak in when they opened, but nothing past the wall, nothing actually within the chambers themselves. 

“...she has been asking for you, over and over, and though we usually would not call, she seems very distressed this time. We do not want her wasting energy on this.” His father appeared around the corner as well, dressed simply the way he would be in the evenings, eyes puffy and hair more mussed than usual. He was frowning, though it was not his usual scowl but more one of worry. Daeron watched his body go rigid at the words of the Septa, watched his eyes dart to the door to the chambers. 

Just as Maekar reached them, he looked down the hall and noticed Daeron cowering by one of the end tables, pressed to the wall as if to hide. His frown deepened and he sighed, half frustrated and half tired. He marched over to his son, beckoning him to stand and glaring down at him. 

“Why are you awake? You should be in bed.” 

Daeron just blinked up at him at first, chewing on his lip, then he glanced in the direction of the chamber doors. Maekar’s face softened, just a tad, and he gently ran his hand over Daeron’s head, pressing the boy to his leg in a pseudo-hug before letting him go. He opened his mouth to speak when the screaming began again. 

It was far too loud even from behind closed doors, and Maekar’s head snapped in its direction. He let go of Daeron and rushed into the doors, slamming them shut behind him. Daeron retreated to his spot against the wall, his entire body trembling. He blinked his eyes, quickly then slowly but hard, but nothing made the world change. Nothing made the screaming stop or magically found him back in his bed. 

“What is the meaning of this…” He heard his father’s growl behind the door, the sound of sobbing, loud and pained. He knew it was his mother. He knew it. Daeron clenched his hands into his tunic and simply stared at the chamber doors. 

“What the fuck do you mean complications, speak it plainly…” 

“...breach, my prince…. The wrong way…” 

“How the fuck do you fix it then? Do not blather…” 

The screaming began again and Daeron clenched his eyes shut, pressed himself harder to the wall, until it hurt, until dust stuck to his shirt and trousers and his skin throbbed with pain. He pressed his hands to his ears and whimpered, but the screaming dissolved into sobbing and he cried too. He could hear his mother crying, he knew it was her. He wanted to be with her. He did not want to her mother crying, he wanted her crying to stop. 

“Daeron?” A small mumble, he turned around to find Aerion come pattering up the hall, cheeks and lips puffed out as he rubbed sleepily at his eyes. “Who is screaming?” He asked, blinking blearily up at his big brother. 

Daeron could not find words to say to him. He did not know what to say. He finally managed to break out, “the babe is coming.” 

“Oh,” Aerion nodded, then frowned at the doors to the chambers where now there was scuffling and thuds and their father’s voice but unintelligible. “Does it hurt to have a babe?”

Daeron only nodded. He was overcome with fear, overcome with the images of his dreams. He could hear it so clearly, see it so clearly, his mother on the bed, writhing in pain, begging for something he could not give, did not know how to give. 

“...fucking save her damnit!” 

Daeron’s breath stuttered in his chest when something banged loudly from inside the room. Aerion too jumped at the noise, his face falling now, his lower lip trembling and a fearful little pout coming onto his lips. The younger boy stepped closer to Daeron, clutching at his loose shirt, and Daeron simply stood there beside his brother, trembling as they listened to the loud sobbing through the door. 

“Is that muña?” Aerion asked, his voice gaining a higher pitch. The boy trembled more than Daeron now, both his fists coming to hold onto Daeron’s shirt. Soft sniffles started to shake him, his lower lip gaining a tremor. 

“...what can be done? Please, tell me what can be done, I will…”

Daeron pressed harder to the wall once more, blinking harshly as the fear burned in him, as his eyes stung with it. He had never heard his father like that. Had never heard his father so… begging. Maekar was always firm, the warrior. Maekar never wavered. Why did Maekar sound like that? 

Daeron saw it again, his mother on the bed, covered in blood, twitching then still. Twitching then still. Twitching then still. Twitching then- 

“I do not fucking care! Save her fucking life you-” 

Aerion whimpered then, pressing his face to Daeron’s back, and Daeron could only reach and touch his head softly. He stared at the hallway, empty now of the rushing maids and septas. He saw the sconces, the fire flickering in them, the dark sky outside the window at the end of the hall, crystal clear with stars blinking. 

The screaming began again, long and even more pained than before, mixing with Aerion’s whimpering as he hugged his brother tight. But this time when the screaming faded, there was another sound, wailing, long and high pitched, crackling from fresh lungs. Aerion hugged Daeron even tighter, but tilted his head up at that, frowning as he blinked through tears. 

“That is the babe,” Daeron muttered, a spark of hope inside him, no bigger than a kernel of fire. The babe was out then. The babe was out and mother could rest, and tomorrow, tomorrow it would be just them. She would wipe the nightmares away, would tell him that the dreams had simply scared him while he was awake, but Mother was there. Mother was there. 

Daeron held tight to Aerion, let his eyes flutter shut, leaned into the wall, but amidst the babe’s crying, other voices rose, high and hurried, not yelling but loud and panicked. 

“...too much blood, stop the bleeding…” 

This time the crying was quieter, not the babe’s, but yours. Daeron closed his eyes and shook his head, tried to shake the sound right out of it, but it would not go. You were crying, pained and tired, and he could hear it over the babe’s quieted whimpering. 

“...it is alright…” that was his father, quieter than he had been all evening. 

“...my boys… all my beautiful boys…” Daeron shuddered, lurched forward toward the door. He stumbled, Aerion yelping, still clutching tight to the shirt on his back, almost bringing him down. Daeron shoved him off and continued forward, breath ragged. He reached the door, gripped the handle and shoved, stepping in. He could hear mother, surely she was calling for them, Aerion stumbling into his back. 

There you lay, closer to the left side of the bed where you always lay in the evenings. Father was at your side, clutching your hand tightly between both of his and staring at your face, saying something, anguished. Your hair was splayed around you, stuck to you with your sweat. You were red, or, no, your dress was red, drenched really. Down your legs, up to your waist and stomach. Your face was pained, clenched into some expression Daeron had never seen on you before. He could only see the red, a bright wash. Then a Septa was gasping, pressing her hands to his shoulders and shoving him back out of the door and slamming it shut. 

But Daeron could still see it, the red blood seeping through your clothes. He could see you twitching and going still. Was it the dream still, or had he just seen it? He blinked his eyes, once, then twice, then hurriedly a few times. But the image stayed, the image stayed pressed there as if someone held it there. 

Aerion cried profusely now, clinging to Daeron, shaking and sobbing and yelling for muña. He pressed his face to Daeron’s stomach, clenched his hands into Daeron’s shirt, and sobbed. Daeron held tight to Aerion in return. Or maybe he did not. He could not quite tell what his limbs did. He too only wanted Mother. You had promised tomorrow would be just you two. You had promised. 

Then there was a loud long moan of pain. It was like an animal dying. It was like the last sound a stag made before the hunt slaughtered it. It was like the lone wolf, crying out for it’s mate. It was the last dragon’s dying breath. Daeron stared at the door through which the sound came, through which his Father made that sound. 

Daeron fell back against the wall, taking Aerion with him. His little brother curled up against him, sobbing in fear and confusion, begging for his mother. Daeron curled up around Aerion, pressing his face to the back of the boy’s head the way you always did when they snuggled into you. He clenched his eyes shut. You promised. You had promised.

Her name was everywhere in the Red Keep, whispered by serving girls and sung by minstrels, painted in miniature on ivory pendants that his paramours wore at their throats. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, they called her, and when they said it in your hearing, their eyes would dart to you with something between pity and amusement. See the Oakheart girl, their glances said. See how plain she looks beside the memory of Seastar’s shimmer.

Back in the Reach, you had been called beautiful. You had believed it. Here, you were a candle held up against the sun. Back in the Reach, you were praised as a proper lady, and Shiera was called a shameless whore with nothing more than derision. But King's Landing valued influence, the ability to captivate and draw interest, which Shiera had in abundance.

You did not hate her. Hatred required energy you did not possess. But you feared her. You feared the day she would return to court, trailing silk and scandal behind her, and you would have to stand beside your husband and watch his single eye follow her across the hall. You feared the quiet, courteous dismissal that would surely follow. You had married a man who loved another woman. It was a common enough fate for highborn ladies, you knew, but knowing it did not make your marriage bed any warmer.

You spent your days wandering. The gardens, with their rose trellises and marble fountains, their sharp-scented herbs and imported lemon trees shivering in the sea wind. The library, where you read histories of the Seven Kingdoms until the words blurred before your eyes. The sept, where you knelt before the Maiden and asked for guidance that never came. And the stairway that spiraled up to the Hand’s solar, where you would sometimes sit on the cold stone steps with a book open on your lap, close enough to hear the murmur of voices beyond the iron-banded door, the scratch of a quill, the rustle of parchment. You never knocked. You were too afraid of being turned away.

It was on one of those steps, three moons into your marriage, that Brynden Rivers finally spoke to you about the raven.

You had Pebble on your knee, feeding him strips of roasted capon you had wrapped in a napkin and smuggled from the kitchens. The bird was growing stout, you could see it in the way his breast swelled over his claws, the way he waddled rather than hopped when he moved along the windowsill. You had noticed but you had not cared. You had to keep feeding him so he wouldn't leave you as well.

“What am I doing, Pebble?” you whispered. “What am I doing here? My husband does not want me. The court does not see me. My family’s name is a jest and a warning both. I am a wife in name only, and I do not know how to become anything more. I was not taught how to be a wife to a man like him. I was taught how to be a wife to a lord who wanted a gentle lady to manage his household and bear his children. But Lord Bloodraven has a household that manages itself and no desire for children of his body, or so they say.” You paused, your fingers stilling on the raven’s feathers. “Perhaps he would want children if they were Shiera’s.”

The raven croaked.

You stroked the raven’s feathers again, and your voice cracked. “I am even afraid that you will leave me, Pebble. You are the only friend I have in this place. Please do not fly away.”

The door to the solar opened. You scrambled to your feet, the napkin falling from your lap, capon scattering across the stone. Pebble let out an indignant caw and flapped onto the windowsill, his wings laboring under his weight.

Lord Bloodraven stood in the doorway.

His hair, silver-white, fell straight to his shoulders, and his skin was so pale it seemed to drink the light. The red birthmark that crept up his neck and cheek, the source of his name, was vivid as a splash of wine against snow. He wore black, and the eye that fixed on you now was the deep, unsettling red of dying embers.

The other eye was gone. A pale, smooth scar ran from brow to cheekbone, and beneath it, a dark hollow that seemed to see more than any living eye could.

“My lady wife,” he said. His voice was quiet, precise, each word placed as carefully as a stone on a cyvasse board.

“My lord.” You dropped into a curtsy, your heart hammering. You had not expected him to emerge. He rarely did before the hour of the bat. “Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb you. I was only...”

His gaze had moved past you to the raven. Pebble was worrying at a shred of capon, his beak tearing at the meat with smug contentment. Bloodraven’s expression did not change, but the air shifted, a faint tightening like the pause before a thunderclap.

“That is my raven,” he said.

“Yes, my lord. I hope you do not mind. He comes to my window, and I...”

“He is fat.”

The words fell like a stone into still water. You felt heat rise to your cheeks, the familiar burn of mortification. Your fingers twisted in the folds of your skirt, a pale lavender silk, pretty and demure. Here in the grey light of the tower it seemed washed-out and childish. You were a woman grown, a wife, and yet you felt like a girl being scolded by her septa for some minor transgression.

“I have been feeding him,” you admitted in a small voice.

Bloodraven stepped forward. His movements were unsettlingly smooth. He lifted one long-fingered hand, and the raven, your Pebble, your greedy, ungrateful Pebble, fluttered up to perch on his wrist without the slightest hesitation, as though you had never existed.

“A raven of the Tower must be lean,” Bloodraven said, stroking the bird’s breast with one pale thumb. Pebble closed his eyes in bliss. “He must fly swiftly over distances that would exhaust a lesser bird. He must carry messages through weather that would kill a hawk. He must be quick, clever, and sharp as a blade.”

He turned that burning red eye back to you.

“You have made him useless.”

The words struck harder than they should have. You had not thought yourself capable of tears, you had not wept once since leaving the Reach, not at your wedding, not on your wedding night when your husband failed to come to your bed, not in all the lonely days that followed, but now your throat tightened and your vision swam. You blinked rapidly, fighting it down, but a single tear escaped and traced a burning path down your cheek.

You ducked your head, hoping he had not seen. The silence stretched, unbearable.

“I am sorry,” you whispered. “I did not know. He came to me. He seemed friendly. I only offered him kindness.”

“Friendly.” He said the word as if it were a foreign concept. His blood-eye seemed to gleam in the half-light, and for a moment you could have sworn you saw the raven’s reflection in it, a dark bird within a darker pool. “Ravens are tools, my lady. They are not pets. This one has been made useless by your kindness.”

The word useless stung again. You dropped your gaze to the floor again, studying the worn flagstones beneath your slippers. “I apologise. I will not feed it anymore.”

You did not wait for a response. You gathered your skirts and fled down the winding stair, your slippers slapping against the stone, your breath coming in short, hitching gasps. You did not stop until you reached your chambers, where you threw yourself onto the great empty bed and buried your face in the pillows and wept until there was nothing left inside you.

You did not go to the Tower the next day, nor the day after that. You kept to your rooms, claiming a headache when your maids inquired. You took your meals alone, the food tasteless on your tongue. You did not open your shutters, though you heard the scratch of claws on the sill more than once. You could not bear to see Pebble, to see the raven who had abandoned you as easily as breathing, who had flown to his master’s hand without a backward glance.

It was on the third day that a servant knocked at your door and informed you that the Hand of the King required your presence in his solar.

You dressed carefully, your hands trembling on the laces of your gown. You chose a dress of pale green, the color of new leaves, the closest you dared come to the Oakheart colors. You pinned your hair up in a simple coil. You looked, you thought, like a woman preparing for an execution.

The solar was warm, lit by a fire in the great hearth and by candles in iron holders. Books lined the walls, more books than you had ever seen in a private chamber, their spines cracked and worn from use. Maps and charts covered a long table, and in the corner, a perch held three ravens, their heads tucked under their wings.

Bloodraven sat behind a desk of dark oak, a quill in his hand. He did not rise when you entered, but he set the quill down and gestured to a chair across from him.

“Sit,” he said.

You sat. Your hands folded in your lap, the picture of a well-bred lady. You had been trained for this, after all: to be still, to be silent, to be pleasing. It was the only weapon you had ever been given.

Bloodraven regarded you for a long moment. In the firelight, the port-wine stain on his cheek seemed to shift and writhe like something alive. His eye, that terrible red eye, seemed to see straight through you, past the careful composure and the pretty dress and into the hollow ache at your center.

“You have not been to the Tower,” he said.

“I did not wish to disturb you, my lord.”

“You have not been to the gardens, either. Nor the library. Nor the sept.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers. “My birds tell me things.”

Your heart lurched. The ravens. Of course. You had forgotten, in your misery, the whispers that surrounded your husband like a cloak of shadows. He could see through the eyes of his birds, they said. He could watch the whole of the Seven Kingdoms from his Tower, and nothing escaped his notice. You had thought it a fanciful tale, a legend spun to explain the unerring accuracy of his spy network. But the way he looked at you now made you wonder.

“I have been tired,” you said, which was not entirely a lie.

“You have been crying.”

The words were blunt, without softening. You flinched, your gaze dropping to your hands.

“My lady,” Bloodraven said, his tone had shifted. It was not kind, you did not think kindness was in his nature, but it was less cold than before. “Look at me.”

You raised your eyes.

“The raven,” he said. “You named him.”

It was not a question. You nodded anyway.

“Pebble,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because of his breast feathers. They reminded me of home.”

Bloodraven was silent for a moment. Then he rose from his chair and crossed to the window, his back to you, his silver hair catching the firelight.

“I have had many ravens,” he said. “Hundreds, over the years. I breed them in the Tower, train them, dispatch them across the realm. They are tools, nothing more. I have never given one a name.”

He turned, his single eye finding you again.

“No one has ever named one of my ravens before.”

You did not know what to say. You sat frozen, your heart beating a nervous rhythm against your ribs.

“He is not useless,” Bloodraven said, and there was something akin to curiosity in his voice. “I examined him this morning. He is plump, yes, but he is healthy. His plumage is glossy. His eyes are bright. He is more docile than the others, more accustomed to human touch. There are uses for such a raven.”

He took a step toward you, then another, until he stood before your chair, looking down at you with an expression you could not read.

“I have been a poor husband,” he said.

Your mouth opened but no sound came out.

“I did not ask for this marriage,” he continued, “and neither did you. We were both bound by the king’s will, and I have not made the binding easier for you. I have been…absent. Preoccupied.” He paused. “Unkind.”

“My lord, you have been...”

“Do not,” he said, lifting a hand to stop your protest, “be polite. I am surrounded by polite people. I find it exhausting.”

You closed your mouth.

Bloodraven lowered his hand. “I loved Shiera,” he said, and the name was a blade between your ribs. “For many years. I asked for her hand more times than I can count. She always refused. Perhaps she was wise.” His jaw tightened, a flicker of old pain crossing his pale features. “But she is not my wife. You are.”

He reached down, and before you could react, his fingers closed around your hand. His skin was cool, dry. But his grip was steady.

“I cannot promise you love,” he said. “I am not a man given to tender feeling. The whispers about me are not all false. I am a sorcerer, of a kind. I do see through the eyes of my ravens. I have done things that would make you flinch to hear, and I will likely do more before I am through. I have little patience for the courtly games that fill the days of most highborn ladies.”

He paused, and his thumb brushed once across your knuckles.

“But I am not cruel without cause. I do not take pleasure in suffering. And I have watched you these three moons, my lady. Through the eyes of my ravens, yes. I have seen you in the gardens, sitting alone on the stone benches. I have seen you in the library, reading the same page over and over because your mind is elsewhere. I have seen you feeding my raven, speaking to him as though he were a friend, because you had no one else to speak to.”

Your face was burning. You wanted to look away, to hide, but his eye held you as surely as a pin holds a butterfly.

“I did not intend to spy,” he said, and there was a note in his voice that might have been regret. “At first, I was merely curious. Then I was...concerned. You are withering, my lady. Like a flower deprived of light. And I am the one who has kept you in the dark.”

He released your hand and stepped back.

“I would like to propose a truce,” he said. “A beginning. I will not pretend to be something I am not. I will always be busy with the affairs of the realm, always be strange, secretive and perhaps a little frightening for your liking. But I will make an effort to be present. To speak with you. To…know you.” He tilted his head, a gesture eerily reminiscent of his ravens. “If you will permit it.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. This was not what you had expected. This was not the cold dismissal, the polite abandonment, the quiet return to separate lives. This was an opening, a crack in the armor.

“I would like that,” your voice came out steadier than you had hoped. “My lord.”

“Brynden,” he corrected. “If we are to attempt this, you may as well use my name.”

You swallowed. “Brynden.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, the barest suggestion of a smile. “See? Not so difficult.”

He returned to his desk and picked up his quill, but he did not dismiss you. Instead, he gestured toward a smaller table near the fire, where a tray of fruit and cheese and a pitcher of wine had been laid out.

“Stay,” he said. “Eat. You have been hiding in your rooms for three days, and I suspect you have not been eating properly.”

You rose from your chair, your legs unsteady beneath you. As you crossed to the table, you saw a perch near the window, separate from the others. On it sat Pebble, his head cocked, his black eyes fixed on you with reproach.

“He has been sulking,” Brynden said, not looking up from his parchment. “He does not understand why you stopped coming.”

You reached out a trembling hand and stroked the raven’s breast. Pebble made a soft sound and pressed his head against your fingers.

“I am sorry,” you murmured to him. “I am here now.”

Behind you, you heard the scratch of the quill pause for just a moment, and then resume.

From that day, you took your evening meals in the solar with Brynden, sitting at the small table by the fire while he worked at his desk. He did not speak much, but he answered when you asked questions, and sometimes he would pause in his writing to ask one of his own. Small things at first: how you found the Red Keep, whether the sea air agreed with you, what books you had been reading. You answered honestly, and he listened with a focus that was almost unnerving, his eye fixed on you as though every word you spoke were a piece of intelligence to be filed away.

Then he started inquiring about your life, so you told him. Your father had pledged fealty to both King Daeron and Daemon Blackfyre, sending one gold and the other men. King Daeron had kept his crown, and House Oakheart's reputation had suffered. Instead of emerging unscathed either way, as Lord Oakheart had intended, the King inflicted punishments on him. His eldest son, your older brother, was assigned to become a Kingsguard. He had to refute his title, land and future of marriage and instead serve as a guard to the same King he had fought against. You, the eldest daughter, were given to Hand of the King as a reward he didn't ask for. A legitimate lady to solidify his standing. Your mother had acted as if everything was fine, which you suspected was for your sake, although you didn't want such strained treatment. And you scarcely saw your brother since arriving in King's Landing, even though you both lived at the Red Keep.

You learned things about him in return. He had been born with the birthmark, with hair already white, and his mother had wept when she first saw him. He had been a poor swordsman as a boy, too thin and frail, so he had turned to the bow out of desperation. He loved his Blackwood sisters. He did not sleep well. He never had.

One evening, a fortnight after your conversation in the solar, you gathered your courage and asked the question that had been burning in your throat since the day you arrived.

“Do you wish I were her?”

The quill stopped. The fire crackled in the silence. Pebble, perched on the back of your chair, shifted his weight from one claw to the other.

Brynden set the quill down slowly. “That is a foolish question.”

“I am not afraid of the answer.” You were, of course. You were terrified. But you had spent months living in the shadow of a ghost and you could not do it any longer.

He rose from his desk and came to stand before the fire. The flames cast his face in red and gold, the birthmark nearly invisible against the glow. His back was to you.

“I wished for many things,” he said at last. “I wished for her to love me. I wished for her to choose me, just once, over all the others. I wished for a great many foolish things that a wiser man would have let go long ago.” He turned to look at you. “But I do not wish you were her. You are not her. You are nothing like her, and that is…not a bad thing.”

“I have heard she is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms,” you said, and you hated the smallness of your voice, the jealousy that crept in despite your best efforts.

“She is,” Brynden said, and your heart sank. “But beauty is a strange thing. Shiera’s beauty is like wildfire: brilliant, consuming, and utterly indifferent to what it destroys. I spent years burning in it, and I have the scars to show. You are different. Your beauty is like…” He paused, searching for the word. “Like the first green shoots after winter. Blooming. Steady. Something that grows rather than blazes.”

You did not know what to say. Your face felt hot.

“I am not good at this,” Brynden said with a flicker of frustration in his voice. “I am no poet. I do not know how to court my own wife.”

A laugh bubbled up in your throat, unexpected and slightly hysterical. You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but it escaped anyway, a small, surprised sound that made Brynden’s eye widen a fraction.

“I do not know how to be courted,” you admitted. “I was taught to be a lady, not a wife. No one ever told me what to do with a husband who did not want a wife.”

“I never said I did not want a wife.” He took a step toward you. “I said I did not ask for this marriage. There is a difference.”

“Is there?”

Another step. He was close enough that you could smell the faint scent of ink and old parchment that clung to his clothes. Close enough that you could see the tiredness around his eye.

“I am learning,” he murmured, “that I may have wanted something I did not know I did.”

His hand rose, and this time, he did not stop at your fingers. His cool palm cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with a gentleness that contradicted everything you had heard about him: the cold sorcerer, the ruthless spymaster, the man who had killed Daemon Blackfyre and his sons with arrows guided by dark magic. In this moment, he was only a man, touching his wife’s face for the first time.

“You are trembling,” he said.

“I am afraid.”

“Of me?”

“Of this ending.” Your voice cracked. “Of Shiera returning. Of waking up tomorrow and finding that you have remembered you do not want me after all.”

His eye searched your face. You had the unsettling sensation that he was seeing more than your skin and bone, more than the fear in your eyes. Seeing into you, the way he saw through the eyes of his ravens.

“Shiera is in Lys,” he said. “She left months ago, before our wedding. She may return someday, she always does, but she is not here now, and she has no claim on me. Whatever I felt for her, it is done. I have been a fool for her long enough.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.

“As for waking up tomorrow,” he murmured, “that is simple. You shall wake up in my bed.”

Your breath caught.

“The bedding ceremony was waived,” he continued, “because I requested it. I did not think it fair to subject you to the court’s crude jests when we were strangers. But we are not strangers now. Not entirely. And I find that I am tired of sleeping alone in my cold solar while my wife sleeps alone in her cold tower.”

His thumb traced the line of your jaw.

“If you are willing,” he added, and the hesitation in his voice, the faint uncertainty, undid you completely.

“I am willing,” you whispered.

He kissed you. His lips were cool, like his hands. The kiss was cautious, almost experimental, as though he were tasting a new wine and trying to decide if he liked the vintage. But it deepened, slowly, his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck. You felt a knot of tension loosen in your chest.

When he pulled back, his breathing was slightly unsteady.

“You will not be alone.” He took your hand again, this time, he laced his fingers through yours. “I have a thousand eyes. Some of them will always be watching over you.”

It was perhaps the strangest declaration of affection any woman had ever received. But you found yourself smiling anyway, a real smile, the first you had worn since leaving the Reach.

That night, you did not return to your lonely tower rooms. You slept in the Hand’s bed, in the Hand’s arms, and though he did not sleep, he had told you he rarely did, he held you in the darkness, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder.

In the morning, you woke to find him already dressed, standing at the window with the pale dawn light on his hair. He turned when he heard you stir.

“Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, Brynden.”

He crossed to the bed and sat on its edge. From behind his back, he produced a single winter rose, its petals white as fresh snow, its center a deep, vivid blue.

“There are no winter roses in King’s Landing,” you said, taking it with trembling fingers. “How did you...?”

“I have my ways,” he said, the faint smile on his lips was no longer tentative. It was the smile of a man who had unraveled a mystery and found the answer rather pleasing.

You lifted the rose to your nose and breathed in its sweet, cold scent. Through the window, you saw a raven circling against the pale sky, not Pebble but another, its black wings cutting the air with swift precision. It was returning home, carrying something in its beak.

“What is he bringing?” you asked.

“A letter,” Brynden said. “From the Arbor. Lord Redwyne is plotting something tedious involving wine tariffs.” He paused. “Would you like to watch me unravel it?”

“Yes,” you said. “I would like that very much.”

He offered you his hand, you took it.

Pebble, watching from his perch, let out a satisfied croak and followed you and your husband up the winding stair to the solar.

Part 2: coming soon...

a/n: Please don't let this flop guys, I have an entire series planned out.

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Taglist: @foul-human-123 @autumnevanescence @thearchivistshaven

“Get this baby out of me!” You cry just wanting the pain to stop and to be able to hold your baby in your arms. “You are never touching me again!”

“Fuck!” Rhaenyra interjects shouting at the midwives. “You’re such a cunt!”

“As you wish my love.” Gwayne says knowing you’ll change your mind but willing to do anything you ask.

“One more push princess.” Both you and Rhaenyra’s midwives say in unison. Both you and your sister screaming while you push Gwayne between you both. Both of his hands being squeezed beyond belief.

“It’s a boy.” Rhaenyra’s midwife says wrapping the crying babe in a blanket before passing him to his mother.

“It’s a girl.” Your midwife says not even a moment after, doing the same with your babe. Gwayne being given both baby’s while you and Rhaenyra deliver the afterbirth.

-

“Princess’? The queen wishes to see the babes.” An apocalyptic servant says from the doorway, feeling guilty for just following orders. Her having waited a few more minutes after the screams stoped before entering. “I can take them.”

“No I’m taking my son myself.” Rhaenyra responds stubbornly, sharing a look with the midwives at the queens audacity. Just about to attempt getting up when Gwayne stops her.

“Rhaenyra don’t you dare get up.” Your husband commands, not willing to let any of this slide. Consequences be damed. “Tell my sister that if she’s so desperate to see them she can use her legs and walk to us.”

“Ser-.” The maid attempts to interject before getting interrupted by Gwayne. Him giving the girl a look, almost as if daring her to test him.

“Go.” He demands not giving her an opinion to argue back. “And send Daeron in while you’re at it I know he’s hiding behind the door.”

“Muña! Nyra!” Daeron whisper shouts having been told multiple times that when he sees you after the birth he has to be quiet. Him claiming up into bed with you and your sister. The sheets having been changed and most remnants of labor cleaned up.

“Hello darling.” You say softly to your eldest, he may be your brother by blood but he’s your son by love. “Do you want to see your sister?”

“You know the queen won’t be happy?” Rhaenyra says to her brother by law, noticing him poke his head out the door and send a servant away. Before he makes his way back to her side, leaving Daeron to talk with you while he checks on your sister.

“My sister should know better than to make a woman who’s just giving birth walk that far or at all.” He says back, disappointed in his sister. She used to be kind, but that’s what living with Otto will get you he thinks. Knowing if not for his father his sister would be much better off.

“She’ll say she gave the option of a servant taking the babe.” Rhaenyra counters worried about the fall out.

“And I will say just because she’s fine not caring for her child doesn’t mean we are.” He whispers into Rhaenyra’s ear, not wanting Daeron to overhear. “He’s adorable, boy number three.” He says more loudly, making your son think he was just talking about the new babes. “He’ll make a remarkable knight one day.”

“Thank you.” Rhaenyra smiles happy her sister has such a kind and loving husband.

“Are you ready to move to your apartments?” The midwife asks you and Rhaenyra, thinking you’d both be more comfortable there than the birthing chamber.

“I’ll help muña.” Daeron offers wanting to help in anyway he can.

“Thank you darling.” You say softly knowing there’s nothing your son can really do apart from just be with you but that’s more than enough.

-

“Laenor is helping Rhaenyra back to their apartments.” Gwayne tells you as soon as he enters yours. Him knowing that’s the first thing you’ll ask, you loving your sister. “I’ve also made it clear I’m the one who denied Alicent her ‘request’ so Rhaenyra shouldn’t get in too much trouble.”

“Thank you my love.” You say giving him a quick kiss when he bends down to look at the babe in your arms. Daeron having been telling you some of the things he did with his cousins, him being a similar age to Luke.

“Have you thought of a name yet?” Gwayne asks the boy, you having agreed he can help name your newborn. Wanting Daeron to be reassured that he’s still important to you.

“Aemma.” Daeron says having been speaking with Jace and Luke about ideas. All three boys thinking their mothers would like that and Rhaenyra confirming that would be a good choice.

“I love it.” You say, looking down at the little girl in your arms, her having little tufts of sliver and copper hair already on her head. “Princess Aemma Hightower.”

You’re intrupted from continuing your conversation when the guard opens the door and announces your father and his wife. “The king and queen.”

“Father.” You greet offerings him a weak smile, still unsure how to act around him all these years later after he caused you mother and brother’s death.

“A girl I hear!” He says excitedly, having just come from meeting baby Joffrey. “Marvellous news, have you picked a name?”

“Aemma, after mother.” You explain letting him look at the girl.

“She’d like that.” He says softly, looking at the girl who’s already the perfect mix of you and Gwayne.“Alicent what do you think?”

“Lovely.” She says tightly, silently seething after what you, Rhaenyra and Gwayne did. It ruining her plans of humiliating you both. “Gwayne may I speak with you?”

“Now isn’t a good time, my wife having just given birth and all.” Gwayne says passive aggressively, not having looked at his sister since she entered.

“Muña do you want a cupcake?” Daeron asks innocently, him thinking you might be hungry. Completely forgetting he’s in the presence of his birth parents. “I did them with Luke and Jace after getting the egg!”

“Ohh cake can I have one?” Your father asks the boy, only thinking of cake.

“Yes grandsire.” Daeron says sweetly taking two cakes from the table and giving you the best looking one.

“He’s your father remember darling? Like Alicent is your mother.” You correct, not wanting anymore issues today. Taking the cake of the boy and offering him a thank you.

“No, you and Kepa are my mother and father.” He responds, tilting his head to the side. Knowing it’s true but viewing you and Gwayne as his real parents.

“Daeron-.”

“I’m fine being the boys Grandsire, you two have raised him.” Visarys says interrupting his wife without realising or caring. “Now about this cake.”

-

“How dare you.” Alicent shouts at her brother, him having been ignoring her for the past few days. Him refusing to leave your side. “I’m your queen!”

“Yes, but before that you will always be my little sister who’s treating my wife and her sister horribly!” He shouts back, not caring that Cristian Cole is in the corner glaring at him.

“You don’t get to speak to me that way!”

“I apologise for speaking facts your grace, however I do not apologise for protecting women as that’s part of my vow as a knight and husband.” He snaps, fed up with the whole thing. Looking forward to when you’re healed and you can go back home to oldtown.

“Leave, you’ve turned my son against me!” Alicent screams, hating that her son loves you so much. Not thinking about the fact you’re the one who’s raised him while she was busy plotting with her father.

“No, you turned him against you by sending him away in the first place! And even then you could have written or tried to visit! We’re only here because Rhaenyra asked us to! You haven’t written since his 2nd name day!”

“You can’t speak to the queen like that.” Cristian Cole says in an attempt of a threatening tone, instead Gwayne just finds him pathetic.

“Oh fuck off Cole.” Gwayne snaps rolling his eyes while he leaves not bothering to ask his sister’s permission.

-

“We’re going back to oldtown tomorrow.” You say to Rhaenyra while you sit together having tea, watching the boys play outside. Joffrey and Aemma both sleeping in their mother’s arms. “He loves being with you and the children but, Alicent and her sons just upset him.”

“I understand that.” She says a selfish part of her wanting you to stay but knowing it for the best. You deserving to be happy. “I’m thinking of moving to dragonstone but I don’t wish to leave father and laenor wants to stay.”

“That’s understandable, I hope you two can come to an agreement.”

“Me too, we’ll come and visit you soon though.” She says changing the subject, not wanting to dwell. “The boys adore Daeron and Gwayne.”

But when sweet, ethereal you nodded with the brightest of smiles, he himself was come undone, a breathless, boyish smile breaking across his face then.

“This is— oh, most splendid news—!”

Gwayne couldn’t help himself— he pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. It was full of pure, unfiltered giddiness, the kind that had him laughing softly against your lips in boundless joy.

“Oh, Gwayne...” you sighed into him, relief washed over you at how elated he was. You felt so blessed to have such a kind man as a husband.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as his eyes bored into yours.

“I love you. I love you. I swear to you and the Seven above, I will do everything in my power to protect both you and our child.”

If he had loved you deeply before, he was enamored to the point of no return now. In the moons that followed, everything blurred into bliss.

To Gwayne, you were akin to a Valyrian goddess, and he was nothing less than your sworn sword— you could do no wrong, and your word was his absolute law.

And mayhaps those old midwives’ tales held truth, or you were just taking immaculate care of yourself. Then again, chances were higher that he was a simple fool blinded by love, but Gwayne could have sworn... ever since then, you were glowing.

Your smile seemed sweeter now, and the way you would place a hand on your growing belly out of instinct was adorable. The fact that you carried his child, and the radiant joy it brought to your eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees—

—because the Gods know he loves you so damned much too.

“The Princess… she is absolutely radiant, is she not?”

And as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

The rank-and-file soldiers were in the middle of their daily drills when you passed by the courtyard. A sudden breeze swept through, catching the silk of your gown and sending a few stray locks of your hair dancing across your face. It was a picture of effortless grace— and, to a yard full of sweat-drenched men, an absolute sight for sore eyes.

A pair of low-ranking footmen at the back of the line completely forgot their footwork, utterly spellbound.

“Aye,” the second one murmured, his eyes wide and completely glazed over as he watched you walk. “Like a maiden stepping right out of a tapestry...”

Gwayne’s head snapped toward them, the warm smile he had been wearing just a heartbeat prior when he stared at you vanishing in an instant.

“You there!” he barked, his voice ringing across the cobblestones.

The two footmen jumped and turned to him, faces instantly draining of color. Gwayne strode toward them, his chest puffed out, putting on the airs of a proud and arrogant knight.

“Unless you expect the Princess to wield a blade in your stead, I suggest you keep your eyes on your opponent.”

“Y-Yes, sire—”

Hmph. Now they were cowering before him. How did they forget whose wife they had been ogling just now?

“Ten more laps around the yard,” Gwayne commanded to their dismay, his eyes cold as he lifted his chin up. “And if I catch your eyes wandering from your duties again, I will personally pluck your eyes out and ensure you spend your next rotation cleaning Ormund’s chambers... Now move!”

As the panicked footmen scrambled to begin their laps, Gwayne threw them a dirty look, bridled with utter satisfaction.

He turned back toward where you stood, expecting to find you continuing on your way, blissfully unaware. Instead, he found you standing still, watching the entire exchange with an amused sparkle in your eyes— a delicate hand to your lips to hide your giggle.

Gwayne’s haughty expression crumbled. A flustered flush crept rapidly up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty pink. Suddenly acutely self-conscious of how loud he had been, he cleared his throat and blinked several times, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.

He offered you a sheepish frown, his eyes pleading for you not to tease him too much when you were finally behind closed doors.

. . .

“What has displeased you, hm, husband?”

That night, Gwayne had just stepped out of the bath, his dark hair still damp, and sleepiness softening his usually sharp features as he took his side of the bed. He wore only a loose, simple linen robe, tied haphazardly at his waist.

“Hm...?” he mumbled, mid-yawn, as he turned to you.

However, his sleep-addled mind was entirely unprepared for the sight of you.

Seven save me, he thought, his throat suddenly dry.

There you were, a gorgeous temptress intent to ruin him in your... what was that? An almost see-through loose night gown?

You didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, you slithered onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Gwayne’s hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his touch warm as you draped both of your hands over his broad shoulders.

“I only ask,” you murmured teasingly, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his lips, “because you looked ready to torment two perfectly well-behaved footmen today. Over a harmless glance.”

Gwayne let out a low, rumbling groan, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he looked up at you.

“They were staring,” he replied in defense. His gaze drifted down your form, lingering on the widening of your hips where his child now grew. “Rather boldly, I’d say. They should use their ungrateful eyes to look at their targets, not at my wife. Not when you are... like this.”

You tilted your head in a mock cluelessness. “Like what?”

“Ravishing,” he breathed, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as his grip tightening on your hips. “Breathtaking. Mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through you. Leaning up, he captured you mouth in a slow, deeply sensual kiss. You parted your lips instantly to welcome him— and he tasted of mint and warm water.

“Mmhm... ah...” The kiss deepened, growing heavier and more desperate by the second. Your hands slid from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair.

Unable to help yourself, you shifted your weight, slowly and deliberately grinding your hips against his lap.

Gwayne let out a ragged gasp against your mouth. The friction of your body against his through the thin linen of his robe sent a shiver through his spine, his hands clenching tightly onto your hips to guide the rhythm. His skin was a feverish contrast to the cool night air of the room, as he hardened rapidly against you, consumed by the weight of your warmth pressing so directly into his groin—

“Damn...”

He kissed you fiercely now, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to press against him, humping him with an intoxicating persistence that had him trembling beneath you.

But just as the heat in the room threatened to boil over, Gwayne suddenly stilled you, gently but firmly halting your movements.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaved, his breathing shallow and labored. His blue eyes watered, dark with desire, searching your face.

“No, darling, we must stop,” he panted. He swallowed, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the side of your abdomen. “I love you more than my own life— but I will not risk the babe. As much as this tortures me... this is as far as I am willing to indulge us tonight.”

You let out a soft whine, resting your chin on his shoulder. You knew he was only acting out of a protective love for you and the child you carried, but the warmth of him was far too addictive to let go of just yet.

“Very well,” you murmured against his neck, nipping softly at his pulse point. “But I have one request.”

Gwayne let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. “Anything. You know you have only to ask.”

“Take off your robe,” you petulantly poked his chest. “I want to feel your skin against mine while we sleep.”

“A wanton through and though,” he snorted.

“The babe demands it.”

A hopelessly devoted smile broke across Gwayne’s face. “A punishment and a reward all at once, then.”

Without another word, he obliged. Untying the sash, he shrugged the linen robe off his shoulders. He pulled you back down against him, tucking you securely under the velvet blankets. His toned body was solid, warm, and his skin was surprisingly soft to the touch— a comforting weight you could never tire of.

Pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both drifted off to sleep.

Days and weeks drifted by, and soon, the weight of your belly could no longer be hidden beneath your dresses.

By all accounts, your life was a blissful one. You had a husband who worshipped the ground you walked on, and you were counting the days until you could finally hold the child you had been waiting for. Even for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the kind of fairy tale most could only dream of.

Still, even the most beautiful tapestries have frayed edges, do they not?

Though Gwayne’s devotion was sweeter than words could say, his constant hovering these days had begun to feel like... a suffocation.

The tipping point had come on a morning when a sharp, fleeting cramp had made you wince. He had been the one who went pale, immediately ushering you back toward the bed.

“You must lie down,” he had insisted, his voice tight with worry. “I will have the maester brew something. No more walking today.”

“Gwayne, it was a momentary ache, nothing more,” you had sighed. “I cannot spend the next two moons staring at the canopy of this bed.”

But he would frown and your heart would lurch, seeing his pure concern for you.

“For my own peace of mind and for the babe, please?”

His fretfulness felt like a velvet cage, even when you knew it came from a place of pure love.

. . .

In a rare event in which you finally managed to slip away while he was distracted with other things, you retreated to the sanctuary of the gardens, the cool breeze a welcome relief against your skin.

But your quiet peace was short-lived.

As you rounded a stone archway, you caught sight of a figure cowering behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Daeron...?” you murmured in surprise, stepping closer.

The youngest of Alicent’s three sons and a ward of Oldtown, the young prince was unlike his misguided brothers, and you had known him to be a gentle and sensitive soul. Now five and ten, he was thrust into the grueling world of knighthood, all under the watchful eye of your husband’s cousin.

The boy gasped, hastily wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve as he stood.

“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice thick as he tried to put on a brave face. “Forgive me. I... I did not hear you approach.”

“What is it, sweet boy? Why are you crying?” you gently took his hands, feeling your heart twinge at the sight of his tears.

A skepticism settled in your chest. You had seen how Ormund Hightower conducted himself— and you highly doubted his patience with a sensitive young boy.

“Has he been too harsh with you during your lessons?” you asked gently.

Daeron vigorously shook his head, his eyes wide with fear of causing trouble. “No! No, my lord is... he is only doing what is right. It is my fault for I have failed to meet his expectations.”

That arrogant, demanding windbag, you thought bitterly. To place such crushing weight on a child’s shoulders was reprehensible, and you fully intended to have a very pointed, very unpleasant word with Ormund Hightower later.

But for now, your only concern was the boy before you. Taking Daeron’s hand in yours, you offered him a warm, reassuring smile.

“Very well, if you said so... Now, come with me. Let me show you your uncle’s new collection of swords. He truly can never have too many, or so he claims.”

Your attempt to cheer him up was working. Daeron’s frown was replaced with pure joy as you showed him around Gwayne’s hidden stash of blades, and by the end of the day, he was laughing along with you.

“When will the babe come, Auntie?” he asked, looking up at you with a genuine smile. It slipped out so naturally he didn’t even notice he had reverted to that fond title he used to call you years ago.

“Soon. Mayhaps in six weeks or so.” You patted your swollen belly, and the young prince’s eyes followed your hand, before cautiously placing his palm over the curve.

In that very moment, the child gave him a firm kick, and he gasped, his blue eyes widened in wonder.

“In awe, are you?” you laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair. “Truthfully, sometimes I still wonder how there is a whole living human inside me, too.”

But he didn’t laugh, nor did he pull his hand away. Instead, he looked up at you, his features settling into an earnestness.

“If it is a girl... I promise I will protect her,” he declared solemnly. “I will grow strong enough so that no one can ever hurt her. I will be her champion.”

Your heart swelled at his words, a lump forming in your throat at the purity of his devotion. In certain lights, he did look like Gwayne.

“I have no doubt you will be the finest champion a girl could ever ask for, Daeron.”

. . .

“Where were you?”

You had only just returned to your bedchambers after quietly escorting Daeron back to his quarters, and the very first thing that greeted you was your husband’s scathing tone.

Gwayne stood near the hearth, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid. His usually warm eyes were clouded with a coldness you rarely saw in him.

“I have been searching everywhere for you,” he stated, his voice thick with suppressed irritation. “You vanished without even telling any of your maids—”

“I was just in the gardens—” you said, your voice already tight with exhaustion, but he cared not of what you had to say in defense.

“Do you have any idea what went through my head? You are weeks away from labor, you’ve been having cramps, and—”

This had been going on for a while, and honestly, a headache was forming in the back of your head. The accusation, piled on top of days of feeling watched and managed, finally broke the last dam of your patience—

“Can you just... not?!”

You followed the impulse in your chest to yell, the volume of your voice echoing sharply.

“I am sick and tired of being treated as if I am an invalid!” you cried, your chest heaving as tears of frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. “I cannot take a single step, look out a window, or even have a quiet moment to myself— without you hovering over me like a warden!”

It felt satisfying to let this go, but then you looked at him, and—

Immediately you regretted raising your voice. Gwayne looked as though you had struck him across the face.

The worry in his eyes shattered into utter heartbreak, his shoulder slumping. His lips wobbled, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you.

“I...” his voice cracked. “I am… sorry. I did not— I never wished to make you feel like a prisoner. Or to make you feel sick.”

You parted your lips, immense guilt overwhelming you at the sight of him. “Gwayne, I—”

“You are right, I have been way overbearing as of late.

His expression was somber, his eyes repeatedly straying from your face as if looking at you pained him, while he struggled to voice the words.

“I selfishly thought that since it’s our first child, I have to do everything to ensure your comfort. But in my own misguided sense of... righteousness— I failed to consider how you might feel.”

How did you forget that at the core of his very being, he was just a kind man who would sooner offer himself as sacrifice than allow even the slightest harm to reach you?

He offered you a small, bittersweet smile then—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.

“Tonight, I will leave you to your peace and not disturb you, I promise.”

Your heart clenched when he backtracked towards the door. Just before he reached for the latch, he paused, his eyes softening at you with that same, hopeless devotion.

“But if you should ever need anything— a glass of water, a blanket, or... or if the pain returns... please, tell me. Let me do that much for you.”

Gwayne had stood by his word. Ever since then, there was a subtle distance between the two of you.

True to his promise, he no longer invaded your privacy, but his frequent absences made you incredibly antsy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you— for weeks, you had begged for space, but now that you had it, you found yourself restlessly searching the corridors for a glimpse of him.

You craved his warmth. You wanted his solid, comforting embrace, because an unsettling gut feeling had taken root in your chest—a dark intuition that something was amiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it.

Seeking a distraction to soothe yourself, you decided to spend the afternoon in the gardens, but the summer heat only made you uncomfortable. Deciding you had pushed yourself far too much, you turned to your handmaiden.

“Accompany me back to my chambers,” you instructed softly, feeling the beginning of a cramp building in your abdomen. “I think I need to lie down.”

As you made your way back, your path took you past the oak doors of Ormund Hightower’s private study.

You would have walked right past it, had a certain voice not drifted through the slightly ajar door, freezing the blood in your veins.

“So the King is truly poor in health?” Ormund’s voice echoed from within, entirely devoid of any grief. “I would wager he will soon perish from whatever ailment he is suffering. We must ensure our pieces are perfectly placed on the board the moment he does.”

Your breath hitched. You stood entirely paralyzed, the maid stopping beside you with wide, frightened eyes.

The King. Your father.

You knew Viserys had not been in best health since the last you saw him, but to hear Ormund speak of his imminent death with such casual certainty sent a jolt of panic straight to your heart.

If he died, this fragile peace would shatter. The greens and the blacks would tear the realm apart—

—and both you and Gwayne would be caught right in the center of the storm.

Panic clawing at your throat, you didn’t wait to hear another word. You gathered your skirts and hurried down the hall as fast as your body would allow. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as the sheer weight of what this meant crashing down on you—

But just as you were about to reach your bedchamber, a sudden spasm of pain ripped through your lower abdomen, so intense it stole the air straight from your lungs—

“Your Grace!” your handmaiden cried.

It wasn’t the fleeting, mild cramps from before— this was a white-hot, tearing contraction that buckled your knees. A cry of agony escaped your lips as you leaned sideways, your hands clutching the curve of your belly as you sank onto the cold floor.

You gasped for breath, but another wave of agonizing pressure rolled over you. The hallway began to tilt precariously, and trembling, you reached blindly down inside your dress when you felt warmth trickling down your thighs— and the sight made your heart stop.

Your fingers were stained a slick crimson. Blood.

A cold dread seized you as your head spun. No, you thought desperately, not the babe. Please, not the babe.

Your vision swam violently, but just as you were losing the last threads of your consciousness, you heard shouts of your name and a strong pair of arms hauled you into his embrace.

Gwayne Hightower. The man who had your heart since you were but a young girl. The man who was besotted enough to court you despite your rejections of him.

He always, always managed to be your knight in shining armor.

He was on his knees beside you, his face completely drained of color, his blue eyes wide with a frantic terror you had never seen in him before.

You could no longer hear the words tearing from his throat, but as the world faded entirely to black, a profound comfort washed over you—

If he is here, then I am safe.

“How did this happen...?”

Your consciousness faded in and out, but you heard bits and pieces.

Gwayne was questioning the maester with his voice cracking more times than not. You knew he was near you as you could feel the constant warmth of his hands gripping yours, trying to pull you back to the surface.

“Oh, my darling,” he whispered against your ear at one point, almost in tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry... I should have been there. I should have never left your side.”

When you finally managed to flutter your eyelids open hours later, the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of your bedchamber. The blinding pain in your abdomen had ebbed into a dull ache.

You tried to shift, a faint groan escaping your dry throat, and immediately felt a weight resting against the edge of the mattress.

Turning your head slowly, you found Gwayne.

He was collapsed in a miserable position on a small wooden stool right beside your bed. His legs were awkwardly bent, one of his arms slung over the mattress to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, while his forehead rested against the edge of the sheets. He was still wearing the same doublet from yesterday, now wrinkled, and his hair was a mess.

Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as though he was having a bad dream— the very sight of a man who had spent the night burning himself alive with worry.

Your heart squeezed with a aching tenderness at the sight of him. Ignoring the dull throb in your body, you weakly squeezed his hand, your thumb gently brushing over his knuckles to wake him.

At your touch, he was roused awake. Gwayne sat up instantly, his head snapping up as a ragged breath caught in his throat. His eyes—bloodshot—scanned the bed frantically until they locked onto your open eyes.

“Darling...?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and when you offered him a tired smile, the wall of defense crumbled completely.

He slid off the stool and onto his knees by the bedside as he pressed a kiss on your hand. His broad shoulders shook as a choked, breathless sob escaped him.

“You’re awake,” he breathed against your skin, peppering your hand with trembling kisses. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought... when I saw the blood, I thought I had lost you— I thought I lost both of you.”

“Is—” you croaked, “our babe—”

“You are both fine. For now,” he supplied, pressing one last kiss on the back of your hand before he straightened himself. He let go of you to sit on the edge of the mattress, slipping his strong arm behind your back to gently lift you so you could drink.

Once you swallowed the cool water and sat comfortably, he set the cup down and placed his large hand gently over your belly. A bitter smile broke through his exhaustion when he felt his child kick him.

“Can you just... let me stay near?” he asked then, his blue eyes shone with tears. “I can’t survive a repeat of what I have gone through yesterday. If something were to happen to you and I wasn’t there, it would tear the soul right out of me.”

Despite everything, he had all rights to be furious at you. And yet, here he was— humbly asking for your permission to stay by your side.

Your eyes welled with tears, and you reached out for him blindly. You buried your face into his chest, your hands desperately clutching at the fabric of his wrinkled doublet. He pulled you in instantly, wrapping his strong arms around you and rocking you gently, murmuring soothing sounds against your hair.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your entire frame trembling with the force of your sobs. “I... I was careless—”

“Shh, don’t be,” he shushed, tightening his embrace on you, and you cried harder.

You wept until you had no tears to spare, and when you finally pulled away, you looked up at him through swollen, heavy eyelids.

You love him so, so much. You adored this kind man and his blue eyes and his red hair— and you really wished, with all your heart, that your child would take after him.

“Why are you... not angry with me?” you questioned softly, weighed down by your own guilt.

But Gwayne, as always, only smiled at you, his features softening into that warmth he reserved only for you even at your lowest moments. He gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks.

“Have I not spoken these very words to you time and again? How come you always forget them?”

His smile grew incredibly tender as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

And with his familiar next words, once again, you were reminded once again of what kind of man you had married, and you know exactly how good a father he would be.

“Because to the end of my days... all that I am is yours.”

Your time had come barely five weeks later.

It was a grueling, agonizing ordeal that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Your cries of pain echoed and bled out of your birthing chambers— and anyone who passed by would have their heart broken at the sheer anguish in your voice.

Outside in the corridor, Gwayne was, needless to say, beside himself.

Thoroughly banned from the birthing chambers by the stern midwifes and the head maester, he was a man possessed by helpless terror. His hair a disheveled mess from where his frantic fingers had clawed through it, and his knuckles white and raw from being clenched so tightly in either prayers or an attempt to calm himself.

He had been pacing the length of the hallway since the crack of dawn two days ago, and every time one of your strangled screams echoed, Gwayne flinched, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.

He had faced deaths, had stared down charging knights without a tremor in his hand, but this—listening to the woman he loved scream in agony while he could do absolutely nothing—was a torture that was slowly tearing him apart.

Hours bled into one another. The silence that occasionally fell was almost worse than the screams, leaving him breathless with a suffocating dread.

“She has been in labor for almost two days,” Gwayne rasped, turning to Daeron as if he could soothe his worries. His nephew, though visibly unsettled by your screams, had stayed by his side to offer moral support.

“Two days, and I cannot even hold her hand.”

Ormund paid a brief visit later that afternoon. His cousin had one look at him and patronizingly suggested he go pray in the Starry Sept to calm his nerves. Gwayne’s temper had flared and was about to throw a punch at Ormund’s face if it weren’t for Daeron scrambling to beg him to stand down.

And then, just as he felt he might genuinely lose his mind, a new sound cut through the heavy quiet.

It was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Not yours, but the cry of a newborn babe.

. . .

You thought you would die from the pain alone.

Ever since the terrifying rush of your water breaking, it felt as though your body were being ripped apart from the inside out as you strained and fought to bring forth your child into the world.

And after that one final push that almost had you passed out, the agonizing pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, hollow lightness and the sweetest of wails.

“It is a girl!” the midwife announced. “Congratulations, Your Grace— you have delivered a healthy, beautiful girl!”

When the midwives placed the tiny, weeping newborn onto your chest, your hands instinctively wrapped around her, shielding her from the cold air of the room. You were entirely spent, your skin slick with sweat and your muscles aching and trembling from the afterbirth, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off her.

This miracle has just come out of you.

As you gently wiped away a stray smudge from her crown, your heart swelled to the point of bursting.

Her little nose and mouth were endearing and closely resembled yours, however there was no trace of silver hair to be seen.

Instead, catching the warm candlelight… were soft tufts of red.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thanking the Mother, deeply grateful that she would not look like a Targaryen.

She is, in every way, Gwayne’s daughter— a perfect piece of him and yours to keep.

“Bloody hell— just let me in already!”

You heard his voice then, and the smile on your face grew wider. He would be beyond pleased to see this child.

True to your prediction, Gwayne stormed into the room without ceremony a moment later, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. You were in no state to be seen—sweat-drenched, pale, and thoroughly disheveled—and you instinctively wanted to shrink back from his gaze.

Yet, in his eyes, you had never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.

Cradled securely in your trembling arms was a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft linen. And the sight was enough to almost make him drop to his knees right then and there.

He climbed onto the edge of the bed to pull you gently but firmly into his arms. Hovering over the child he had been eagerly waiting for, Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, trembling kiss that tasted of relief and absolute devotion.

“You did it,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitched. “Gods...”

Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the bundle in your arms. The breath left him and he was completely awestruck, the air he usually put on before the court evaporating into nothingness at the sight of this impossibly tiny babe he helped to create.

With a hand that usually swung a steel, Gwayne reached out with unimaginable gentleness. He extended his pinky finger, touching her tiny, flailing hand—

And almost instantly, as if recognizing her protector, the babe’s palm wrapped around his finger, gripping it with everything she had.

“She, oh—” Gwayne froze, shuddering. He stared at her tiny fingers, and then up at the soft crown of her head, his eyes widening as he registered the tufts of copper-red hair just like his.

Seeing how deeply touched he was, your own eyes welled with happy tears. You nudged him softly, whispering the name you had kept locked in your heart:

“Alyrie,” you told him. “Lady Alyrie of House Hightower.”

His mother’s name. The tears Gwayne had tried so hard to hold back during those agonizing hours waiting for you finally spilled over as he turned to you. He let out a wet, shaky laugh, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he held both you and Alyrie close to his chest.

“Thank you,” he choked out, kissing your temple before pressing his lips to his daughter’s tiny forehead. “Our sweet Alyrie... She is perfect. You are both so perfect.”

As you looked at the other halves of your soul, the fragile peace of your bedchamber felt like a beautiful dream. Outside these stone walls, the realm was already fracturing as shadow of the dance of the dragons loomed close— a tempest of fire, blood, and greed that threatened to consume everyone you held dear.