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“Is it true your grandmother and aunt warmed King Aegon’s bed?”

Your hand stills on a stitch, a pause of needle point and loose thread. There were ladies around you in the sunroom who were close enough to overhear, giggling and sipping on summer wine. Taking a slow glance over them all, you watch their jewel-draped throats glimmer with each swallow of drink.

Turning to Alysanne, you keep your voice low– ensuring no head turns in your direction. “I’ve heard you wish to become a silent sister,” you whisper, leaning so close that the silk of your skirts press against hers.

Alysanne nods, angling her head a little closer to hear you better.

An Osgrey girl younger than you by a few years, Alysanne had taken to you quickly in the Keep. She seemed to hold a rare tolerance for your house’s poor repute, though there was a lost look in her eyes you didn’t quite like. Many outcast ladies within the Red Keep held that awful look to them— you included.

Leaning away from her, you stab your needle’s point through your embroidery hoop, pulling so tight the thread nearly snaps free.

“Then know that I’ll sew your mouth shut if you speak a word of my family again. A favor really– a vow of silence might prove impossible for you otherwise.”

Alysanne’s bottom lip wobbles. With a shove from the table, her chair scrapes along the floor, a harsh sound of wood against stone. “You’re as cruel as the rest of the Keep! As rotten as your family–” she cries, “traitors and whores, the lot of you!”

“You’re no better,” you snap. “And you’d best learn not to spread mindless talk, less you face a consequence worse than a sharply spoken word.”

Freeing your embroidery thread fully from the hoop, you jab the needle towards her. She shoves her chair between you with a yelp– startling the ladies around the chamber. A handful of them turn to you as the source of the noise, their pretty eyes cutting in harsh regard.

With burning cheeks, you ignore their judgment to settle back into your work. They could ruffle behind their courtesies all they wished, but in truth, you were each equally lacking in social grace.

The lot of you were simply Blackfyre hostages. Women and girls forced to play pretend at decency with only each other for company– as the rest of King’s Landing did not want you.

—

A bat flew into your bedchamber the morning you were seized.

It’d been a slow day, routine like any other. You’d been preparing your hair before a tarnished mirror when a shadow swooped into your reflection. With a shatter of glass, your house’s sigil had promptly landed belly up– dead and done at your feet.

Though you were sweeter in those years, you hadn’t screamed or wept. Such omens weren’t uncommon in Harrenhal, as the half-burnt castle was said to be cursed. And yet it was House Lothston’s home. It was your home. You’d never feared it, as you’d loved its hollowed halls and what crawled within it – the bats included.

It was with that love, and a small bit of pity, that you’d gingerly lifted the creature to your chest. With a swish of your skirts, you’d walked down an inhumanly scaled hall to deliver the bat to your sister.

Older and strange, Danelle kept her chambers dark. The air around her oft held a tang of metal so thick it seemed to choke the air, and her hands seemed to perpetually bleed from some nick or cut— that of which she made no attempts to cover.

The servants whispered she was mad, but you held little care. Danelle was good to you above all.

Her back had faced towards the door as you slipped in that day. Standing by a window of colored glass, she’d pointed to something below.

“There are dragons in the yard, pup.”

With a careful clasp on the bat, you’d moved to stand at her side. Harrenhal wasn’t playing tricks on your sister’s eyes. There were Targaryen flags raised and flapping in a foggy breeze, a small army of dumb red lizards clashing against the lush green of your family’s land. Lands that had been granted by the Targaryens, of course— but any good will held between your houses had curdled like rotten milk in the years since.

Their presence was a poor sign. Only a few days prior, a raven had arrived from Redgrass Field, bringing with it news that the rebellion had ended. Your father had declared for the Blackfyres near the conflict’s start, but he’d betrayed them as easily as a turn of the moon.

Although your house sided with the reds when it counted, it seemed even good King Daeron held little love for betrayers. Your father oft called the king soft at supper— worse when emboldened after a few cups of wine.

“Do you think they’ve come to kill us?” you’d asked quietly.

Danelle sighed. “Let’s hope not. I quite like Harrenhal. Perhaps our blood can hold it for a while longer… before it puts us out.”

She often spoke of the castle as if it were a living thing; a keep and thinking creature within the same breath. Perhaps Harrenhal would have concealed you if you’d thought to hide, but instead, your attention had simply shifted to the bat in your hands.

“Can you bring this back to life?”

Danelle did not ask why you carried a broken little bat, or why you’d felt it proper to ask her such a thing.

“I’ll try,” she’d said instead.

Without hesitation she’d taken the bat from your hands, kicked a rug back, and laid it out on a bloodstained floor. With a circle of chalk and a few lit candles, she’d been prepared to slice her finger with a blade when shouts echoed from the hall.

The rest blurred. With a shatter of wood, the door broke open. Men swarmed in as your mother threw herself to the floors, screaming for them not to take you. Despite her begging, you’d been dragged through the halls of your home by Targaryen bannermen— each still stinking of mud and blood, born of a freshly settled rebellion.

Your Aunt Jeyne stood watching it all from the Keep’s entrance hall. A disgraced woman, she was rumored to have been both sired and bedded by King Aegon. You’d asked her of it once, when you were only one and ten. She'd repaid your curiosity with a slap across your cheek, a warning hissed so sharply her teeth had whistled.

“Don’t believe everything you hear, pup.”

—

Alysanne forgives you by supper, though you offer her no apology. She simply plops herself in front of you, settling her skirts along a hardwood bench.

“I talk too much,” she says simply, leaning too far forward in her seat. “I didn’t mean to insult your honor. My brothers say my tongue runs on its own, you know.”

Her brothers were dead. Her mother too. Each of them an unfortunate casualty of the rebellion. Her father, while living, might as well have rotted too.

Alysanne never spoke of Ser Eustace Osgrey, and you never asked of him. There was a silent agreement that existed between you in the Red Keep: you never spoke of the men whose actions had foiled your freedoms.

With a sip of wine, you eye her over the light of a long candle.

“My grandmother and aunt did warm King Aegon’s bed— though at separate times, I think,” you admit quietly, brushing your mouth with the back of your hand. “In truth, I don’t know much about it. Neither liked to talk of their time in King’s Landing, and I can’t blame them. My grandmother was removed twice from court when she lived. That shadow’s never quite left my house.”

Glancing at you through her lashes, Alysanne nods. Though the hour was late, she was neatly spreading blackberry jam and butter over a section of bread with a little silver spoon. It was a meal better suited for breaking one’s fast, but she seemed to have no interest in the roasted meats and stews that lined the dining table.

You watch with a raised brow as she sets her silverware down without a sound– only to tear at her bread like a woman starved a mere moment later.

“Gods. We’ll be seen as the sorriest ladies of the Keep if you continue eating like that,” you sigh, pressing your fingers to ease an ache forming between your brows.

“What good will manners do us? If we manage to marry, it’ll only come from the sorriest crop of husbands. I’d welcome the quiet life of a sister over that fate,” she mumbles around a mouthful, smacking her lips loudly. “You know, perhaps your gran had the right of it. The Keep is full of Daeron’s damned sons— and grandsons. You’re a bit gloomy, but you’ve a pretty face. Perhaps if you tup a prince, the king’ll have no choice but to send you home.”

“I’d wager that a Targaryen prince would sooner have my head than share a bed with a traitor’s daughter,” you laugh. Though spoken as a jape, you don’t quite manage to conceal a faint tone of hurt that creeps beneath your humor.

Wanting to shove the poor feeling away, you kick at Alysanne’s foot beneath the table. With a smile, she attempts to stomp on your toes in return. It’s a silly game, immature for your respective ages– but it helps you forget who you are for a flickering moment.

—

Trudging along a small stream, you enjoy the cool shade of looming trees in the Kingswood.

Nearby, dogs bark wildly. Men shout and horses gallop, their hooves a thunderous pound along beaten land. Foxes and rabbits tear through the forest in the late morning sun, and you wish them well– not wishing to see them snatched as trophies in honor of Prince Matarys’s first hunt.

In truth, the chances for success seemed slim. You’d seen the young prince at dawn, shaking as he’d stood clutching a bow before his father. With his wide-eyed gaze and Lady Jena’s reddish brown hair, you’d thought Prince Matarys looked more a mouse than a dragon.

“Why, oh why must we be here for the hunt? Targaryens are horrible hosts,” Alysanne whines from behind you, trailing on your heels. “It seems cruel to have ladies trudging through the woods. I’d much rather be kicking my feet up in a pavilion… eating lemon cakes and sipping tea.”

You toss her a look over your shoulder. “Perhaps they hope we’ll be gored by a boar. A tidy way to be done with us, I’m sure.” Turning to face her fully, you walk backwards and drop your voice a bit lower. “If you ask me, Prince Baelor might spend more time in the privacy of a pavilion as well. He’s only got two sons— and a lovely lady wife! I’m sure she wants more children… as many as Prince Maekar has, perhaps.”

Hopping over a fallen log, Alysanne remains a short distance away. “I’ve heard Lady Jena keeps close companions, and none of them are much the princely type!” Her voice raises as she speaks, growing a bit too loud for comfort. “What use is a giant veiny cock if one doesn’t have a use for it?”

Caught unguarded by her raised tone, your eyes widen. “Gods! Lower your voice, Alysanne. Someone will—”

A quietly spoken warning breaks through the trees. “I’d caution you each that even in the Godswood, there are listening ears around you.”

Alysanne slams to a stop against a tree, partially hiding her frame. You freeze, caught in the open path of a clearing, and you watch in panic as Alysanne’s eyes widen– flickering to a spot somewhere behind you.

She mouths an apology, and takes off running in a crash of leaves and twigs. Silently, you vow to truly stitch her mouth shut the next time you meet her for needlework.

With a growing sense of dread, you prepare to offer an apology to whichever proper lord of King Daeron’s court you’d managed to offend. You turn, only for your confidence to crumble; it shatters in fact, as you find yourself standing before Prince Baelor instead.

From where he kneels by a small stream, he watches you with mismatched eyes and a sharp frown between his brows. He wasn’t armored, covered only by dark leathers and a long riding cloak— darkened by what appeared to be blood or water, you weren’t quite sure.

You think of briefly pushing him into the stream, but stamp that urge down. If years of tolerating tales of Baelor Breakspear’s glory in battle had taught you anything— it was that a shove to his shoulder might as well be a push against a castle wall.

Taking his eyes from you for a moment, Baelor splashes water over his face with bare hands, swiping a broad palm over his twice-busted nose and beard. He’d be an attractive man, if he didn’t seem to always be looking down at you— safe in his superiority high atop an invisible horse.

“Do you have no words to offer, my lady? No more to say of my family, or myself perhaps?” he asks quietly, not looking towards you.

“No. I believe I’ve spoken enough, Your Grace.”

Baelor laughs, but the sound holds no good humor. Pausing a moment, he reaches for a set of gloves you hadn’t noticed at his side, then he’s rising to his full height.

Your blood rushes through your ears as he approaches without a word, his footsteps oddly quiet for a man his size. When he’s perhaps an arm’s length before you, a filter of sunlight streams through the trees— flashing against the steel of his sword. It rests against his hip, bloodied and used. Valyrian, most like. The type of blade that could slice through bone and blood like butter, without a sound to be heard in an already noisy forest.

You were dead. Your house was probably dead too. House Lothston, made extinct by talk of Targaryen cock— Gods curse you, you were a fool.

Features frozen, you watch as Baelor stops a proper distance before you, as though you were no more than a frightened mare. His eyes look over you carefully, dropping a moment to strangely glance lower— before his attention settles on your face.

“You’re Manfred Lothston’s daughter. You were taken from Harrenhal as a girl, were you not?”

You nod, speaking your name as you do, though you suspect he already knows it. After a moment’s delay, you offer the prince a curtsy as well. Send a boar to strike me down, you pray. But you’re given no relief from your humiliation.

To your surprise, Baelor manages a slight smile at your response— before his words split you open as clean as any blade.

“I’m afraid your courtesies will do little to improve my regard for you, my lady.” He says simply, tugging his gloves back on over each hand. “I’m knowledgeable of your family’s history with mine, though I’d hoped you’d prove better behaved than others of your line. I assume you know that as Hand, I answer only to the king?”

You nod, your mouth feeling dry.

“Good. Then I’d have you understand, plainly, that if I was any other man– I’d cut your tongue and send it to your father. A fair punishment for treason, at least within the eyes of the realm.”

Baelor’s judgment stings, but his words are a simple echo of the type of talk that often follows your name in court. Watching him study you so coldly in the forest’s light, it frustrates you endlessly that he appears above it all.

You wonder what it would take to goad him into striking your head from your shoulders– for him to lose all of that composure you suspect he keeps a tight reign over. Judging by the steel of his sword, it’d be a swift end– a way to free yourself of courtly chatter and a wretched familial line.

But you pause. You think of Harrenhal— and Danelle in it.

Perhaps if you tup one of his sons, the king’ll have no choice but to send you home.

Your eyes narrow. Angling your head to watch Baelor closely, you think of the whispers surrounding your house– each grown tall, but containing small seedlings of truth.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” you begin, willing your voice to sound steadier than you feel. “But you don’t strike me as the sort to condemn truth as treason. If what you overheard was a simple falsehood, then I invite you to pluck my tongue from my mouth. Surely it would prove efficient in limiting the spread of further lies.”

Baelor frowns, folding his hands before him. “Do you believe yourself in a position to question my judgment? You’ve spoken dishonorably of both myself and my lady wife. Even a fool would know not to speak in the manner that you and your… companion have.”

“My behavior is dishonorable, certainly. I’d say my words were of poor taste and judgement as well. But I’ll have you know my companion has only ever repeated what I’ve shared with her previous,” the lie flows from you without pause, a small part of you truly worrying for Alysanne and her mouth. She seemed to have a better sense of planning for her life, whereas you most certainly did not. “But were such words truly dishonest?”

A bird sings somewhere overhead. In the distance, a fox screams.

Baelor watches you carefully, his eyes narrowing at a tremble developing in your hands. You cross them beneath your chest to hide them, pushing the swell of your breasts a small bit higher as you do— a poor choice for the lighter dress you’d chosen for the day’s hunt.

Your neckline was cut much too low.

To your surprise, a peculiar development occurs as your chest raises and falls rapidly with your breathing. Prince Baelor’s careful assessment betrays him— his eyes drop to the soft swell of your breasts. A flush spreads over his nose, darkening his complexion just slight.

He speaks before you can process much, stepping to close the distance— pulling the leather gloves again from his hands as he does.

“Your tongue then, my lady.”

You frown, moving to take a few steps back. Prince Baelor was spoken of as good and fair-handed. Just like his father— but that hadn’t stopped any of them from ripping you from your house’s seat. You trusted Baelor Targaryen as far as you could throw him.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“What you said of my wife… of her wanting more children. That was conjecture. A falsehood, that I’ll have your tongue for. My wife and I each have done our duty to the realm, and I do not resent her for seeking better company— though perhaps I might urge her of further discretion.”

Prince Baelor watches you, appearing resigned for a moment, briefly sad, before his composure slips back into place. Stepping away from him until you can go no further— your back hits against a tree. Heart beating fast, your mind catches up to the strange turn of your day.

“What of my other lies?” you ask, voice thin.

The distance between you and Baelor closes. He stands over you, blocking the sun peeking through trees behind him. “No others were spoken.”

Oh. Your eyes sweep down, before you promptly pull them back to his face.

A warmth rolls from Baelor, felt faintly even through the light fabric of your dress. He smells of salt and musk and the land around him. And despite his earlier efforts to wash himself of the hunt— there were small streaks of blood along his face as well.

Faced before a prince of the realm, your body holds onto a repulsion long held for his house’s treatment of yours— but it wars with an unwanted awareness that he seemed to hold all too common marital troubles. You’d heard similar tales whispered countless times in court. A wife and husband forced into duties expected of them, two married for the sake of their house’s alliances rather than anything heated between them, or slippery— or— or…

Born of your house’s history, many courtiers held assumptions of you that lacked truth. You did not know much of men. In truth, you didn’t even much like the idea of them— you’d suffered enough drunken lords and knights seeking you out in private during feasts to believe any of them to be chivalrous or good.

Damn me to seven hells, you think. But I want to go home.

You part your lips, opening your mouth to Prince Baelor. Awkwardly, hoping to all hells that it perhaps appears alluring or sensual or whatever the hells men sought out in brothels— you allow your tongue to peek slightly over your lips.

A breeze blows, cooling some of the slick heat building along your neck and brow. Baelor watches you closely, before his attention drops– resting along your mouth.

You squeeze your eyes shut, and the rough skin of Baelor’s palm cups your jaw, propping your mouth open slightly more. His thumb brushes along your bottom lip, your tongue– before he’s pressing a kiss to your mouth. He kisses you tentatively at first, restrained and testing, possessing a gentleness you’d expect of green cupbearers and squires.

Then his mouth opens, and it feels much too hot and strange and wet all at once. He moans into you, sounding pained– his hands drop your waist, squeezing, so large that they nearly wrap around you, a feeling that leaves you quite aware he was capable of breaking you on a whim.

“Gods forgive me,” he whispers, beard scraping against the sensitive skin of your chin. “I’m no better than my grandsire.”

Reality shatters upon your head, a hammer to your skull. Two women of your house had already been led to social ruin by pointless Targaryen wants. You react without thinking— your hand swings back to slap Baelor’s unbearable face.

He catches your wrist, surprisingly gentle– using little force despite how very badly you’d just longed to hurt him.

“Your anger is just,” he begins—

“Do you think I asked to be born into my house?” you snap, interrupting him. “Damn you. Damn you, Your Grace. Go back to your lady wife.”

He does. Only a short time later, you meet Baelor’s eyes through a pressing crowd celebrating a successful hunt. A stag lays dead, slumped and bloodied with an arrow through its eye. Alysanne clings to your arm, loudly begging forgiveness in your ear. You pay her no mind– simply watching where Baelor holds Matarys to his chest. Bloodied and grasping a bow, the child reaches for his mother.

Lady Jena takes him, stepping smoothly away from her husband when Baelor’s hand brushes along her back.

Tropes/Dynamics/Settings I'll Write

angst/hurt/comfort

anything horror/supernatural related

second person POV or third person POV

nsfw/smut

fics/drabbles

Won’t Write

darkfic / non-con / dub-con

underage

omegaverse

my answer isn't fully fleshed out, but i have lots of thoughts. i think in the context of the bonus chapters where they're all happy-ish and alive, they'd probably view having dragons as a way to attempt to feel safe again + have some illusion of security + stabilize targaryen rule. i don't think they would seriously consider pulling any sort of public aegon/rhaenys/visenya dynamic, even if they could just threaten any dissent w dragon fire.

i scrapped a conversation between baelor and the knight mc, but basically they talked about how they might never feel safe again and how they know everything can just... go away. dragons come up as a hypothetical way to have more control over their lives.

it's also interesting to think about baelor + maekar as dragonriders, but because of their age i think they'd probably prioritize their kids bonding if we're talking like... new babyish dragons.

idk i feel like in the bonus chapters, maekar's in some kind of cursed retirement. he probably thinks a lot about blasting house peake w a dragon but doesn't go through with it.