rune

⸝⸝ ꒰. 𝑟une ☕️ she / her 20. january aquarius ⊹ ࣪ ˖

mediocre and slow updater writter perfectionism mlw!content ᝰ.ᐟ asoiaf mainly blog 🎧ྀི now playing . . . less than a lover, jennie ♫

m.list notebook reqs state : open this blog is +18!mdni ˚. ᵎᵎ

© bverryie 𓂃 please don't copy or translate any of my works without permission. 📃

credits of the graphics i use: @chrisssiren , @cursed-carmine

゛𝓓AERON 𝓣ARGARYEN ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

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゛𝓐ERION 𝓣ARGARYEN ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

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req rules !

𝜗𝜚 i won't write for non-con or sexual assault, incest (let´s make an exception for targ-cest only), pedophilia or underage sexual content, abuse portrayed as romantic, hate speech or discriminatory content, anything that makes me genuinely uncomfortable.

𝜗𝜚 be respectful and patient when sending a request. Be sure to include the fandom, character(s), pairing, and a clear prompt.

𝜗𝜚 you're welcome to send multiple requests, but I can't guarantee I'll write them all and I may adjust your idea to better fit my writing style. Please don't spam or repeatedly ask for updates.

blog rules and a few things !

𝜗𝜚 i write as a hobby and at my own pace. so i only write for char x reader or char x oc. also, the only relationships i do is mlw.

𝜗𝜚 inspiration comes and goes, so thank you for your patience.

𝜗𝜚 if i decline a request, it's nothing personal—it may simply not be something i'm comfortable writing or inspired by.

𝜗𝜚 reblogs, likes, and kind comments are always appreciated!

ty so so much (for both)!! 😆 i thought no one was answering me 💗🥹

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: daeron the daring ༝ fem!reader

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: none just fluff staff.

The prince had ordered a rug to be laid out in the verdant gardens of Oldtown, beneath the shade of some trees, to play Cyvasse. A game originating from Volantis, it involved devising a strategy to capture the opponent's fortress and eliminate their king while keeping your own alive.

This was the third time in a row you had defeated the prince. Daeron stared at the game board, studying it with one hand on his chin, as if the answer to his defeat were about to magically appear on the board. You smiled as you saw him frown. You had repeated the exact same strategy all three times, and yet he still hadn't seen it coming.

"Let's call it a day, my prince," you said, reaching out to start gathering the pieces, but Daeron stopped you, gently taking your wrist.

"One last time," he requested, with that innocent expression that was his default, an expression you couldn't resist.

After setting up the pieces for a new game, you made the first move, having won the previous round. Confident in your decision, you looked up at Daeron. He was still focused on the board, watching your every move.

The sun was beginning to set, letting a light breeze drift through the gardens of Oldtown. You stretched your legs to the right of the board, yawning a little and trying to shake off the stiffness from being in the same position for so long.

You could already taste your next victory, just a couple of moves away from beating him again. You froze as you felt the caress of fingers on your ankle, moving up to your calf and back down. You turned your head toward Daeron, who had stretched one arm toward your legs while the other rested on his knee, elbow against his chin.

A hot flush rose from your chest to your cheeks, but you didn't move away, not that you could. Your body had been completely frozen by the gentle touch of the prince's fingers circling your ankle.

When it was your turn again, you made your next move almost without looking, dropping a piece almost instinctively, unable to recall what your plan had been just seconds before.

“I won,” Daeron declared, raising his head to you with a triumphant smile and removing his hand from your ankle.

“I think that was check,” Daeron said calmly, “I won.”

That brief silence makes the blow work better.

You looked back at the board, confused, then raised your eyes again to Daeron with an indignant expression and a smile pulling at your mouth, open in astonishment.

“You—” You stood up from the floor, practically throwing yourself on top of the prince, pinching his cheeks. “You cheated!”

Daeron burst out laughing. The smile lit up his face with that insulting ease that seemed to be granted only to princes in fairy tales. Placing your hands on your hips as he positioned you between his legs, he let you pinch and scold him for that defenseless but endearing attack.

"I haven't moved a single piece I shouldn't have.”

You looked up at him.

Only then did you realize that the only difference between this game and the previous ones had been his hand on your ankle.

m.list

the voice of the faith.

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: daeron the daring ༝ septa!reader

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: none just fluff staff.

A high fever had struck Prince Daeron, who was now spending his second day bedridden in his chambers in Oldtown. The maesters did everything they could: herbal teas, cold compresses to reduce the fever, poppy milk, hot baths to ease his congestion. But nothing seemed to work. So you decided to do what you had been trained to do: pray to the Faith of the Seven for the prince's health.

According to the other septas, never before in the court of Oldtown had such a young girl been received for training in the Faith. But there you were, in the typical grayish dress that revealed not the slightest hint of skin, the coif completely covering your hair, which was gathered in a bun underneath.

By the third day of his illness, the maesters were already whispering desperate prayers, leaving a trail of ill omen for the prince's future. You had studied the maesters' rotations for administering his medicine, knowing when the prince would be alone in his chambers. The guard posted at the door was no problem; it was enough to tell him that you had been sent by the Grand Maester and the Septon to pray for the prince.

You adjusted the large, dusty book under your arm as the guard opened the door and closed it behind you once you entered. The room carried the bitter scent of crushed mint, valerian, and boiled willow bark. Beeswax candles had burned so long that warm wax pooled across silver holders. Beneath it all lingered the unmistakable smell of sickness—sweat, damp linen, and the stale air of a room whose windows had remained closed for days. But as you approached the bed, the scent subtly changed, mingling with the sweat and matted sheets around the prince's body.

His face was pale, his once pink lips had lost all color, and dark crescents pierced his closed eyes. The silence was broken only by the prince's labored breathing.

You moved the chair by the window closer to the bed, sitting down with extreme care so as not to wake him. You lit the candle on the bedside table and rested your elbows on the mattress, cradling your hands and resting your forehead on them. You said your prayers, asking the Mother for mercy and the Stranger not to take such a young and promising life as the prince's.

Then, you devoted yourself to reading to him from the great book that told stories of the mysteries beyond the Wall, the Andals, and the First Men… Your visits were based on this: praying for his well-being and reading to him in the hope that it might ease some of the agony he was enduring.

At least until the fifth day, when the maesters began to bring good news about the prince's recovery. His fever had broken, he had regained the strength to get out of bed, and he sounded much more vibrant. So, as soon as these signs of health began to appear, your visits stopped.

What did return was the voice the prince heard in his dreams. The one he had heard reading to him when chills ran down his spine and praying for his recovery as he slept.

He had asked the maesters, but none of them had given him an answer.

"Who was she?"

"Who, my prince?"

"The girl who came to read to me."

"Many people have come to see you, my prince. Your uncle, Ser Gwayne, Lord Ormund. That's not counting the servants and maesters who have been attending to you. But no girl."

"That's not true. I… I remember her voice."

"The fever was very high," the maester concluded.

None of them offered any help in finding her. All he had left was the echo of a voice that faded with each passing day, just like his hopes of finding her.

Then it happened.

He was returning from one of his history classes when he heard a crystalline laugh accompanied by a voice Daeron knew all too well. A voice that had haunted him for days since his recovery.

The book slipped from beneath your arm before you could catch it when your body bumped into someone. It struck the stone floor with a muted thud, several loose pages escaping from between its covers and gliding across the polished flagstones. You looked up to apologize to the person you had bumped into. Your heart skipped a beat in your chest, and you immediately looked down.

"My apologies, Your Grace," you said at once, dropping to your knees to gather the scattered parchment.

Your fingers had barely brushed the first page when another hand reached for it. You stilled. Lifting your gaze again, you found yourself staring into a pair of violet eyes fixed on you with unsettling intensity. They were the same eyes the whole of Oldtown knew, though no longer dulled by fever or shadowed by exhaustion.

Prince Daeron.

The surprise lasted only a heartbeat before you lowered your head once more.

"Forgive me, Your Grace."

He did not answer.

He remained perfectly still, the single sheet of parchment caught between his fingers as though he had forgotten what he meant to do with it. His gaze never left your face, searching it with an expression somewhere between disbelief and bewilderment.

That voice.

He had heard it for countless nights.

It had reached him through the haze of fever, soothing the tremor in his body and driving away—if only for a little while—the fear that greeted him with every uncertain dawn. He had listened to it pray to the Mother with impossible gentleness, then read stories of ancient kings, the First Men, and the mysteries beyond the Wall while he drifted between sleep and waking.

For days he had convinced himself it had all been a fever dream.

Yet here she was.

You gathered the remaining pages and carefully tucked them back inside the heavy volume. The silence between you had begun to stretch into something uncomfortable. After a few moments, you waited for the prince to dismiss you. When no words came, you bowed your head politely.

"If you'll excuse me, Your Grace..."

You stepped around him, intending to continue down the corridor. You had barely taken two steps when gentle fingers closed around your wrist. The touch was neither forceful nor commanding. It felt almost instinctive, as though he feared that, if he let you walk away, you would disappear as suddenly as you had appeared.

You turned back, confusion flickering across your features.

Daeron released your wrist almost immediately, only then seeming to realize what he had done. He took a small step backward and swallowed before finally finding his voice.

"It was you..."

It was not a question. It was a certainty, spoken little louder than a whisper.

His violet eyes remained fixed on yours with such intensity that you instinctively lowered your gaze. There was something in them you could not quite name—relief, astonishment... perhaps even gratitude.

"I don't understand what you mean, Your Grace."

"The voice," he murmured, almost to himself. "You were the one who read to me."

For the briefest moment, you hesitated. You had never imagined he would remember, "I was only carrying out my duty," you replied softly. "The maesters did all they could to heal your body. I merely prayed for your soul."

The simplicity of those words stirred something within Daeron.

Ladies of noble birth had spent years vying for his attention with carefully rehearsed smiles and flattering words. Yet this young woman spoke as though what she had done was of no consequence at all. Perhaps that was precisely why he found himself unable to look away.

“I won’t take up any more of your time.” You gave another quick bow, hurrying away without giving the prince any chance to stop you again.

Daeron opened his mouth to try and say something more, stretching out an arm hesitantly as he watched you walk away, leaving him even more intrigued. Now you weren't just a voice. Now you were a face. A rather attractive girl in his eyes who, naively, had worried about him.

He had faced squires twice his size in the training yard. He had never found words so difficult. She hadn't looked at him with admiration. Nor fear. Nor ambition. She had looked at him only long enough to apologize before hurrying away, as though he were simply another obstacle in the corridor.

For reasons he couldn't explain, that fascinated him more than any court lady ever had.

rune speaking: tysm for requesting! this is the first time it came up to my mind when i first read: daeron x septa reader, so i hope you and everyone who reads it like it. idk if i should give this a second part but anyways.

m.list

But he always tells you about the best parts of flying on dragon back at night—he even always insists that you accompany him, despite your constant refusals—, and teaches you High Valyrian melodies and a few words. Although the only one he refuses to tell you the meaning of is Ñuha Ābrazȳrys, "my princess."

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゛𝓖WAYNE 𝓗IGHTOWER ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

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゛𝓥ALARR 𝓣ARGARYEN ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

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𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: daeron the daring ༝ betrothed!reader

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: mention of possible domestic violence.

based on this request.

The silence in the room was broken only by the sound of the parchment being swiftly wrapped by Lord Ormund. The Hightower wore a disturbing expression, his gaze fixed on a single point.

You also noticed Daeron, your betrothed through an arranged marriage between your houses due to the war, standing rigidly beside you. His arms were more tense than necessary, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, and his expression hard as he averted his gaze from Ormund.

“Go,” he whispered.

You turned your head toward him, confused.

“Why?” you asked, a light smile escaping your lips.

“Go and tell your maid to draw you a bath,” Daeron insisted.

“I’d rather stay with-” Your voice was cut off as Lord Ormund abruptly threw his chair back, sending it flying with a loud crash.

Daeron instinctively stepped back, grabbing your arm and pulling you behind him between a table in the hall and his back. The sound of Lord Ormund's metal back splintering against the wood and his shouts filling the previously silent room sent shivers down his spine.

But what unsettled you most was Daeron's reaction, backing away in terror, barely able to take in the scene before them. It was as if he knew what to do, or perhaps he possessed an uncanny ability to read the signs, anticipating what was coming next. Now you understood his insistence that you leave the room, and you felt sorry for him. He didn't want you to witness such a scene.

You were both young, and perhaps that's why you empathized so deeply. Putting yourself in Daeron's shoes and thinking that he might have been experiencing similar situations his whole life made your heart ache. Your hand reached for your fiancé's, intertwining your fingers and giving him a firm squeeze to let him know he wasn't alone. All you could see of him was his profile and how he kept his eyes tightly closed as his hand tightened around yours.

When the wave of anger and shouting subsided, Daeron hurried to lead you away while Lord Ormund returned to his dinner as if nothing had happened. You remained silent, your gaze shifting from Daeron's back to your clasped hands. The prince slowed down when you reached your chambers during your stay in Tumbletown.

“Daeron…” you tried to speak, but as soon as he opened the door to your chambers for you, he spun around on his heels and quickened his pace, walking away down the long corridor.

Your brief time together in Oldtown had helped you get to know him better. He needed time and space. Daeron was a reserved boy, not shy as people often thought, confusing reserve with shyness. He knew his place, that he should respect his elders, and how to make himself heard when he had something to say.

One thought in particular crossed your mind. If Lord Ormund had these fits of rage, what could guarantee that Daeron wouldn't be consumed by such fury? After all, Lord Ormund had been the one to raise the prince, adding to the supposed madness that preceded the Targaryen line.

So you decided not to follow him or insist, letting the unpleasantness of the moment fade away for both of you. Besides, if you wanted to find him, you knew where to look.

You took that bath Daeron had mentioned before Lord Ormund erupted in his fit of rage. Fresh herbs and mint are the bath salts you always chose ever since Daeron told you they were his favorites.

Relaxing in the bath, you thought again about Lord Ormund's outburst, but not exactly about the Hightower, more about Daeron's reaction. It wasn't the first time it had happened, you'd already deduced that, but you couldn't help wondering if any of those blows had landed on your betrothed.

You called your maid, who brought a robe to dry you. You slipped the fabric over your shoulders, tying the belt around your waist. You also asked her to prepare a dress, nothing extravagant, just something for everyday wear.

Once dressed and with your hair styled in a simple half-updo, you left your chambers in Tumbletown, walking down the long corridors to the fortress's prayer hall. In the center stood a massive, round altar with candles lining its rim, and engraved in the center was the seven-pointed star representing the Faith of the Seven. There, Lord Ormund kept the prince's dragon chained up, while the prince sat on one of the steps a few feet away, watching her eat.

Tessarion raised her head, startled by the new presence. Seeing that it was you, she lowered her guard and tore another piece of meat from the charred goat she was devouring. Daeron looked up at you and offered you a hand to help you sit beside him. You accepted his offer, sitting on the stone steps and adjusting your skirt.

A small sigh escaped your lips. Not quite sure how to start the conversation, you leaned your head down and rested it against Daeron's shoulder. He tensed for a few seconds, surprised by the gesture, but then you felt his weight shift slightly against yours.

"Has he ever exploded like this at you?" you asked, barely raising your voice.

Daeron took a moment to answer.

"No."

You frowned slightly. You might have jumped to the wrong conclusion, but fragments of Daeron's reaction still came back to you.

"Today wasn't one of the worst."

You turned your head to look at him. He was still silently observing Tessarion, with the same composure with which anyone might comment on the weather.

“Wasn’t that one… one of the worst?”

A tired, almost imperceptible smile barely curved the corner of his lips.

“He didn’t break anything important.”

You felt a lump in your throat. He wasn’t joking. He meant it.

“Daeron…”

“He’ll get over it.” He shrugged slightly. “He always does.”

You looked at him for a few more seconds, searching his face for any trace of anger, resentment… anything.

You found nothing. Only resignation.

“Since when?”

This time he was silent.

“…Since I can remember.”

The answer fell between you with devastating simplicity.

You looked down at his hands. You remembered perfectly how they had clenched tightly when Lord Ormund had raised his voice. How he had stepped back even before the chair hit the floor.

It hadn't been fear in that moment. It had been a pure reflex of experience. You slowly reached out and intertwined your fingers again. He said nothing, only squeezed them gently, as if he needed to make sure you were still there.

“I thought…” you swallowed. “I thought maybe someday you could end up like him.”

Daeron let out an almost inaudible breath.

“I thought that too when I was a kid.”

Those words hurt more than all the screams that afternoon.

“But not anymore.”

“Why?”, you asked.

Daeron looked away from Tessarion and stared at you.

“Because every time I have a reason to scream…” he looked down at your clasped hands. “…I remember what it feels like to be on the other side. And I never want you to be the one on the other side.”