༶•┈┈୨ 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕣 ୧┈┈•༶

A list of my current works:

House of The Dragon:

Lord, I No Longer Believe - Daeron “the Daring” Targaryen x reader. Warnings: HEAVY angst, character(reader) death, blood

My Greatest Enemy Is You - Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader. SERIES. Warnings: Childhood friends/lovers to enemies to lovers trope, Canon-typical violence, canon divergence, canon-typical misogyny (mildish), mentions of character deaths, spoilers for show and book (I've intertwined the two), inconsistent tense cause yeah

A Pact of Ice and Fire -Cregan Stark x reader. Warning: Set after the Dance, mention of character death, angst, fluff, slight mention of childbirth(very non-descriptive), teenage pregnancy (reader is 18 at the time), reader is described to have dark hair but that’s it, reader is the twin of Jacaerys,

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms:

Time Eats All His Children in the End - Valarr Targaryen x reader. Warnings: Heavy angst, character deaths, descriptions of blood and childbirth, miscarriage, no happy endings

Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader

Warnings: Canon-typical misogyny (mild), mention of character death,

Series synopsis: From your earliest memory, you had wished for nothing else than to become a knight. As an attempt to guide you away from those ambitions, your father sent you to King’s Landing to serve in the King’s court. That, however, proved fruitless for your hopes only swelled more, and you had befriended and caught the attention of the crowned princess’s son. After the death of your lord-father, leaving your eldest brother as the head of your house, you find a few years later that he is not so eager to uphold previous oaths made as he takes the Greens’ side in the succession war between Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and her half-brother. Torn between familial loyalty, honor, and love, you are left distraught.

1 <- 2 -> 3 Series Masterlist

Word count: 1,463

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In the weeks that passed, war, it seemed, was on everybody’s mind. The phrase “I’d rather be safe than sorry” has become a common one. You did whatever Rylan commanded you to do in those weeks.

Now, you sat on a log sharpening arrowheads. While you mostly stuck to your sword, you were an exceptional archer. Though, archery remained a pastime for you only used a bow when hunting.

And you had only hunted with your late father, Lord Darrow Belamour.

“Lord Rylan says we should move our army,” a voice spoke from behind you.

Ser Evren Brier.

He was a young man, nearly two years your senior, and had been recently knighted. He, along with some others, had pushed for your own knighting, claiming that you had more vigor and honor than any man in Westeros.

But his, along with the others', demands fell on deaf ears for, at the end of the day, you were a woman.

“We are locked beneath the North and above Seagard,” you answered, nodding your head to the place beside you. He sat and listened. “Lord Stark will no doubt fly Princess Rhaenyra’s banners. Starks are men of honor, though Lord Stark may demand something in return.

“House Mallister will most like stand where House Blackwood and Frey will. Blackwoods always stand in opposition to Brackens. House Frey, well, I just have my own suspicion of where they shall stand.

“Oaths in the Riverlands are… very fickle. Nearly every lord in this land pledged some oath to Princess Rhaenyra. While their sons may sit in their stead now, I've no doubt most will honor their sire’s oaths.”

You did not say it outright, allowing him to piece the puzzle together.

“I see.” He finally spoke after a moment. “Best to move the host now while we still have an opening, or else we’ll be trapped.”

“Precisely.” You agreed. “While Stark’s host would take some time to reach the Riverlands, we could already be ahead of him and joined with our allies. We can easily maneuver around the other houses.”

Ser Evren nodded, a hum of understanding vibrating in his throat.

You finished up with the arrow in your hand and took up another one, beginning to lay at it with the whetstone in your hand.

“If I remember correctly, you used to be quite the shot,’ he remarked, taking out a whetstone and picking up an arrowhead

“Mhm,” was your only answer.

He softly shook his head, wheat brown tresses shaking as he did so. A chuckle had escaped him.

“What is so funny, Ser?” you asked monotonously, side-eyeing him.

“Nothing, my lady,” was his reply.

“You say ‘nothing’ but your face tells a different story. You're a horrid liar, may you never be captured in battle and held prisoner.” You returned your gaze to the arrowhead in your hands, ignoring the offended look that bloomed on his features.

“You are a cruel woman.” He stilled, his face turning toward you.

“I prefer the term ‘honest,’” you hummed. “Something most are not familiar with.”

He softly shook his head, fighting off a smile. He knew your ways, understood that your sharp words and replies were a sort of front, that you sharpened your tongue just as you did your sword to be taken seriously.

The young man had been sent to Clagmere Castle at the age of ten, born the youngest of nine children. He was as true as any man could be, and loyal beyond measure.

You believed he saw your father as his own with the way he devoted himself to the teachings the older man had seared into him. You had come to see him as a mirror of your own person, what you could've been if you had been born male.

Sometimes, you envied him. Other times, you were filled with guilt for envying him. No matter how many japes or insults you threw at him, he always, always, stayed.

And for that, you could not hate him. Never could you hate him.

“Say,” he broke a minutes-long silence. “How do you fare? You spent some time in Princess Rhaenyra’s company. And the company of her children.”

He stopped all action, those emerald eyes of his shifting to your own, watching you carefully.

You froze, trying to conjure up a response, but your mind became a blank slate.

You released a heavy sigh.

“It matters little now,” was your reply.

You thought about them—him—often. Princess Rhaenyra’s kindness, along with her son’s boldness, always managed to slip through the stone walls you meticulously built over the years.

Often in your younger more naive years, you would imagine yourself dressed in gleaming silver-white armor with a flowing white cape at your back and the sigil of the three-headed dragon stamped on your shoulder.

It was an incredibly ambitious dream for a girl.

Now, soon enough at least, you would fight against the side of the royal family that had once housed you.

You watched as horses and men alike began to gather and divide into smaller groups. Lord Rylan had agreed that smaller parties sent at different times, riding different paths, would be wiser, and so it was set in stone and nothing could challenge his made-up mind.

“Which group do you ride out with?” you asked and faced the knight, your eyes meeting his.

He shifted, his gaze landing on a grizzly man. “Ser Horace Jackdaw.”

You followed his gaze to the older knight. At seven-and-fourty, he stood tall and proud. He was brutal and precise, not one to back down easily. When there was a charge to be ordered, he was almost always at the front.

The old knight was known for his savage ways of discipline. Any squire that he took in was always a hollow shell of a person by the end of his apprenticeship with Ser Horace.

“You’ve my condolences.”

Before he could reply, a voice interrupted.

“Lady Belamour,” a young man spoke hurriedly, striding over to you with purpose. “I’ve come bearing news from the Capitol. King Aegon Targaryen has now been crowned and is demanding that allegiances be pledged in return.”

You examined the young man for a moment, as he carefully pondered his words. He shifted uncomfortably under your gaze and you could tell there was more than just what he had stated.

“Is that so? Why not send a raven?” You asked, standing leisurely and stepping forward like a predator waiting to pounce. “What other houses has he demanded fly their banners for him?”

“The King’s hand, Lord Otto Hightower, said messengers would be quicker than ravens. All that His Grace knows will lay down their swords for him, my lady,” he replied.

“Why the sudden haste? Has something else happened?” you asked, coming to a stop.

He opened his mouth, his jaw flexing and twitching before he closed it. You rested your hand on the hilt of your sword, waiting for him to answer your question.

Finally, he spoke. “Prince Lucerys Velaryon has been killed. His dragon fought against Aemond Targaryen and his dragon Vhagar. Prince Aemond proved victorious.”

The world seemed to close in on you as his words settled into your mind. A ringing began in your ears, loud and unyielding. The breath disappeared from your lungs as if you had taken a blow from a lance.

Lucerys Velaryon who used to trail behind you along with Jacaerys. Little Luke who once hissed at his brother for stepping on your skirts, who snuck lemon cakes from the kitchens for the both of you when no one was looking.

His fourteenth name day had not even passed, he was still a boy of three-and-ten.

For what felt like an eternity, the words tumbled in your mind before you finally spoke up, your voice an unstable and frail thing.

“Fought.” The word was bitter on your tongue. “A dragon the size of a horse against one large enough to shatter an entire kingdom’s stability under its weight. That is no fight.”

“Witnesses say—” you cut him off.

“I don’t recall asking after witness reports.”

You watched the messenger intently. The way his throat bobbed nervously, his hands retreated to behind his back, and how his eyes seemed to dance around to everything but your own.

“I will speak with my lord,” you said. “In the meantime, you may settle about in the mess hall. Servants will attend you.”

He cleared his throat. “Thank you, my lady.”

You turned and took your leave, not acknowledging him any further. You did not even spare a glance at Evren Brier, whose face was a mask that could not be deciphered.

Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, blood, gore (someone's throat is literally cut open), canon-typical misogyny (mild-ish), threats of rape, mentions of character deaths and character deaths alike, spoilers for show and book, inconsistent tense cause yeah

Series synopsis: From your earliest memory, you had wished for nothing else than to become a knight. As an attempt to guide you away from those ambitions, your father sent you to King’s Landing to serve in the King’s court. That, however, proved fruitless for your hopes only swelled more, and you had befriended and caught the attention of the crowned princess’s son. After the death of your lord-father, leaving your eldest brother as the head of your house, you find a few years later that he is not so eager to uphold previous oaths made as he takes the Greens’ side in the succession war between Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and her half-brother. Torn between familial loyalty, honor, and love, you are left distraught.

Prologue <- 1 -> 2 Series Masterlist

Word count: 2,205

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At ten-and-five, only two years after gaining your father’s blessing to continue training, you had entered your first battle against the ironborn from the Iron Islands.

The war was nasty and brutal, but it was disputed quite quickly within the year after your house’s navy was deployed.

However, many blows were made. You had lost two of your brothers along with your father.

Your eldest brother Rylan now sat as Lord of Clagmere Castle. Your third brother, turned second eldest, Arden was his advisor. Leander, a year and a half your senior, had gone North to the Wall to join the Night’s Watch.

Other than Arden, Leander had been one of the few of your brothers with whom you had a good relationship. Most nights, you wondered what Leander was doing and how he fared.

You were placed as Rylan’s sworn shield, a position you were most happy to assume.

However, you did not come out of the battle unscathed: a scar stretching from the curve of your chin to the corner of your lip on the left side.

You had been outnumbered by three ironborn men nearly thrice your size. You had managed to slit one’s throat and slash your blade behind the crook of one’s knee, but that had only made that one angrier.

Eventually, you grew tired, your adrenaline high beginning to blow over, that extra boost ceasing. As soon as the unscathed one saw the opportunity, he rushed you, slamming you into the ground by your throat, the action causing your helmet to come off.

You remembered their words most, lewd and disgusting, even in your hazy state.

“I’ll stab you and fuck the wound, bitch. You are a pretty thing to look at,” The one pinning you had said as he hovered a blade over your sternum right after swiping it across your jaw and over the corner of your lips.

You gasped and sputtered for air, but you were given no relief. Blotches of black began to paint your vision and iron touched your tongue. You closed your eyes when he lifted the knife, accepting your fate.

Just before the knife plunged into your neck, he was thrown off of you.

You desperately gulped air, turning over to lean on your forearms. When your breath began to even, your body dropped completely into the mud.

“Y/n, you better get up, girl! Our men are dying as you lie there!” A voice—undeniably your father’s—shouted out in a strained manner.

You released a great huff of air before slowly, and with great difficulty, rising to your feet.

You turned your head to meet his gaze, but were met with a different sight. Horror ripped through your body. Quickly, that horror was replaced by a tidal wave of rage so intense that everything had become a blur to you.

You could not recall what happened next, but you did not try for it was too much.

The man whose kneepit you slashed had slammed a dagger into your father’s throat and jerked it to the side, opening his throat and causing blood to spray every which way.

After that, you had only the words that people fed to you after everything was over. Apparently, you had gone on a frenzied rampage, slashing and striking anyone—anyone—who dared to get in your way.

After that, reinforcements had arrived. Your allies had left a wide berth around you, allowing you to scream and cry your lungs out. Eventually, you passed out from exhaustion, finally falling into a calm state where you could be collected and taken back to Clagmere Castle.

When you woke, you would learn that your second and fourth eldest brothers Cassius and Dorian had also lost their lives in the battle by Arden, who devoted himself to your health as you healed.

The funeral had been gloomy as three bodies lay on three weighted pyres that were waiting to be drawn out to sea. You had flanked Rylan’s right while Arden took his left.

The three of you agreed to keep it small, not wanting many to be there. Rylan had made an exception, though:

Princess Rhaenyra and her children.

That day marked the first time since you were ten that you saw the royal family. However, you did not look at them once throughout the ceremony. Even when the princess walked up to directly give her condolences your eyes stayed glued to the ocean.

But you had made an exception later that night when you had strayed from the feast that was prepared in your deceased family members’ names.

Jacaerys had found you, just as he always did, and offered you his shoulder. He offered no words of consolation, and he did not push. He simply existed in the same space as you.

“Thank you, my prince,” You had whispered before pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, and then leaning your head on his shoulder.

It was an intimate moment, more so than it should have been, but neither of you cared as you basked in each other’s comfort and presence knowing you would not see each other for a while after.

Now, at ten-and-seven you wore your battle scars with pride, and your name and titles even more so.

“Viper of the Coast” is what people began to call you after the battle. A suitable title for someone as quick and ready to strike as you. That day had been a turning point for your prowess. You vowed never to allow yourself to be reduced or bent so easily again.

“The King is truly dead?” A voice asked, becoming louder as you approached your brother’s solar.

You stopped. It was Lord Humfrey Bracken. You had not been made aware of his arrival. But it was not his presence that caused you to cease all movement, but the words he spoke.

You knew King Viserys was not in good health. Your thoughts began to stray to the crowned Princess, to her own heir.

Now it was time for her to become queen. You believed that she would make a fair enough ruler.

You picked up your stride toward the door and knocked, your brother calling you in.

“Ah, sister. Come, come, please do give us your report.” His fingers tipped toward you, head nodding in your direction.

“The wagons are moving slowly along the river, and the men are growing tired. The horses even more so. Ser Donn says the path isn't… clear yet.”

You paused for a second, a question at the tip of your tongue. The wagons were much larger than the typical supply ones. And Ser Donn had been rather short with you.

Your brother sighed irritably, his fingers coming to rest on his temple. You took the moment to examine who all was in attendance in your brother’s solar.

Lord Bracken sat to the right of your brother, his hands clasped and eyes flitting between you and your brother.

Beside him sat Lord Tristan Vance, and across from him sat Manyfred Mooten, not Lord Walys Mooten. And beside him sat Lord Larys Strong.

A rather strange council in your eyes, but you did not judge your brother’s company. Arden stood at the window, his body rigid.

“Speak, sister,” Rylan demanded, his stony gaze meeting your skeptical one.

“Is it grain the wagons are carrying? It is good to get supplies in before winter is upon us, my Lord,” You spoke, carefully watching Rylan, one hand resting on the hilt of your sword, the other idle by your side.

“It is supplies, a heap of it to keep our stores full. We must keep the cargo from getting destroyed or ravaged,” He confirmed with a firm nod, his eyes not leaving yours.

“Well then, let our people not go hungry this winter,” You nodded in turn, still skeptical. “What are my further orders?”

Rylan leaned forward, his arms coming to rest on the long table. “Tell me, sister: have you heard anything from the capital?”

You already knew the answer he sought. “Whispers. The King is dead, may he lie in peace.”

Arden turned his head, his jaw along with the tension straining it visible to you.

“Yes, may he lie in peace,” Rylan said standing. “You’ve a good head on your shoulders, right Y/n?”

“Aye, brother,” You nodded your head slowly trying to gauge the intention of his question.

He did not get the chance to speak up, but Arden’s voice cut through the air like ice, his tone accusatory.

“Stop dancing around the matter; tell our sister whose banners you are planning to fly, you blasted fool!”

Rylan spun around to meet your brother, a great fury burning in his eyes. “You forget your place, Arden. I am your lord. I could have you stripped of your position and beheaded, brother.”

You did not need them to say much more, it was obvious what your lord-brother had done. You had heard the rumors simmer for years now, but you did not expect the seeds to sprout.

Your brother acknowledged Aegon the Elder as king rather than Princess Rhaenyra who had been named heir so many years ago, which was in those years ago that your father made his oath to protect her honor and her claim to the Iron Throne.

And now your brother was damning those oaths.

“Our father swore an oath by the gods, his family, and his house,” you began, your voice low despite the scene unfolding before you. “You mean to dishonor it.”

Rylan stared at you, the fury in his eyes turning to cold calculation.

“Our father swore those oaths. Now, he is dead. I am the head of our house now. Whatever oaths he pledged to that whore died with him,” The fury had chizzled away to reveal a cold, icy look.

A look he only gave to you.

“Rhaenyra Targaryen along with her bastard brood will tear the Realm apart. Father was a fool for sending you off to her,” You wanted to snap back at him, sink your fangs into his skin, and release your venom.

But you knew better.

You looked over at Arden. His eyes, so much like your own, stared back.

“This is a mistake,” you began, your shoulders slumping and your hand at your sword dropping in defeat. “If this leads to a war, blood will stain the Realm. But…”

Your voice died, a knot forming in your throat. Rylan raised his eyebrow expectantly at you, waiting for you to utter those words of loyalty you always did when the two of you disagreed.

“You are my lord, my brother. Where you tell me to point my sword, who you tell me to point it at, I shall do so.”

That icy look in his eyes did not disappear by any means, but satisfaction did gleam through.

“Wise words, sweet sister,” He only ever referred to you as such a term when he got his way. “Now, I ask a favor of you, Y/n: begin gathering our ship captains and seafarers. We have nearly ten large war vessels and fifteen more agile boats all equipped with cannons, grapples, and scorpions. I'd like them moved to Lannisport. I've already received word from Lord Lannister, and he has already given us his approval to move our ships there.

With our victory just a few short years ago against those Ironborn cunts, they will know better than to reave our ships while they sail from our port.”

It struck you: this had already been planned, and for quite some time. You risked a glance at Arden, wondering if he knew. Of course, he knew. There was no way that he didn't. He also did not wear a look of shame, but of regret.

You bow, your eyes flicking but to Rylan. “Of course, I'll see to it at once.”

With those final brief words, you turned your back on your brother’s council, not sharing a glance with either of your brothers or anyone sitting at that table.

A pit had formed in your stomach and a strange feeling crept from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, and your body was rigid with strain. Uncertainty, doubt, and shame. A deadly combo for someone such as yourself.

You closed your eyes for a moment, a memory resurfacing. A memory of a day spent on the beach watching waves crash against the beach of Dragonstone. A memory that included a boy of seven with dark curly hair, dark eyes, and eyes that always seemed to follow you.

When you opened your eyes, they stung. You clenched your fist, then unclenched it.

You ripped your focus away from the memory and placed it back on the task at hand: gather Captains Amos Ivers, Jon Farr, and Alby Higweed.

However, an image of dark curls and a boyish laugh and grin managed to slip through the mental gate you’d just sealed.

Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader

Warnings: Childhood friends/lovers to enemies to lovers trope, Canon-typical violence, possible smut (not sure), canon divergence, blood, some gore, animal harm (dragons and horses primarily), canon-typical misogyny, mentions of character deaths, spoilers for show and book (I've sort of intertwined the two), bastardphobia, inconsistent tense cause yeah

Series synopsis: From your earliest memory, you had wished for nothing else than to become a knight. As an attempt to guide you away from those ambitions, your father sent you to King’s Landing to serve in the King’s court. That, however, proved fruitless for your hopes only swelled more and you had befriended and caught the attention of the crowned princess’s son. After the death of your lord-father leaving your eldest brother as the head of your house, you find a few years later that he is not so eager to uphold previous oaths made as he takes the greens’ side in the succession war between Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and her half-brother. Torn between familial loyalty, honor, and love, you are left distraught.

Current word count: 3,767

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CHAPTERS

Prologue

i

ii

iii

iv

Cregan Stark x Velaryon!wife!Reader

Summary: You could not bring back the family you had lost during the war, but you could rebuild it.

This honestly isn't my best work nor is it my favorite, but hey, Cregan appreciation.

Warning: Set after the Dance, mention of character death, angst, fluff, slight mention of childbirth(very non-descriptive), teenage pregnancy (reader is 16 at the time if you do the math), reader is described to have dark hair but that’s it, reader is the twin of Jacaerys

Word Count: 837

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Your eyes stayed trained on the iridescent purple egg engulfed in flames across from you as you clutched the bundle in your arms tightly to your chest. You glanced down when your son began to squirm.

A small smile adorned your lips as you glanced down at him, taking in his features. His cheeks were plump looking as if they were always squished. His lips were parted revealing his gums and tongue, which flicked back and forth.

His hair, what little sat atop his head, was dark and held your husband’s brown tint that it did yours.

But there was one little feature that marked him as yours, as a dragon. The silver-blonde streak stretching across the front tresses of hair.

He, along with his elder brother and sister and even his step-brother, were undeniably yours.

“Jacaerys,” You whispered the name to him, his name.

One forged as a nod to your late twin brother whom you missed very dearly. All of your children, minus your step-son, were named after your late family members.

Rhaenar your eldest son, who was also a twin, was named after your mother. Lucenya, the younger twin named after Lucerys was your only daughter.

Both had been born with dark hair. However, they both inherited violet eyes from your side of the family.

You wiped his chubby cheek with your knuckle, a soft smile on your lips. The door to your chambers opened, revealing Rickon and the twins. Cregan stood behind them as the twins barreled toward you and the babe.

“Mommy!” They shouted in near unison, surrounding your chair.

Rickon, now approaching his eighth name day, strode over to you with the confidence and poise of a future lord.

“Hello, my loves,” You glanced at the kneeling children.

They were five summers old, born just a year after the war. Where Rickon had been a calm baby, the twins had made up for the lack of chaos. Something in which they still did.

“May I hold her?” Rickon asked politely.

You gave him a strained smile, a motion that told him the babe was not indeed the sister he thought that he would get. He immediately frowned.

“I know, Sweetling. But, yes. You may hold him.”

When the boy approached, holding out his arms to collect the babe with practiced ease, the disappointment faded quickly.

“Can I hold him next!?” Lucenya gaped up at her half-brother, stars in her eyes.

“No,” Rhaenar snapped. “Im gonna hold him next.”

Before the younger twin could hiss a retort back, Cregan spoke up, his voice firm.

“None of you will get the chance to if you keep bickering,” He crossed the room and came to stand behind you. “Your mother is still healing. Arguing with one another helps her case little”

Frowns quickly etched their way onto the twins' faces. The last thing they wished was to be sent away after not being able to see you for nearly two days.

They both muttered out apologies, their eyes wide and looking up at him. Their father gave them a stiff, approving nod.

Cregan was not a cold father, but he did not dote. He had expectations set forth, but he was understanding that children are children. You knew for a fact he would indeed cut a man’s throat if any of his family were threatened or worse.

He did not need to speak to voice his pride or appreciation. A pat on the shoulder or an approving nod for your kids and a gentle hand on the small of your back for you.

His hand came to the nape of your neck, massaging the area.

“He is not so fussy,” The man pointed out, his hand sliding to your shoulder to rest there.

He bent down slightly, resting his forehead against the top of your head. “Thank you, my Lady.”

You only smiled and leaned further into your husband’s touch.

Your gaze lifted from your step-son and newborn to your twins who sat on the floor at your feet, their eyes fixated on their half-brother and baby brother.

“Some day, we shall marry others and have children of our own,” Jacaerys had said one day while you were idling around. “Promise me that it will change nothing. I can't imagine life without you, mania.”

You had sworn an oath to him. And you kept it, in a way. While he was no longer by your side, you kept his memory alive. He and the rest of your family.

Your eyes then land on Rickon, who wore a small smile, a look of adoration clear in his gray eyes. His steel gaze flicked up to you, his smile widening by a fraction.

There were no words needed in the moment. The mere presence of the people you hold dear was enough.

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back, basking in the serenity of the moment.

Jacaerys Velrayon x fem!reader

Warnings: Childhood friends/lovers to enemies to lovers trope, Canon-typical violence, canon divergence, canon-typical misogyny (mildish), mentions of character deaths, spoilers for show and book (I've sort of intertwined the two), inconsistent tense cause yeah

Series synopsis: From your earliest memory, you had wished for nothing else than to become a knight. As an attempt to guide you away from those ambitions, your father sent you to King’s Landing to serve in the King’s court. That, however, proved fruitless for your hopes only swelled more and you had befriended and caught the attention of the crowned princess’s son. After the death of your lord-father leaving your eldest brother as the head of your house, you find a few years later that he is not so eager to uphold previous oaths made as he takes the Greens’ side in the succession war between Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and her half-brother. Torn between familial loyalty, honor, and love, you are left distraught.

Okay, so I usually post about twice or so a week, but my updates might start getting slower. I have about five drafts right now and plenty of ideas, but I'm kinda vibing with this series idea, so a lot of my writing time will most likely equate to it. But I'll definitely post other things between chapter updates.

I don't really have many fics on my page to begin with, so yeah.

Chapter: Prologue -> 1 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 1,562

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You were from an ancient and prideful house, House Belamour.

The sigil was a silver snake wrapped around a rose bush on top of a steel blue backdrop, the motto “Shed the Skin, Keep the Soul.”

The seat of your house, Clagmere Castle, lay North of Seagard and closer to the coast, acting as another defensive fortress to keep Iron Island reavers at bay. It also possessed a moderate-sized navy that was quite fierce and commanded by reliable captains.

At four summers old, your father, Darrow Belamour, sent you to Princes Rhaenyra Targaryen after the passing of your mother. Of six children, you were his youngest and only daughter.

You weren't a lady-in-waiting, much too young to be a companion to the adult heiress, so you became a close confidant of her children.

You were two years older than the eldest, Jacaerys. You had assumed Lucerys or little Joffrey would've been the ones to cling to you like chicks to a hen, but where you went, you were seldom seen without Jacaerys in tow.

You did not mind too much, you greatly enjoyed the prince’s company.

Often, as the four of you grew, Jace and you would frequently share stories, he promising that once Vermax was big enough, he would take you flying over the Narrow Sea on adventures of your own.

In return, you told him about your hopes and dreams. Hopes and dreams that strayed very far from the propriety of being a lady.

You told him that the one thing that you had always dreamed about from your earliest memory was becoming a knight. Not just any knight, but a fierce one who followed the code of honor like a lifeline.

However, you did not tell him about the many nights you snuck out to the training yards, took up a practice sword, and found a quieter, more discreet place to practice hacking the false sword, imagining whatever bale of hay or stump was an opponent.

It wasn't the same as direct lessons from Ser Harwin, but you conjured enough from his teachings to Jacaerys and Lucerys that you had viewed over your time in their presence.

One night, when your tenth name day had just passed, you were deep in your hacking and twirling, and you were practically peeled from your skin with fear when a sound echoed through the night air.

A chuckle. A hearty sound laced with much amusement.

Harwin Strong himself had discovered your secret. He did not fuss at you. He did not sternly ask what you, a lady with a title to uphold, were doing, nor did he send you back to your chambers.

Instead, he peeled from the shadows, his cloak flying behind him, armor gleaming in the pale moonlight, and corrected your form along with a couple of other minor errors in your movements.

“You’ve quite the idea for someone who has only ever watched from the side,” He said after he was done correcting you.

The two of you stayed for nearly two hours that night, you listening intently for advice or his experiences in combat before he sent you back to your chambers.

You had not realized the hour, too absorbed in learning the way of swords and armor and honor.

“Never let anyone dull your blade, girl,” He had spoken before sending you off to bed.

Shortly after the death of Harwin Strong, Lady Laena succumbed to death during childbirth. While you did not know Lady Laena, her funeral had saddened you somewhat, and the drama that ensued after it brought you great stress.

Jacaerys had come to your chambers, shaken you awake, and dragged you to the Dragonpit. The events were a blur, from Aemond about to smash Jace’s head in, to Luke taking out a blade and nearly gouging the older boy’s eye out.

It was not a night you wished to ever relive.

After Princess Rhaenyra took her children along with you to reside on Dragonstone, the vacant hole in your heart grew deeper for a while.

Many nights, Ser Harwin had taught you just as he taught the boys. He knew the consequences for teaching you swords instead of redirecting you, but he did not seem to care.

And for that, you were thankful.

Just shy of Jacaerys’s eighth name day, you were called home. All the way from Dragonstone back to the coast of the Riverlands.

You remembered the younger boy’s sullen attitude crystal clear.

He had moped all in the days leading up to your departure, and on the last day, he had even kissed you when you were saying your goodbyes in private that morning.

You had berated him, telling him that such an act was both gross and reserved for married adults, but by the rosy tint in his cheeks and ears, and by the stars in his eyes, your scolding had not quite reached him.

When you boarded the ship later that morning, you watched as Princess Rhaenyra, along with the figures of the boys, faded into specks.

Jacaerys had gone as far to the edge of the dock as he possibly could, Lucerys in tow. Joffrey, stayed by his mother’s side, watching your departure with glossy eyes.

You could not, and would not, forget the sorrowful look on his face. You brought your fingers to your temple, then outstretched your hand forward toward the dock, toward Jace.

It was a gesture of farewell, one in which he clumsily copied.

At ten-and-three, three years into your return home, you challenged your father to a duel, having still upheld your lessons and training in secret. The stakes: if you won, you would continue your lessons, not in secret, but you would be taught just like any of his sworn swords.

If you lost, you would take whatever shame or consequence he was to bestow upon you with a stiff chin and never think about your silly dreams again.

It was a foolish thing to suggest, one that brought your father and his lord-friends great amusement, but he saw the hunger for combat in your eyes, the calculation of your odds lying beyond that hunger.

He was not raising a lady and he knew that. He understood the pining you held for duties beyond being a lady.

And he respected it most of all for he agreed to the duel.

You were quick. Weaving, dodging, and striking with speed and ferocity that had many spectators on the edge of their seats, shocked by your agility and adeptness.

You knew you could not beat him in strength, nor could you ever, but you could beat him with calculation that was on par with his as well as versatility and speed that for sure outmatched his own.

With your sword, you aimed for any opening: Any sliver of a gap in his armor, any hesitancy, for it all mattered.

In the end, however, your father’s experience outmatched your own by a wide margin. You knew your chances were slim, and you knew the odds were not in your favor, but despite being knocked to the mud after a miscalculation on your part, you only grinned up at him, your chest heaving, mud matted in your hair and smeared on the sides of your face.

It was not about winning. It had been about proving a point.

You kept him on his feet for the better part of nearly an hour, not allowing him to get a lick in until your mistake, which had been closing in on him just a bit too late, having allowed him a window to recover.

The yard was quiet, the only sound echoing throughout it was the whistling wind as it passed by the stands and broke around the walls of your ancient family castle.

Your father did not yell or call out in victory. He did not humiliate you. He did not make an example of you.

Instead, he held out his hand and pulled you to your feet, placing that hand on your shoulder.

“This was not about you besting me, was it daughter?” He asked with cold eyes that stared deeply into your own.

You stood firmly and shook your head, your voice confident as you confirmed his statement.

“No, it was not.”

“You knew you would lose,” He began. “You knew you would have to sheath your sword permanently.”

The crowd began murmuring making you suddenly conscious of the publicity of your stunt.

“Alas,” A grin split his lips. “I could not waste such talent.”

You had not realized you had been holding your breath, not until you nearly choked and sputtered with confusion.

“You mean it? Truly? Really?” Your hands shook, your eyes wide with shock as the words tumbled from your lips.

“Aye, so don't disappoint me, girl,” With that, he turned his back on you and began walking away, leaving you shocked but with a new sense of pride.

With your chest puffed out, your face twisted in satisfaction, you strode out of the yard knowing truly that, while you may not have bested your father in combat, you were the true winner.

Valarr Targaryen x Reader

Warnings: Not many, mostly fluff with mild angst. Mention of miacarriages. Vague descriptions of childbirth. And a small mention of Baelor, who does indeed still die (ouch), inconsistent tense

Summary: You give birth to a healthy baby girl after many failed pregnancies, and Valarr could not be more relieved and happy as you watch your daughter grow.

I was gonna go 3-for-3 with the angst in a Jace fic, but decided otherwise. This is an alternative ending (sort of?) of Time Eats All His Children in the End where Valarr and his family live and the spring sickness does NOT exist. Also, did anyone catch what I did with the crows in the previous fic heheh?

Word count: 791

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After nearly thirteen hours of labor, you held your healthy baby girl with exhaustion and pride. When the midwife had brought her back cleaned of your blood and afterbirth and placed her in your arms, you nearly wept.

You would have if you had not been so damned tired.

When you held her, her head rested against your shoulder, and you whispered her name to her for the first time:

“Baela.”

It was an honor, a tribute to your husband’s late father. And you had had the name picked out for a while after reading about the history of House Targaryen shortly after your betrothal to the prince.

Valarr, who sat by your side and also endured those long hours, had wept.

You had undergone five pregnancies. Most of the babes did not make it past the fifth month. The babe would always come too early and pass after hours of fighting. The last, a girl born with noticeable silver locks, had passed in the womb, not even able to give the slightest fight.

When you found out you were pregnant this last time, you had looked Valarr in his beautiful mismatched eyes and said:

“This is the last. I can mourn no more.”

He understood. And he agreed. He was also tired of false hope, of spending many hours praying for a healthy babe, for your health, and not to mention the sad, defeated looks you would give him after a particularly rough night.

He could take it no more. He loved you too much and the last thing he wanted was to lose you to childbirth.

But now, as tears streamed from his eyes, his arms wrapped tightly around you and your baby girl, he cried. Not out of sorrow or guilt, but out of happiness and relief.

He had a daughter now. A healthy, beautiful girl that he would cherish with his entire being.

“I love you,” He whispered. “Both of you. I swear to be the most dutiful husband and father.”

And he was.

On multiple occasions previous to your pregnancies, he had proved to be a dotting husband.

But as Baela grew, Valarr had become a fierce protector. Often than not, she would be not far from him. He was seldom seen without his daughter.

He was heir to the Iron Throne, and she was his heir.

Valarr would often encourage her to sit either at his feet or on his lap during council meetings. It was boring at first for her, but the girl began learning that what was said and done would apply to her once she came of age.

King Daeron II had grown to adore the girl.

Often, he would smile at her and tell her tales of House Targaryen’s prime when dragons flew the skies.

And when the Good King died, many mourned. Baela was a girl of nine at that point.

After this and when Valarr was crowned king, Baela would sit at the foot of the Iron Throne. Sometimes even right at her father’s feet without a care for the sharp blades all around her.

At ten, she began as a cupbearer for her father and his council, who all had grown fond of the girl throughout the years.

One night, you sat with your back against the pillows on your bed, and Valarr sat on the side of the bed, his feet planted to the ground and his body leaning over his knees.

“What is it, my love?” You asked, your voice soft as you crawled over to him, wrapping an arm around his neck, your hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

He hesitated, a sigh leaving his mouth. Then he spoke:

“She is growing,” The words were so quiet, they barely reached your ears.

You hummed in agreement. “She is.”

“It does not worry you?” His head leaned against your shoulder, his hand coming to rest on yours.

“Every day,” You spoke, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “But she has her father’s resilience. His bravery. And his charm. She will do just fine.”

He seems to ponder your words before slowly nodding in agreement.

“She has her mother’s wit and kindness.” He added softly after a moment.

A smile graced your lips, and you gave him a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while, basking in each other other’s warmth.

Fate was an often cruel thing, but it always rewarded its most hardy.

For you and your husband, it was a violet-eyed girl with a soft tongue and sharp mind who would grow to be a brilliant and wise queen.

Valarr Targaryen x fem!Reader

Warnings: very heavy angst, spoilers for the book, character deaths, miscarriage, blood, descriptive childbirth, spouse loss, child loss, just heavy angst overall.

Summary: In which your husband succumbs to the Great Spring Sickness, leaving you and your unborn child. Unfortunately, the gods decide that you and your babe shall follow soon after

Yes, I used the Game of Thrones intro song in this. Yes, I'm 2-for-2 on angst fics now. Will the next one be angst, too? Who knows.

Word count: 1,095

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Valarr lay on your shared bed, his breath ragged and his skin slick with sweat. You could not be any nearer, though you wish you could. Each anguished breath that left his mouth, each shaky rise and fall of his chest, pained you.

The sickness had shrouded itself over King’s Landing and plagued the people within. Most died within a few days, but Valarr fought. He had been in this condition for nearly half a month.

The child in your stomach kicked softly, as if sensing your pain. Your hand instinctively covered the area.

This babe would be the only one not stillborn.

You remember the fond looks, shy of pride and relief, when Valarr’s eyes landed on your stomach, on the babe that grew in your womb.

“Through trial and error, we eventually flourish,” He had said just a moon ago, his head resting in your lap, his right hand rubbing your stomach carefully, though firmly in a manner to get the babe to kick.

You had hoped and prayed to the gods to show him mercy, to let his strength shine through, and allow him to recover, but you knew that the gods were not so kind in these times.

In nearly two moons' time, your baby would be born, but Valarr would not be there to witness it. The thought filled your heart with a deep sorrow.

“Y-…Y/n…” He called weakly, trying to reach for you. His hand was shaky, his skin a pale bloodless shade.

Your hand covered your mouth, trying to keep the sobs from escaping. It took everything in you not to run forth and wrap your arms tightly around him.

But when you gazed into those dull mismatched eyes, something in you snapped and tears began trickling from your eyes, down your cheeks, and fell to the ground.

You could stay no longer, you could not contain yourself any longer without rushing toward him and burrowing into his side, begging him to fight more, not to leave you and your unborn child.

With a heavy heart, you turned to the door, each step felt like there were heavy chains bolted in your skin, chains that were linked to your husband who lay nearly lifeless on your once shared bed.

Your breath shuddered as you reached the door and began opening it. Your gaze landed on Valarr once more, his eyes were barely open, gazing at you.

He panted hard, his breath coming out as more of a wheeze than anything.

With a clenched jaw and a last shuddering cry, you slipped through the door and began your retreat to your new chambers, which felt lonely and suffocating without the presence of your lover.

Your eyes stayed glued to the ceiling, your body too weak to move. Every push felt like you were shifting the world itself on your own. All around you were midwives and maesters alike, all fussing over the babe that was a moon and a half early.

Shortly after your husband’s death, you had begun spiraling into a deep abyss.

A grunt turned that into a cry left your lips followed by a chorus of panting and groaning. Your gaze traveled down your body, over the bloody pale fabric around your body, and the ruined sheets underneath you.

Sweat hugged your skin all over, beads of it sledding from your skin onto the sheets below.

The pain came in the form of waves of sharp needles, stabbing at your lower body and rendering you breathless.

Your eyes squeeze shut, another pained yell rising in your throat. Instead of a yell, a ragged gasp filled the room. You were tired. Sweaty. Bloody. In pain. There was little to no comfort.

You wanted it to be over.

And it would be.

“The head..!”

“Look!”

“Push, my lady!”

Their words were not useful. Not like they could be heard. Your ears rang like someone had covered your head with a metal bucket and slammed a mace into it.

Your body warmed considerably, and a different sound filled your ears.

Not the cries of a babe.

Not the shouting of the maesters and midwives, or even your own sounds.

But a soft humming, a familiar one. Your eyes relaxed, your breath evened out as a memory flushed everything out.

The fire crackled softly, painting the room with a warm atmosphere.

You sat in a chair across from it, your hand on your swollen belly, eyes lolling between sleep and staying awake.

Valarr was late, entertaining his position as the heir’s son to the King’s council. When alone, you mostly lounged, pregnancy keeping you bound to slower activities.

You tilted your head as the sound of your chamber doors opening revealed the tired eyes of your husband. They practically lit up when they landed on you.

“Wife,” He said softly, waltzing over. “You should be asleep.”

You smiled softly, a chuckle bubbling in your throat as he sat on his knees, his right hand pressing itself on top of your folded ones.

“I could not sleep.” You moved your hands, but as you did so, he grabbed one and released a flurry of kisses from your palm to your wrist.

A soft laugh left your lips your gaze met his mismatched one.

“What has gotten into you?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I missed my wife and I am showing her so. Or shall I not?” His voice was low as his chin came to rest on your knee.

“You spoil me.” You said softly, your fingers threading themselves in his hair.

He hummed, his hand squeezing yours before letting go to rest on your stomach. After a few seconds, he began humming a soft tune, High Valyrian words leaving his mouth

“Hae elēni ā iepagon,” You closed your eyes as he sang.

“Tcheret gere vēja pelethoss,”

“Tchaime leda kivio yn tegon,”

His hand rubbed your lower belly tenderly as he watched your eyes close and your breath even out.

“Tchere lā mili bano,”

The distant cry of a crow outside your chamber windows drew you from the half-dream, half-memory.

Your heart had stopped its thunderous beating, and each breath you took was deep and soft. Your eyes found the figure of a midwife who bore a sullen look.

“Stop the bleeding or she will follow!” A maester barked.

You closed your eyes once again, fatigue beginning to fog your brain. Your breath began to completely even out, your pants becoming shallow.

Daeron “the Daring” Targaryen x fem!Reader

Summary: Fate is an often cruel thing, but it is even more so when it pits lovers against lovers and has one pass in the other’s arms.

Warnings: Heavy angst, character/reader death, blood, animal death, violence

Word count: 768

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A guttural scream had filled your ears, a scream that was your own. You had never released such a sound. The pain that coursed through your body and shook your core was unbearable.

Your body fell from the saddle, further damaging it. The fall, however, compared very little to the six-foot bolt lodged in your shoulder. The barbed point had gnarled its way through your shoulder, leaving the wound more messy and bloodied.

Your dragon, beautiful, sweet, patient Moonfyre, moved her head, her eyes so much like molten gold, found yours. She had hatched from the same clutch as Dreamfyre and was similar in appearance, only a midnight hue with an underbelly and wings that gleamed with a golden sheen.

You lie there, your head tilted toward her as your vision becomes further blurred. Her breathing deepened, her eyes lidded just as yours were.

“M-… Moon…fyre…” You sputtered, blood spewing from your lips. The dragon released a soft noise, a whine.

Up above, a cobalt blue blur circled, a figure hanging over, peering down.

You had not anticipated an ambush. You had not anticipated being shot from the sky, not after talking to your former betrothed and lover.

Your gaze weakly passed over what was visible of Moonyfyre’s body. Three bolts in total. Or, three that you could see. On the neck, her torso, and one through her wing, pinning it to her body.

Slowly, you looked back up, but Tessarion was gone.

Soon, you heard the hurried noise of footsteps and Moonfyre’s weak, protective hiss.

A blurry figure blocked the sun from your view. A figure that, despite your ceasing breath, you could and would always recognize.

“Please… gods. Please, Y/n,” His voice pleaded, hands lifting your head and placing it in his lap.

He wiped the blood from your lips in an earnest, desperate way.

“Don't leave me. I swear, I will fly us to Rhaenrya. I will drop to my knees and beg her for forgiveness and take whatever punishment she is to give. I will swear my fealty. I will beg for us to be betrothed again. I will be the husband you deserve. Just please, don't leave me.”

But his pleas were lost on your ears as your body went completely limp, as the warmth slowly left your body.

Y/n Velaryon, or “Fireheart” as many would deem her for her ferocity and courage, did not return to the sea as her elder twin Jacaerys had while defending their little brother. Or when sweet Lucerys had been confronted off the coast of Storm’s End by Prince Aemond “One-Eye” Targaryen and Vhagar. She died far from her mother and remaining brothers, violently without a second thought from the ones who shot her from the sky.

But she did rest with her dragon and passed in the arms of her lover.

Daeron “the Daring” Targaryen loved as he fought, fiercely and unyieldingly. As he held his lover’s body close, mindful and with scorn of the bolt lodged in her body, he wept.

Anger, sorrow, and guilt had been released as he held her in her final moments.

Anger toward his own men for shooting her down.

Sorrow for his lost love.

And guilt for choosing a side that had sent him away instead of loving him at a nearer distance.

I shall fly to Oldtown and we will be united once more.

She had written to him many times putting forth the idea to reside in Oldtown with him, or even run away with nothing but each other. He had answered each time, softly shutting down the girl’s crazy ideas that could get them in heaps of trouble.

Now, he wished he had gone through with her crazy plans. Perhaps they could have already been settled in Tyrosh, Pentos, Braavos, or even further, deeper inland of Essos.

But it was not to be as he held her cooling body.

For many nights until he met his own end, he would dream of an alternative life. One where the two were married and had little ones with eyes, patience, and respect like him, and hair, boldness, and wittiness like her.

Another where the two explored, going from continent to continent upon the backs of their dragons, their laughter slicing through the wind.

But Daeron was no dragon dreamer. There was no prophecy to the dreams he dreamt. Only cold bitterness followed when he woke up in the early hours of dawn.