#asoaif

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One beat. 

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

Two beats.

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

Three beats.

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

Four beats.

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

Five beats.

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

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

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

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

—————————

You wanted to vomit. Truly, you did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so you thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so you thought. 

—————————

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

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

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

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

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

And then it hit you. It was Baelor Targaryen. 

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

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

Daeron Targaryen in all his glory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————

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

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

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

Oh. Of course. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enough, nephew." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right after the joust, Lyonel made quick work of getting you back to the pavilion, his cock hard under all his armor. Being in front of everyone, soaking in their praises, and knocking off noble men from their horses made his blood run. It made him hungry for flesh, and yours was his favorite to feast on and bury himself in.

It had been a messy fucking. He’d slobbered all over your cunt until the sheets were properly ruined before filling your womb, declaring loudly that he intended for you to be with child before returning to Storm’s End. In the act of making his heir, Lyonel had tried to get himself as close as possible to you, while also trying to be as deep in you as possible—folding you nearly in half in the process.

After hours of being manhandled and fucked this way and that, you realized your husband had no intention of stopping. When you weakly cried out for a moment's reprieve, he granted you that small mercy with a chuckle and a kiss. No sooner had he withdrawn from you, you promptly succumbed to your exhaustion.

As you pull back the sheets, you notice the dried mess of his cum on the inside of your thighs and blush. Your husband has truly made a mess of you, and you have no doubt he’ll get pleasure out of seeing you marked.

There’s another splash and you look up. On the far side of the tent, behind a wooden privacy screen with black stags painted on it, you catch a glimpse of his black hair and elbow. He’s in the tub, a wooden one that’s too small to fit his large body.

“Lyonel, my love,” you call as you stand.

You’re nude, so you’re quick to grab your robe that’s been tossed onto a chair. At the sound of his name, Lyonel leans back to peer around the privacy screen at you. There’s a wide grin on his face as he watches you tie the robe, and his eyes are shameless as they sweep down to your cunt that’s peeking out between the parting of the fabric.

Rubbing your eyes, you approach. “How long was I asleep for?”

“The entire night, and most the morning,” He says as he tosses water onto his back. “No doubt you slept well, hm?”

Instead of answering, you take a cloth sitting on the edge of the tub and dip it into the water. When it’s properly soaked, you sit on the stool a pace away and begin to wipe between your thighs.

Lyonel leans back, watching. “A pretty sight.”

“A blessing it belongs to no other man than you, then,” you reply with a coy grin.

You enjoy his attention; it makes you feel desired and truly his lady. When you feel that you are clean enough, you lay the rag back on the rim of the tub.

“I am sore,” you whine, getting up to fetch a cup of wine.

“As am I,” Lyonel grunts as he adjusts himself to sit up. “That Ashford boy is a promising knight.”

“Which one was he?” You ask into your drink, slinking back to the stool.

“The one who broke ten lances with me before we toppled off our horses.” Lyonel reaches over to take the goblet from your hands. He takes a swig before holding it back out for you. “I am hopeful that the joust later today proves fruitful—that I might be challenged by those Targaryen boys. I am eager to humble a Prince.”

You groan loudly as you set down the cup. “Pray, husband, if you are to fight a prince, find a whore to lie with after. You near broke me last night. I cannot bear it again.”

Lyonel laughs, the sound booming in the tent and is no doubt heard outside. He grabs your hand and kisses it, his beard tickling your skin. “No, my lady. I will come to your bed! I will sleep or fuck, whatever you desire. I am here to please you.”

If he were any other man, he would have taken the pleasure at your jest to bed another. This was Lyonel, though. He sought true, unyielding loyalty. He was a man who would die in battle for another, and would hoped the other would do the same for him. You would, you had told him as much before, but he insists that he is more than content to have you out of armor and by his side, instead.

“Very well,” you lean over to kiss his lips. When you pull away you pluck a fresh rag from a table nearby and begin to make work of cleaning his face. “Why are you bathing if you’re only going out to sweat again?”

“I did not take one last night, and I smelled foul this morning,” he leans forward and takes a sniff of the air in front of you. “Yes, I think you need a bath, too, my lady.”

Before you can form a reply, Lyonel is moving his hand in and out of the water like he’s patting a spot on the bed. “Come now. Get in. There’s plenty of room for two.”

“Lyonel,” you say with a breathless laugh. “You hardly fit in this tub.”

“I fit perfectly well,” he says, refusing to acknowledge that he has to bend his knees so much just to be able to sit in it. “You will, too. Come now, wife.”

You stand begrudgingly, but there is a smile on your face. He plucks the tie of your robe like a harp and it unravels, falling open to expose your naked body. Shrugging the fabric off your shoulders, you let it pool to the floor before carefully stepping in.

Lyonel directs you to sit between his thighs, and it is a tight fit. His body is pressing into yours, but your husband seems to care very little. He’s making work of kissing your neck as he arms settle around your middle.

Th water is lukewarm, but Lyonel is warm enough that you hardly notice. With a sigh, you splash water on your face before reaching for the soap. Lyonel grabs it first, rubbing it into the cloth until it’s nice and frothy before reaching for your leg. He lifts it up, a whimper leaves your lips as the stretch burns, and he rubs the cloth along your skin. When he’s satisfied, he moves onto the other.

“I feel as though I’ve been bent every way imaginable now,” you declare when your legs drops into the water with a splash.

Lyonel’s rubbing the rag under your chin, all around your neck, then down over your breasts. He pinches your nipple playfully, and you’re still so tender from the night before that it hurts more than it pleases.

“Gods be good, leave me be, my love,” you cry, head dropping back onto his shoulder. You are spent, and cannot bring yourself to fuck even if his touch leaves you breathless.

“Apologies, my lady,” he says as he kisses your shoulder. He shoves his nose in the nape of your neck and sniffs. “Ah, you smell much better. Less like a whorehouse now.”

You scoff and turn to look back at him. “And whose fault was it that I smelled as such?”

Lyonel looks pleased with himself. “Fortunately, it’s entirely mine.”

You cup water into your hand and splash it into his face in hopes it might bring some decency back to him. Knowing your husband, it is a moot action. He merely smiles and wipes the water from his face.

“Slept on the wrong side of the bed, did you?” He quips, a laugh following.

You have half a mind to slap him for the mere sin of irritating you. Instead, you brood in silence, refusing to speak even when he comments on how well you took him the night before. His hands rub your thighs under the water, massaging lightly as though to take the pain away. He’s still talking, sensing your annoyance and eager to see how far he can shove until you break your silence.

“I shall tell Ser Manfred that he should get a wife like you. He’ll have no need for—“

“Don’t bring up that damned bastard Dondarrion,” you snap, turning to look up at him. “Of all the Lords you are to be friends with, Lyonel, you pick the biggest cunt of them all. No accounting for taste, I suppose.”

Lyonel cocks an eyebrow, a little surprised that your point of breaking was Lord Dondarrion. “My lady, I am beginning to think you dislike him.”

You thin your lips and stand, water cascading down your body and onto your husband. “You tease me too much, husband. I am done with this conversation.”

Lyonel grabs your hand before you can move to get out. “Come now. Sit, my love. I will tease you no more.”

“Promise,” you demand, leaning toward him. In truth, despite your agitation, you quite enjoyed being held by him and are scarcely eager to part.

“I swear on the new gods and the old,” he declares, kissing your fingers.

Slowly, you sink back down into the spot between his thighs, pressing your back to his chest once more. You feel safe there, just as you would in walls of Storm’s End, and loved.

“Lyonel,” you say softly. He hums. “You are gravely annoying from time to time, but I love you.”

Unhurried. Heavy. Familiar already.

“You make an impression,” Lord Stark said.

You did not startle. Instead, you slowed just enough that he fell into step beside you, his shadow long against the torchlit wall. But you watched them walk in turn with each other, your silhouette matching his in your fur cloaks, his tall stature towering above you. What a pair you made.

“I’m told that is expected of me,” you replied lightly. “Princesses, dragons, all that.”

He glanced sideways at you, expression unreadable. “Not that kind.”

You arched a brow. “Do tell.”

“They’ll talk about it,” he said. “The children. The men. You let them near her. You trusted them.” A pause. “You trusted us.”

You stopped walking.

Cregan halted as well, turning fully toward you now. Up close, the lines of him were sharper and weathered in a way no southern lord ever was, as if the cold had carved him deliberately. A stone statue within an ancient stone fortress, a lineage longer than Old Valyria.

“Trust isn’t given lightly here,” he continued. “But it isn’t forgotten.”

“Nor is fear,” you said quietly. “I chose which one I wished them to remember.”

Something shifted then. His eyes were not straight ahead where you both walked, but at you, really and truly looking at you. What was he seeing? His expression was warmer, perhaps, than before. The expression he reserved for his people, not the cold scrutiny reserved for a southern invader and her dragon.  

“The North remembers kindness,” he said at last. “But it remembers danger longer.”

A faint smile touched your mouth. “Then it is fortunate I am both.”

That earned you a low huff of breath, not quite laughter, but close enough to count. Your smile grew. He found himself marvelling at your free use of smiles. Surely men would pay to see them.

He gestured ahead. “You’ll dine with us tonight. No court. No ceremony.”

You studied him for a moment. “Is that an invitation or a test?”

“Up here,” Cregan said, already turning away, “they’re sometimes the same thing.”

You followed.

~

You dined without song or spectacle.

The hall was quieter than you expected—voices low, laughter brief and earned. Cregan sat at the high table but not apart from his men; they spoke to him easily, challenged him, disagreed without fear. You found yourself watching more than eating, noting the way he listened, how decisions seemed to form without announcement. The North ruled itself differently.

When the meal ended, it was not wine that lingered but purpose.

“The Wall,” Cregan said as you rose. “At first light.”

You blinked. “That’s… quite far.”

“For southerners,” he replied evenly. “I’d rather you saw it than heard stories.”

You studied him. “You’re not escorting me for comfort.”

“No,” he said. “I’m taking you because if war comes—and it will—you should understand what the North guards.”

Talk of war settled between you like frost.

You nodded once. “Then I will gladly ride.”

~

The road north was growing ever white and endless.

Thick snow started to swallow any sound, muffling the world into something vast and lonely. But there was a vague sense of unbridled freedom you knew you’d never truly feel. You rode wrapped in furs atop a strong northern mare, Seraph a pale shadow in the sky above because when she chose to follow, she insisted on coming. She was close enough that you felt her presence like a tether.

She had always been your tether; the one that got you scolded when you sought after her in the dragon pit all alone and curled up against her wings when Aegon had made an uncomfortable comment, or Aemond… or when Aemond had stolen you away somewhere dark in the palace and ripped out a chunk of your hair. 

He had wrapped it around his ring finger. You could not quite remember what vitriol he had whispered in your ear, something about marriage. He’d never forgiven you for siding with Lucerys. But whilst you had grieved for the loss of his eye, you couldn’t have betrayed your family, nothing could stand between you and them.

Seraph was your sole comfort in times when you needed your mother and she was focussed elsewhere. Sometimes you could swear the dragon regarded you as her little hatchling.

Cregan rode ahead with a handful of men. They spoke little. When they did, it was practical; weather, distance, rations. No gossip. No speculation.

It was hours before the Wall emerged.

At first, it looked like a great cloud. Then stone. Then ice so immense your breath caught painfully in your chest. It rose from the earth, impossibly tall, its surface shimmering faintly in the thin northern light. An imposition of death and beauty. What had they come across to build such a thing…

“So this is it,” you murmured.

Cregan dismounted beside you. “This is where the world ends for most men.”

A horn sounded in the distance. Black-clad figures moved along the top of the Wall, small as ants against its vastness. You felt acutely small. An unusual feeling for a girl that had spent most of her life looking down at the tiny people her dragon soared above.

The Wall did not feel real until you stood directly beneath it.

Up close, it was not merely ice but layers upon layers of history frozen into place. Centuries of cold. You reached out before thinking, gloved fingers brushing its surface. It burned. Not with heat, but with a biting, living cold that crept through leather and wool alike.

A wooden platform waited near the base, ropes thick as a man’s arm threaded through iron pulleys overhead. The lift creaked softly in the wind, swaying just enough to remind you how far it would carry you.

One of the Night’s Watch shifted beside it, eyeing you with open uncertainty. “You needn’t ride up, my lady. Most lords don’t stomach it.”

“I’m not most lords,” you replied, stepping onto the platform without hesitation. “I’m a dragonrider.”

The ancient boards groaned under your weight. Cold iron pressed against your glove as you caught the railing. The Watchman hesitated, then nodded and gave the signal.

The lift lurched.

Your stomach dropped as the ground fell away, the Wall rising higher and higher around you. Wind tore at your cloak, snapping it like a banner. The ropes strained and sang, the platform swaying just enough to remind you there would be no soft landing if it failed.

You did not scream. You did not close your eyes.

Instead, you laughed a short, breathless, exhilarated laugh. And maybe Cregan had baulked at the sound of unrestrained joy and awe. Perhaps if he could bottle up this laugh he could drink it to feel it himself. Experience its beauty in his own skin.

When the lift finally ground to a halt and the gate above opened, the world unfolded.

Endless white stretched northward, broken only by dark forests and distant, jagged hills. No roads. No keeps. Just wilderness. Untamed. Unforgiving. Freedom.

“It felt like flying,” you said softly, eyes bright despite the cold. “But without wings.”

Several of the men exchanged looks. One of them huffed out a laugh despite himself.

“Aye, Princess,” another muttered. “That it does.” You gave him a bright-eyed smile and just missed the red spreading across his cheeks. (“It’s the weather you cheeky tosspots,” as the men nudged and goaded him.)

You walked the length of the Wall slowly, boots crunching over frost, glancing down into the abyss on either side without fear. The men watched you closely at first probably expecting hesitation, perhaps, or revulsion. But they would find none. You leaned over the edge, eyes sharp, curiosity alight rather than horror.

“How thick is it?” you asked. “How long did it take to build?” “Do the ravens fly north in winter, or only south?”

You listened when they answered. Truly listened. And when they spoke of storms that froze men solid, of nights when the silence pressed so heavy it rang in the ears, you did not flinch.

“Most who come here look south,” a grey-bearded man said after a time. “You keep looking north.”

“There’s nothing for me south that I haven’t already seen,” you replied quietly.

The wind howled, carrying your words away.

Cregan stood a short distance off, arms folded against the cold, watching the way the men had begun to speak to you not as a princess, but as something rarer; a witness. A believer of something far greater than they. Afterall, why would they be standing atop this wall?

A horn sounded below.

Sharp. Urgent.

A rider was approaching the gate from the southern side.

You turned as the man had quickly emerged onto the Wall, still catching his breath as the makeshift pulley came to a halt, face drawn tight beneath frost and exhaustion. Black cloak. Southern dust still clinging to his boots.

He froze when he saw you.

“My—” He swallowed. “My Princess.”

Cregan stepped forward. “What news?”

The man hesitated.

Your stomach tightened.

You felt it before the words came, a subtle shift in the air, as if the Wall itself was holding its breath.

“Speak,” Cregan said, voice hard and commanding. He disliked the fearful stare aimed at you.

The man’s eyes blinked at your unwavering ones.

“It’s from King’s Landing,” he said hoarsely. “From the court.”

You waited.

And somewhere far above, Seraph cried out, agonising and sorrowful in the grey sky. And you had cried out, just like her, when the words came out:

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon is slain by Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

...

poor bub ☹️

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE!! i hope i havent missed anyone from the taglist. sorry for later update, i now have a j*b...