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requests are currently open! i’ll pretty much write anything lol, just send me an ask! (but i should say that im not the fastest writer, so it might take me a while to actually post stuff) the characters down below are the ones i write for (italics indicate favourites)

fire and blood: aegon i targaryen, visenya targaryen, rhaenys targaryen, maegor targaryen, aegon ii targaryen, helaena targaryen, rhaenyra targaryen, alicent hightower, gwayne hightower, criston cole, cregan stark, jacaerys velaryon, brynden rivers

dunk and egg novellas/a knight of the seven kingdoms: baelor targaryen, duncan the tall, aerion targaryen, maekar targaryen, valarr targaryen, daeron targaryen, donnel of duskendale, roland crakehall

a song of ice and fire: daenerys targaryen, rhaegar targaryen, viserys targaryen, jaime lannister, cersei lannister, tyrion lannister, tywin lannister, ned stark, jon snow (stark), sansa stark, sandor clegane, tormund giantsbane, jorah mormont, petyr baelish, roose bolton, victarion greyjoy, theon greyjoy, davos seaworth, stannis baratheon, arthur dayne

©DRAGONKNIGHTS, all works are my own and i do not consent to any reposts, translations, copies or ai alterations.

She could hear the old man talk through his wine. Dribbled red liquid slipped down the corner of his mouth, reaching far enough to stain the collar of his rumpled doublet. He’s old, much older than her, but still breathing. That’s all that’s required for him to be a possible suitor. Men from all over the realm have come to the castle tonight, not in search of honour through battle, but for the princess' hand.

Valarra was the firstborn child of Baelor Targaryen, who happens to be next in line for the Iron Throne. He will be king one day; all in his line must prepare themselves, her included, most importantly.

She’s of age now, has been for a number of years, but Breakspear has a soft spot for his daughter that no one can deny. There were words spoken of a betrothal to her cousin Daeron, but nothing came of it; he was far too drunk. Aemon was too bookish, a marriage close to that of her uncle, and Aerion was too cruel to even consider it, though that never stopped him from pestering her whenever they happened to be together.

She didn’t want to marry some faraway lord and be forced to spend her days as a broodmare, pushing out wired heirs to a name that didn’t matter. She didn't want to leave the place she only ever knew, whether it be the towering Red Keep or gritty Dragonstone. Valarra just wanted you.

You were her lady-in-waiting, her closest companion, and had been ever since your father arrived to the capital as a courtier under Daeron the Good’s reign. She remembers the day you first met, corsets sewn tight, hair done high. You came with your father to find a husband; at least that was expected of you. Never would you think to find anything more.

Nights spent giggling under covers, fingers peeling back the pages of old love stories. Days spent in gardens, flowers trampled under your step, wind in your hair. And then, that late afternoon. It rained heavily that day, and the downpour embraced the cobbled streets with a dense hand. You remained in the princess’ bedchambers for most of the day, talking about magic and dragons and whatever came to mind. It was good; it was kind. Then, you kissed her. It was a swift touch, a gentle press of lips before breaking apart. Before you knew it, the both of you fell into laughter, maybe at the idea, maybe at the way it made your hearts race. You leaned in and kissed her again and again until her back was flush to the settee, silken brown curls splayed on the cushions like a crown.

The truth lingered in the quiet moments: how wrong it was. How she knew the Gods were watching, how distasteful it seemed. But it didn’t matter, not when your hands happened to be so soft, so safe. You never spoke of it again, but you never stopped doing it either.

She locks eyes with you from her place at the table; a drink sits in your grasp. You tilt the goblet towards her, a small smile on your face. She responds silently with an eye roll, sticking out her tongue in disgust. That causes you to laugh into your cup; her heart flutters at the sight. The lord talking at her catches the act and grumbles. He must know that she’s making fun of him; a soured pout curls his wrinkled features. The man stands with a huff and leaves her there; relief floods her mind as she settles against the chair. A serving boy appears beside her, a tray of drinks in his hand. She takes one and thanks the servant; he blushes before dispersing, stuttered footsteps taking him away to the next table.

“Not to your liking, Princess?” You ask now in front of her; the hemline of your satin dress flutters against her ankle. It’s a pale pink colour, with windows of skin trailing up your arms.

“He recollected my grandmother's beauty when she was my age and compared it to mine.”

You laugh again, hand coming up to cover your mouth as it happened to be much louder than you intended. A smile graces her face as she watches you, thumb skimming the edge of the lace tablecloth. She’d marry you if it was possible; you spend all day lounging in corners of the castle or in the godswood, head in your lap as you brush through her hair. No more disturbances from ancient lords, no dwelling on whether seed had taken root in her womb. Just you and her.

As the evening came to a close, and the sun had finally turned below the horizon, Valarra finally felt as if she could breathe again. Her bedchamber has a balcony attached, overlooking the godswood. From the edge, she can hear the trees graze against one another, leaves falling from the wood. The sound is peaceful; she tends to stay out there when sleep evades her or just to take a moment of solace.

“Something haunting you, my love?”

Your voice appears like a lantern in the fog, beaconing her to return to a state of being. She sighs before turning back to the room; you're at the table in the center, feet kicked up on a plush footstool. Without thinking, Valarra places herself sideways on your lap, chin coming to rest on your shoulder as she nudges your shoulder with hers. You counter the new weight with a tender hand grabbing her waist, balancing her on top with ease. “My father hopes to secure a betrothal soon enough; I can feel it.”

Her words are muffled as she presses herself closer, mouth resting on your neck. Yes, it’s likely true. The realm grows weary the longer she stays unmarried, already tense tethers of loyalty unraveling faster than the truth. She’s a woman of the Seven Kingdoms; her fate was confirmed the moment she was born. You bear a similar resolution, but you were just the daughter of a nobleman, no princess. It ate away at you, the anxieties that consumed every fibre of her being. You wished to pacify her worries, soothe the stress that had her in tears most nights alone.

Maybe, they’d let you go with her, as a companion, something familiar from home. Maybe she’d go to you the night of her wedding, body aching after the bedding ceremony. You’d clean the dried fluid off her thighs and simply watch as she climbs into your bed. It’s unlikely, but maybe the Gods would be merciful for once.

“I do not long for it.” She confirms quietly, threading her fingers through the small hairs on the nape of your neck. “I do not know what I long for.”

“I could help you with that.”

She lifts her head from your shoulder, eyes glittering with sudden desire. You hardly need to say a word; she already knows. Valarra nods, tucking her top lip into her teeth. You kiss her while sliding your forefinger under her chin. Lips slanted together, the touch grows intense when she grinds down.

Without breaking the kiss, you guide her upwards until you're both standing. Slowly, you walk her back until she sits down on the bed. Then, you kneel in between her spread legs, slipping your hands under the dark dress. The skin gets warmer the further you reach; a soft moan leaves her as you press into her heat. The skirt rides up on her thighs, bearing the flesh for all to see. But it's only you here; you’d cut down anyone else who dared to look.

"Please" She begs, gripping your shoulder.

Her expression is one of indulgence, despite you not doing anything yet. Your princess is kind; there’s no need to tease, so you don’t. Her chemise is linen, practically sheer. You can see everything without lifting it, but you do anyway. Her cunt is as pretty as she is; wisps of coarse brown hair rest on the mound. The colour of her skin is usually a fleshy pink, but due to her arousal, it’s turned into a wine red. She’s eager for it, legs closing around you as you lean in. First, you place a soft kiss on the warmth, then you lick a strip down the slit.

Valarra responds accordingly, moaning as you continue with the languid kisses.

She tugs harshly at your hair as you lap at her nub, toes curling as she shudders. “Oh— seven hells.”

You laugh, teeth grazing the sensitive skin; she just pulls tighter. Your hands are braced over her thighs, trying to pull her closer.

You can’t stop; the sweetness of her arousal is addicting. You don’t stop even when her back arches and she lets out a loud whine. Her vision fades to black as the peak shatters through her; she moans your name one last time.

He made you cry that day in front of everyone, shouting cruelty and curses. Just because he could—he was a dragon; he had a dragon twice the size of any mountain you could see. There was something wild in his eyes when those first tears fell. Pleasure and absolute entertainment. You considered throwing yourself off the highest tower when he said he'd make you his wife.

Even now he still loves to make you cry. Fat tears rolled over the tender plains of your face as he plunged into your heat. His cock was as brutal as he was, flushed blood red as you sobbed. You hated him, how determined he was to make the seed take root. Hated how badly he wanted a son, how many women he'd gone through just to make it happen. Hated how cut-throat he was, he killed his own brother just for the crown. You especially hated just how much you loved it.

brat-taming/impact play, aerion targaryen

Aerion could never be as heinous as his ancestor, but he was getting close. Spiteful and mad, Brightflame was a heat no one could smother. No one except you, and gods, did you love it.

He had just come back from training in the knights' yard, a wide smile on his pale face. He came to you, hands latching onto your waist like he could, talking gleefully about how he broke the finger of the squire that struck mud into his doublet. You said nothing as he went on, only nodding when he looked at you expectantly, hand brushing over his cheek in gentle waves.

Then, you hit him. A loud slap right on his face. His head is forced to the side, now reddening at the attack. Then he turns back to look you in the eye. You pay no mind to the growing anger that builds into his lilac irises. Instead, you fuck him. Right there on the settee, on top and in control. Though he fights it, you can hear the soft sounds that leave his wet lips as you rock up and down. Little whines, like a dog. You hit him again, and he comes with a loud moan. He falls against you then, his face stuck in the corner of your neck. You don’t stop, not until it sinks into that pretty little head of his. It probably never will, but that doesn't reduce your want for it.

blindfolds/bondage, brynden rivers

You couldn't see. Fabric pulled tightly over your eyes, you weren't supposed to see. To rely on all other senses was a challenge, but he didn't care. It was a game you'd play together; how long would it take for you to start begging? At first it was simple. Mindless teasing in quiet corridors, maybe a finger or two under your dress during royal meals. But then, he got brave.

You're on the bed, legs spread, naked, and hands tied to the corners with leather as he stands in front of you. You couldn't see him, but you could feel him. He was quiet on purpose, with light steps and slow breaths; you gasp when his knee digs into the bed. Though it's hushed, you hear him laugh to himself. Amused at your current predicament, the same one he put you in.

Then he leans in and presses his tongue to your heat. You respond diligently, pushing your hips forward to chase his touch. His hand braces on your inner thigh, fingers pinching at the tender flesh there. “Careful, girl. Or I'll leave you here.”

You nod, moaning as he delves back in. His tongue flicks against your nub, and you keen, back arched and brows furrowed. It's a game to him; everything's a game to Bloodraven, whether you want to play or not.

threesome, rhaegar targaryen & jon connington

The tourney at Harrenhal would be remembered for years to come. It was the greatest of its time; the king had knighted the Lannister boy, and Ashara Dayne, with her long hair and dazzling eyes, danced with many men but brought the young wolf to her bed despite it. You’d remember it in far different ways.

Jon Connington was in front, red hair messy and damp. He breathed over you heavily, just to compose himself. Rhaegar’s at your side, already spent. You let him nip at your collarbone, shifting a hand through his silver hair. He was the champion of the joust; you wanted to congratulate him in your own way, but Jon followed too. So, you let him join in as well.