#atotsk

the view of the sun from your room in the red keep was quite different to how it looked from your childhood bedroom in kings landing. since you were a child, you had held a keen love and admiration for the skies and sun, especially when you rode on your dragon nyraxes alongside jace and his vermax.

you regularly asked aerion to join the two of you with his brightflame, yet he would always scoff and deny your request.

aerion poked his cheek with his tongue, creating a slight bulge of the cheek before laughing, "i am in no mood to watch you fly low to the ground, far too scared to reach the heights i do. poor sister, are you always so scared?"

a large exhale escaped jacaerys's lips, "she was simply asking, brother, must you always jest?" your brown-headed brother rested his hand on the small of your back, a silent reminder he was there to help. aerion simply shrugged and popped another grape into his mouth, busying himself with breaking his fast.

however, when you withdrew your regular invites, aerion took it upon himself to terrorise you. a yank of your hair, kick to the leg as you walked past him, a slick smirk gracing his face, daring you to fight back. you did not, jacaerys did. it was not uncommon for lucerys to burst into your chambers with the news of the two scrapping in the training grounds.

when you arrived, the scene was already crowded with aegon antagonising, aemond with his hands clasped behind his arms, helaena covering her ears and daeron simply observing.

the red keep was used to the chaos of having multiple prince and princesses within its walls. perhaps it was an unwise choice, but the liveliness was preferred by many, the voices of children, their laughter and yells through the halls being a familiar sound.

until it faded.

the passing of laena velaryon drew many nobles to the shores of dragonstone, sadly for sombre reasons. yet for your uncle aemond, it brought him to claim what had been missing from his side for far too long. unlike your siblings, and even aemond's own, you liked him. he was a quiet companion, the two of you thoroughly enjoyed reading together when you had the chance.

he trusted you with the secrets he would not dare share with aegon, or helaena, daeron, not even his mother, alicent. this bond you shared was the sole reason he decided on bringing you with him on his mission.

to claim vhagar.

when you had arrived he had been antsy, borderline upset. "what took you so long? you frightened me, i thought something had happened." you'd shaken your head and assured him you were fine, it had just taken longer than expected to escape aerion's hefty frame after he had insisted on being in your bed. much to jace's dismay.

the night had ended for aemond with gain, loss and a shift within himself.

the next few months had been a whirlwind with the passing of your father laenor, your mother's marriage to your great uncle, now father. you missed the red keep, helaena, and aemond. but on dragonstone, it was easier to breathe. not being constantly perceived by judgemental nobles, having to be proper all the time, and the privacy dragonstone offered was hard to not love.

and as your younger and older brothers matured, so did you.

your hair grew longer, body grew as well. especially in certain areas aerion never hesitated to touch or speak about, all in good fun of course.

"you are blood of the dragon, sister, and so am i. if anyone is ever allowed to touch you like this, it is me." his hands would linger where possible, accompanied by whispered threats and promises.

you would never admit the fuzzy feelings from his warm breath by your ear.

and where aerion was bold and unfazed by his directness, jacaerys was subtle and sweet.

"i found it by the shore, it reminded me of you, your hair, silver." your heart swelled with love as jacaerys placed a small, intricate seashell in the palm of your hand, you tossed it up into the air, noting its feather-like weight. "it is quite beautiful, i am flattered you thought of me brother, thank you." jacaerys's breath wavered at the sensation of soft lips pressing firmly at the corner of his mouth. turning his head ever so slightly, he asked, "may i?" a cold, shaking hand tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. the question lingered in the air, his quiet voice settling in your ears.

for once, you took action and brought his face closer to answer his question, the absence of words was replaced with the pleading in your face and eyes. imploring him to meet you halfway, which he did.

it was the first time of many.

soon enough, you and jacaerys snuck around dragonstone, hopelessly in love and wishing to never leave the others side. aerion had his suspicions, which he craved to prove true. he knew of his mother's willful blindness to your dazed appearances when emerging from the beach after 'reading' together, rhaenyra never expected you to have been like she was at your age.

he only needed to catch you in the act.

present day, the sun was high in the sky as you read to joffrey, aegon, and viserys. "are you paying attention? lest i tell mother you are preoccupied with pulling at the hem of your clothes, joffrey." the boy's hands withdrew instantly from pulling at the loose thread he had discovered.

"i am, i swear to you, sister!" joffrey's eyes fluttered to close as he anticipated your usual kiss to the crown of his head. "good, education is what makes you intelligent like your older brothers." against the floor sounded aerion's recognisable clacking footwear, "especially as intelligent as your oldest brother." it escaped your lips before you could stop it, the snicker at his words, to which he rose an eyebrow.

rising from the floor and dusting off your bottom, you kissed aegon and viserys's foreheads before turning to aerion, "you never come around for their lessons, why the change of heart?" everyone knew aerion was nowhere near an engaged and supportive brother like his twin.

he simply shrugged his shoulders as his fingers traced the large wooden table of westeros. it was not lit at the current moment, since it was not needed. aerion's eyes traversed your smaller frame, from your face to your chest and hips. "quite a shame little sister, a gorgeous body like yours not being used properly." you thwacked his arm out of anger, "do not speak in such a crude manner in front of your younger brothers, have some respect." your eyes bore into his, the fire he loved to bring out of you was rising.

"then perhaps we may take this to my chambers dear sister?" his thumb pressed against your bottom lip only for a second since you took a step away from him. "you speak to me as if i am a," the hesitance you retained made him lick his lips, "a what?" he goaded you into continuing.

"whore," you whispered in reply, wary of your younger brothers overhearing your conversation. "watch over them, i cannot stand to be around you at times." aerion leaned back against the wooden table, relaxed as ever, "we do not have to stand, i am more than happy to lie you down, untie everything for you, unless you prefer to ride,"

"aerion!"

the rest of the day was spent by jacaerys's side as you raved about the sheer disrespect you received every day from his twin. you laid by his side in bed, late at night and exhausted from prior activities. your hands were pulling at his bedsheets unconsciously, "in front of our younger brothers. how foul must one be to say such unseemly things around children?" finally meeting his eyes, you sought out his answer.

jacaerys simply stared down at your appearance. blooming bruises upon your shoulder and collarbones pleased him extensively, talking about his twin brother whilst you were in his bed did not. "my love, please let us speak of other matters." the coldness swiftly settled into his side as you sat up irritated by his lack of support, "brother please, do you not find his manners to be lacking?" a hefty exhaled left his chest.

he lazily brushed his curls out with the hand not on your hip. "it is unseemly, yes. but there is nothing we can do right now. let us enjoy ourselves."

"the two of you do seem to be quite content," aerion stood by the wall, the darkness of the secret passageway to his side led into jacaerys's room and cast a shadow on the left side of his face. flickering candlelight illuminated his right side, contrasting with the black originating from the passageway.

your hands reached for the sheets to maintain a semblance of modesty in the moment. jacaerys shifted from your side to reach for his pants and slide them on before standing, "brother," his jaw was clenched in irritation at his presence.

aerion stepped away from the wall, approaching his younger siblings, "my little brother and sister, how do you think mother would react if i-," the silver-haired targaryen grunted in pain as his back collided with the harsh, solid wall.

"you would not fucking dare," jacaerys pressed his forearm into his elder brother's neck, applying more pressure with every passing second. targaryen blood was no stranger to irritability, even at the smallest jest or slight. aerion and jacaerys shared the trait of being quick to rage.

aerion's head tilted back to rest against the wall, "c-careful little brother," the sentence was strained as he fought for air. "do not call me little brother, it's a minutes difference. and you will not tell anyone."

the pair had been entirely focused on one another, providing you a moment to pull on jacaerys's white linen shirt that fell to your knees. "both of you, stop acting foolish. someone will hear us." you tugged jacaerys towards you, effectively dragging him away from your brother.

it was far too easy for aerion to get the better of jacaerys, you needed to get a handle of them before the guards heard anything. "aerion, do not antagonise him. and jacaerys," your hand rested on his chest, "calm yourself, you are a prince, not some lowborn drunken fool."

aerion's hands snaked to grasp your hips through the shirt you wore, "and does he fuck you like a prince or as a silly little boy? i would help you feel like a woman," to his surprise, you shook him off of you. “you claim to both be men but are both petulant in nature. gods it makes me yearn for aemond.” he was rarely childish, but then again, it had been a while since you’d seen him.

both of them glanced to your in bewilderment and jealousy, aerion laughed at the comparison, “you’re bringing up that one eyed-,” you threw one of jacearys’s pillows before he could finish his insult, “do not!” you warned your brother.

his laughter waned as he swiftly picked you up and threw you down on the bed, “i was patient sister, when i suspected the two of you to be together, and even know when i caught you. but comparing that pathetic excuse of a targaryen to me? to your brothers?” instead of staring up at aerion’s wild face, you moved your head to see jacaerys.

his face held contempt.

aemond was nothing to him. you were his. his family, his little sister. how dare you?

“i think the both of us might finally agree on the same subject,” jace’s voice was low, venomous.

Dunk - 5/10

The wandering hedge-knight didn't have much in this world, you were by far the most important thing in his life. Watching a Lordling flirt with you, promising you what Dunk knows he cannot give, had him feeling nervous and guilty. He wasn't a jealous man by nature, he was protective but not possessive - Dunk trusted in your love for him.

Though, this time he questions whether he has robbed you of a better life, he desires desperately to show you what he can give you. Dunk is far more affectionate than usual, never letting you out of his arms or his sight. He has you as often as he can get away with it, gently but full of passion, having you ride him and revelling in the moans his length drew out of you. He'd like to give that Lordling a clout about the ear, but he knows that it's not worth the beating.

When you ask him, Duncan looks down at you with those big blue eyes, panicking as though he'd committed a grievous sin. 'I wish I could give you what he could, a comfy bed and a full belly each night, it's what you deserve.' Holding Dunk and reassuring him that he's all you want is more than enough to relieve him of his jealousy. He'll be prideful in that innocent and adorable way that only Dunk could be. Flaunting you, talking about you, giving just enough sass for that little Lordling to know that you're exactly where you want to be.

Lyonel - 7.5/10

It's not that Lyonel wasn't jealous, his characteristic smirk had faded into his characteristic smile whilst he watched you. 'Look at them all, they know what I've got' The knights seated next to him were nodding along, until they saw the look in his eyes. Lords were buzzing around you as you danced in his tent, ogling how your frame moved, trying to get in close to you.

It's just that Lyonel is entirely confident in his ability to satisfy you, romantically, sexually, however you wished. He was jealous of those occupying the physical space close to you, but that could be rectified. You could see him staring, you knew what would be coming next. How he'd stride over to you, pressing his body close to you, dancing in a way that would make others uncomfortable

Should you question his very, very obvious jealousy, Lyonel will profusely deny that anything has affected him. But, he'll take you in a way that betrays his emotion. He'll fuck you whilst the party rages on in the other room of the tent, Lyonel will bend you over the table to make sure that you can be heard. The clattering of the furniture, the slapping of you two together, and the harmony of your moans will let everyone know who's allowed to get that close to you.

Baelor - 5.5/10

Baelor knew that his life was a demanding one, he often didn't get to give you the time or attention that you deserved. It was your kindness that got him, the way you'd kiss him and say that you understood. Now, now you had been sat in conversation with the same man for nearly an hour. At a feast, he was kept in his conversation by politics, doomed to watch you laugh and joke with someone else. Baelor felt incredibly jealous, he yearned for your body of course, but it was your prescence, your company that he was pining for.

It hit breaking point, he excused himself, barely keeping his rational demeanour together as he excused you. On the walk to your chambers you ask him if you've wronged him, he admits to you that 'you have not my love, but I have wronged myself. On asking if he was jealous, Baelor hid nothing from you 'yes, yes I am jealous'.

Baelor spoke to you in a tone so gentle it was reserved only for you 'I would like to make love to you, and then I would like you to tell me about your day, all of it.' Baelor's jealousy was always expressed through his passion, he meant to show you just how much time and care he had for you, he needed to show that he could provide this for you. Baelor took a long time for your love making, hours of slow pleasure just for you - drawing out orgasm after orgasm. He was between your legs, feasting like a prince, before his fingers descended onto your clit again and again. Your talk of the day would last into the early hours of the morning.

Valarr - 7/10

He struggled to admit it, Valarr was beside himself with jealousy. The first tourney where you were here to watch him, as his wife, and he'd failed to achieve his goal. A knight had rode up to you, declaring you as the beauty of the tournament, asking to fight for your honour, and all he could do was watch it happen. Watch as you graciously accepted, he knew you couldn't refuse, watch as you took the wreath that was not in his colours, watch as you placed it upon your head as your pretty hair flowed around it.

He was less gentle that night, pushing you into a mating press Valarr wanted to see all of you, take all of you in. His jealousy was obvious, but when you asked on this night he denied it. He rode out quickly the next day, presenting you with a wreath and flowers as he shouted up to you 'Will I have the favour of the tournaments' beauty, for I shall win for you today.' Accepting Valarr's favour, the glow of pride in his behaviour was easy to see, Valarr fought and won with a flourish in the tourney - earning the praise of all his family.

This eve you asked Valarr whilst he lay next to you, and you finally got your candid answer 'Yes, I felt jealous, I wanted it to be me' he looked across at you, his eyes lit by candlelight 'I wanted to give you my favour first, before anyone else' He looked almost jokingly upset, but you quickly realised that it was very sincere. Telling Valarr that he always had your favour would make him laugh, fetching the wreath and offering to prove it would make him smile.

Maekar - 10/10

Maekar's inherently jealous and possessive nature was driven by insecurity - he'd been overlooked, fourth best, considered the ugliest and least intelligent or charming of his brothers. But he had you, the most beautiful woman in Westeros, and Maekar would never, never lose you. He didn't much like seeing you talk with other men, his possessiveness was very tangible in public, his eyes had not left you in an hour. You were talking, and now you were dancing, with his brother Baelor.

Baelor had so much, Maekar watching the one thing that he had laugh and joke with Baelor enraged him with jealousy. You belonged to him, but did you prefer Baelor? Did you find him more handsome, more talkative? He saw you smile back at him, Baelor noticed - you must be talking about him he thought. Approaching your seat next to your husband, he simply answered 'No.' when you asked about jealousy. You saw the scowl Maekar shot his brother, this was becoming a point of contention between them. It was past breaking point, Baelor whispered to his brother 'Do not take it out on her tonight.'

Maekar was offended of course, but he was also petrified that Baelor thought he needed looking out for you. He was going to fuck you, possessively, roughly - but he'd never stop you talking to who you wanted. His fucking you wasn't a consequence, it was just what Maekar needed with his entire soul, all of you. He barely made it into your chambers, pressing you into the wall, you ask him if he's jealous - he returns your question 'Who do you belong to?' Your face will be pressed into the pillows promptly, as Maekar yearns to hear you tell him who's making you moan and scream.

Daeron - 5.5/10

Daeron is confident in himself, you would not be with him if you did not want to be. He knew himself, knew his flaws - he also knew his strengths. Watching this knight flirt with you felt a little different though, he was so different from Daeron. 'He certainly couldn't do better than me' Daeron thought to himself, but seeing how different this man was from himself released thoughts he thought he was long since over.

He was not a brave, built knight like this man - he was the dreamer, the drunken. Do you like the qualities that you see in this man, could he compete with something that he could not give you. Daeron does not credit his courage though, if you ask him whether he's jealous he will converse with you openly 'I did feel a little jealous yes, though perhaps more of his character than his obnoxious flirting, do you enjoy men such as him?'

Daeron will take your reassurance, as much as he plays it off as inconsequential musings about his character, he was affected by the feelings it arose. Hearing you say that you didn't care for a hardheaded simpleton will make Daeron laugh. He was what you wanted, you loved him and he knew it. No need to dwell on this, and the thoughts of his childhood that it was stirring up. You were here now, and you weren't going anywhere.

Aerion - 9/10

Aerion exhibited much of the possessiveness of his father, though it certainly did not stem from the same place. Aerion was not insecure, if anything he was arrogant - watching you scream after being told about dancing with other Lords simply fed his ego, you need him and he needed you. It was going to happen tonight, he had decided. Watching another dance with his Princess was angering him, and enticing him at the prospect of what he could do about it.

In all honesty, you wanted to ask him if he was jealous because you knew what it would cause, so you did it. Aerion was direct in answering you 'Jealous of that whelp? You want the dragon, I know you need it.' He was going to delight in withholding satisfaction, spending the next three hours at the dance barely looking at you. He whispers to you 'Dance if you want, each one you take means more time with me.'

You now knew what his meaning was, bent over the knee of the man who "wasn't jealous" The spanking had lasted nearly 25 minutes, your ass raw from Aerion's care. He needed you to say that you needed him, that you wanted him. Aerion fed on your devotion like the dragon he claimed to be, taking you however and whenever he felt like doing so.

Raymun - 4/10

Raymun was on the top of the world after Ashford, he was one of the knights everyone was talking about. His confidence was sky high, he knew you wanted him, you sought him out after all. He also knows that he doesn't have much to give you, at least not compared to the knights that you could have - or that he thinks you could have. Raymun thought you the most beautiful woman in Westeros, truly. You were beautiful enough to be a Queen, so he must treat you like one.

Seeing a Lord from one of the larger houses flirt with you should rile him more, but Raymun knows that he has something to give you that they could not replicate, and he would show you. He felt no need to drag you away, barge in and cause a scene. You could always see his quiet confidence, knew when he was watching over you.

Even before you got married, you knew Daeron Targaryen was a dreamer.

He'd told you himself one night when you found him wandering around one of the towers of the Red Keep. He was staggering, and you could smell barley in his breath, but his eyes were tired yet bright every time he saw you. You asked him if he would ever stop drinkin', not expecting a serious answer. Even thought he hadn't paid attention to you, that he was too drunk to say anything coherent, so you were just gonna guide him back to his chambers and forget that encounter ever happened.

"I just wanna stop."

You chuckled, shaking your head with a little smile. At first, you just didn't get it.

"Sure." You replied ironically, carrying his heavy body toward the stairs, struggling not to fall on the dirty stones of the floor. "You can start by not going to the tavern."

This time it was his turn to laugh. An exaggerated laugh that confused you.

"It's the only way not to be tormented, darling.”

"What are you talking about?" you finally asked.

"The nightmares."

That was the first time you heard about his torment. Daeron hated being a dreamer, he didn't understand how he hadn't gone mad yet, blaming it on cheap wine, beer, or any drink that got him drunk enough not to remember. He couldn't answer when you asked him since when, he had simply been born with that curse. At first, he avoided the conversation, preferring to talk about trivial and boring things, other people's gossip, things he had heard. He changed the topic without hiding it. He knew you wouldn't believe him. Gods, who would believe that his dreams were coming true? It sounded like a fairy tale, a magical fantasy he had invented to justify his alcoholism.

The first few months of marriage were... complicated. Daeron avoided sharing a bed with you at all costs, not because he didn't want to be with you—on the contrary, if one thing had been clear from the first night, it was that the desire between both of you knew no shyness or limits. You had consummated the marriage more than once, enough to silence any rumors, and neither of you had any reason to complain. The maids quickly learned to lower their voices when passing by the door because the sounds escaping from that chamber left no room for doubt.

Daeron had a wild style, messy sheets, impatient hands, taking you anywhere without shame and with a boldness worthy of a Targaryen prince. He had waited so many months to touch you that he was no longer willing to control himself, and now that the union was blessed by the Gods, he did not intend to deny himself anything.

But there was something else.

Something he liked much more than getting drunk in the early hours of the morning, much more than sweet wine, much more than the voluptuous bodies of the women at the Flea Bottom who knew his tastes perfectly well.

Every time you settled on top of him and trapped between your legs, he couldn't pull away, nor did he want to. He had grown accustomed to your taste, to the heat that enveloped him when you descended upon him, to the way you whispered his name desperately. Your fingers tangling in his long hair, pulling just enough to force him to look at you, had an effect he never quite fully understood. A trigger he didn't know, didn't understand, but he had long since stopped believing in the impossible.

Gradually, he stopped escaping to the taverns. The nights that used to end in some dirty corner of town, empty and broken jars. He preferred to seek you out. Sometimes between your legs, sometimes under your weight, sometimes over him with the same desire as always. But even in desire something had changed, it was no longer simple debauchery.

Before getting married, you made a deal: you had each other's consent to live your lives as you wished, neither of you would be a cage for the other. You promised each other freedom, space to continue being who you were before the union, without complaints or reproaches. Daeron accepted that agreement with the arrogant confidence of someone who believes that nothing could ever tie him to a woman. But without realizing it, he began to spend more time at the Red Keep, looking for you at noon with the excuse of sharing a meal, and at dusk with any insignificant pretext. He discovered that he preferred the sound of your voice to tavern songs, that the casual touch of your hand as you walked down the hallways was more intoxicating than any wine.

Until jealousy kicked in.

Daeron watched from a distance, jaw clenched, as knights boldly approached you even knowing you were married. The worst part wasn't their audacity, but your smile in return: that slight curve of your lips and flirtatious glance that seemed like harmless fun. Every time you did it, he felt a violent tug in his chest, and an irrational part of him wanted to rip his heart out right then and there just to get your attention.

He had heard about love a couple of times. Nothing that seemed particularly profound to him. Maekar, of course, was not a trusted source on such matters; when he tried to explain anything related to feelings, the words got tangled on his tongue and he ended up stammering, frustrated by his own clumsiness. Although he remembered hearing that the Targaryens never fell in love because they did not feel like other folks.

You slept peacefully beside your husband in the warm Westerosi night. The sheets still retained the warmth of your bodies and clung softly to your damp skin, while your long hair spread out untidily on the silk-covered pillow. You had your back to him, breathing softly and calmly like someone who had no worries other than to continue sleeping. Daeron, on the other hand, did not know such peace.

He rolled over and over, muttering incoherent words even to himself, unable to stay still, his forehead beaded with sweat, his heart pounding against his ribs. Even asleep, he seemed to be fighting something invisible.

The images in his mind emerged violently. A black dragon roared amid a bloodbath, the air thick with iron and ash, its enormous wings flapping before it fell defeated. Deafening, distorted applause could be heard, and he looked at his own hands, finding between his fingers the cold hilt of a Valyrian steel sword. The symbol of House Targaryen glowed on the blade like an omen. The colors were overwhelmingly intense, the sounds mingling until they became unbearable, a whirlwind of fire, cheers, and death that dragged him along.

Until, as always, he woke up.

Daeron opened his eyes with a gasp, his body still tense and his throat dry. The room remained in darkness, barely illuminated by the pale light from outside. More than once, he looked around, as if he needed to make sure that the walls were still in place, that there was no blood on the floor, and that the sword was not resting in his hand.

Then he saw your calm silhouette, the familiar curve of your back under the sheets, the slight movement of your chest as you breathed. That image ended up being the only thing that managed to anchor him.

Careful not to wake you, he slowly sat up and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress gave way under his weight as he tried to catch his breath. He thought about the wine, the sweet warmth sliding down his throat, dulling his memories. He looked toward the balcony, the curtains swaying in the night breeze and the pale moonlight casting long shadows on the stone. He wiped the sweat from his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, forcing himself to regain control.

Then he heard you.

A small sound, barely a sleepy grunt that he knew all too well. You stirred between the sheets and slowly opened your eyes just enough to realise that it had happened again.

"Go back to sleep," Daeron murmured hoarsely, his voice still thick with interrupted sleep. He didn't turn all the way around. The light was dim, barely enough to see the tense line of his shoulders and the silhouette of his profile.

You squinted to focus your eyes, rising awkwardly.

"Again?" you asked quietly, your movements heavy. You sat up clumsily, hair falling over your face. You moved on your knees until you were directly behind him.

"It doesn't matter." He tried to calm you down, always doing the same thing. When he managed to keep you from waking up, he would leave the room and return at dawn as if nothing had happened. It was his way of keeping you away from that dark part that haunted him, that part of him that tortured him. "I just need a drink..."

"No, wait." You slid your hands down his bare back. His skin was still warm under your fingers, feeling his muscles tense at the first touch. You rested your forehead between his shoulder blades and breathed against his skin, leaving a soft kiss in the center of his back. "Stay."

Your hands descended to his bare abdomen, wrapping around him from behind. Your chest pressed against his back, your thick legs brushing against his sides. Your dry lips found the curve of his shoulder and then his neck, kissing him with a sweetness that contrasted with the intensity that usually dominated both of you.

Daeron's hands instinctively sought yours, intertwining your fingers, pulling them closer to him. He turned his face just enough to brush your cheek with his.

"I don't want to wake you."

"I'm awake now."

Your mouth returned to his neck, slower this time. Your husband finally turned toward you, his hands firmly on your waist, pulling you until you were sitting on his thighs. He rested his forehead against your chest for a moment, clinging to your figure.

"What did you see?" you asked softly, wrapping your body around him.

"It doesn't matter."

His response was automatic and defensive. He tried to look away, but you wouldn't let him because your hand slowly moved up to his face and you took his jaw between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. Your thumb rested under his lower lip, pressing lightly as your nails brushed the tense line of his jaw.

"Daeron..."

Daeron held your gaze just to admire your beauty. Even in the dim light, your eyes shone with an intensity that disarmed him.

"I don't remember," he finally replied, although both of you knew that wasn't entirely true. Your arms never let go of him. You remained seated on his lap, the weight of your body resting naturally on his, your legs on either side of his hips. Daeron didn't want to break that closeness. "Can you go back to sleep?" he asked, sliding his hands around your waist in a gesture that made your skin tingle. "You have a lot to do, and when you don't rest, you get grumpy."

A small laugh escaped you. You still found it funny how he tried to adopt that authoritative tone, when in reality he was the one who ended up giving in first.

"Stay," you asked with that irresistible sweetness that you knew worked every time. You leaned in just close enough for him to feel your breath brush against his mouth. "I hate waking up and not finding you here."

The prince covered your hand with his and squeezed it slowly. His fingers felt warm and large compared to yours.

"I don't like you seeing me like this," he finally confessed. The words came out heavier than he intended. "I… can't fix this."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it did feel heavy. The night breeze blew in from the balcony and gently moved the curtains, bringing with it the scent of roses and cinnamon from the unlit candles. He hated that sickly sweet perfume, but he never told you that. He preferred to put up with it for you, like so many other little things he would never mention out loud.

"There are many things I don't like about you," you replied, biting your lower lip, and the slight arch of his eyebrows made you smile. "But having you with me is not one of them."

His skin prickled even though the frosts of Westeros were still months away. A few strands of your hair fell messily across your face, so Daeron raised his hand delicately and brushed them away carefully, his knuckles grazing your temple.

"Why are you still here?" he asked suddenly. The question seemed to have burned his tongue for months before finally daring to escape. "I'm a fucking nightmare. I know that better than anyone."

You frowned at the contempt in Daeron's self-centered voice. You lifted your face, sitting up enough to look him in the eye, adjusting yourself on your legs.

"Why do you say that?"

Daeron let out a short exhale, almost a dry laugh.

"Come on, don't pretend." His fingers descended again to your waist to hold you up. "Living with me is impossible. I know from experience."

"Oh, believe me. It's impossible." You replied with a smile. Your fingers played distractedly with the hem of his shirt. "Do you want to know why I'm still with you?"

His attention was absolute, almost solemn. His eyes descended slightly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes, his fingers sinking more decisively into your skin. Suddenly, he held you tightly and, in one fluid motion, lifted you just enough to position his body beneath yours. His hips rose slightly, changing the pressure between you, and he lowered you back onto him with precision.

Fitting perfectly.

"Nothing intrigues me more."

His eyes followed your every move as you leaned toward him slowly. The tip of your nose brushed against his, and his breathing changed slightly.

"For your family's fortune, of course." You whispered with complete seriousness... for a second, because then you couldn't help but burst out laughing.

The sound filled the room, breaking the tension with a delightful ease that was all too characteristic of you. Daeron looked at you incredulously before a genuine laugh escaped his chest, a sound that almost no one had the privilege of hearing.

"You're evil," he scolded, pointing his finger at you, and his other hand quickly descended to your hip and, in a blatantly playful gesture, gave your butt a firm squeeze.

"We'll discuss that later," you replied, leaving your place.

You lay down on the bed again, settling yourself between the sheets and leaving the coldness of your absence on your husband's body. The dim light outlined your silhouette as you rested your head on the pillow and looked up at him with a mixture of innocence and provocation that made him hesitate every time.

"Are you joining me?"

This time Daeron did not hesitate to follow you. He settled down beside you with his full weight, sinking into the mattress that was still burning inside. He had plenty of room for himself, enough to stretch out without touching you, but no, the prince wanted his skin to brush against yours, that human contact that made him feel alive because it felt real. He put his arm around your waist and gently pulled you closer, until his head was level with your chest and your legs met and entwined with an almost unconscious naturalness.

The distance between you became minimal. You began to slowly stroke his long hair, over and over again, and he caught your other hand in his, playing with your fingers, running his fingers over the long nails that you always adorned with the jewelry he himself had given you. Then his hand moved down to your bare thigh and settled on your hip with the confidence of someone who had already explored all those places.

"I always remember," he said at last, and this time he dared to look up at you. There was something vulnerable in his eyes, something he rarely allowed to be seen. "I remember everything. But... I never know what it means until it happens."

You nod, even though you actually have many questions you could have asked, you could have sought answers, but you chose to keep it to yourself. Daeron was waiting for you to say something, hoping that your words would fix what was wrong with him, that exact piece that seemed to be missing. However, instead of a speech, you rested your palm on his cheek, right on the scar that ran across his skin.

"Don't torment yourself," you whispered as your thumb traced the mark. "Not tonight."

Something in him surrendered. Daeron was unable to resist you, much less when you looked at him that way, the way your fingers touched him without fear, breaking down any walls. He leaned forward and captured your mouth with a restrained intensity, not violent but urgent, as if kissing you was the only way he could silence the noise. His hand moved up to your jaw, holding you gently as he deepened the kiss, and an involuntary sigh escaped your lips.

Daeron touched you just to confirm that you were still there, with him.

Gradually, your body responded to his, awakening under the recognition of those hands that knew how to find you.

"Don't go." He pulled away just enough to look at you. His forehead brushed against yours, his breath still mingling with yours, warm and agitated. "Never."

You didn't know if it was a plea born of fear or a clumsily worded promise. There was something in his eyes that was too raw to be mere desire; something that had nothing to do with the passion that still vibrated between your bodies, but with an older, quieter need. Your body responded before your mind, leaning toward him instinctively, closing that tiny distance as if letting it exist were a threat.

“Never.”

You could still taste his lips on yours, deep, lingering, you couldn't explain it. There was something dangerous about the ease with which you gave him those promises, how natural it felt to offer him your unconditional devotion. Your hand moved up to the back of his neck and you pulled him back toward you, a gesture of confirmation that you shared for a few intense seconds.

Daeron exhaled against your mouth as his fingers tightened slightly around your waist. He didn't smile, but his gaze lost that constant edge, that alertness that seemed to accompany him even in the most intimate moments. He stood there, looking at you as if trying to memorize the exact way you simply existed beside him.

He didn't kiss you again. This time he descended slowly, his forehead brushing yours and then the line of your jaw, tracing a sensitive path to your neck. His nose slid across your skin, breathing you in, until it found the warm hollow between your shoulder and throat. There he settled without asking permission.

His mouth rested against your skin, his lips gently caressing you in just the right spot. The warmth of his breath seeped beneath your skin and a shiver ran through your entire body. His fingers curved around your waist with a different kind of firmness and the palm of his hand spread across your back, broad and protective, and the weight of his body fit precisely against yours. Daeron, a big man, clumsy when it came to the crown, accustomed to keeping his own secrets and drinking carelessly, and yet there, against your neck, he seemed to have finally found something that no woman had ever given him.

He took a deep breath. Once. Then another. You even wondered if he was still awake in your arms. His beard brushed your skin as he settled himself more comfortably, and your hand returned to his hair almost reflexively, sinking your fingers into the strands.

"I don't know how you do this." He murmured against your skin, and the vibration of his voice traveled down your neck to your chest. His fingers drew distracted circles on your hip, slow and steady.

"Do what?"

You could feel the weight of his breath. The irregular beating of his heart and the way his body was finally beginning to surrender.

Surrender to you.

"Shut it down. Everything."

Y/N couldn't recall a time in her life when she was so stressed out. Her brain was occupied with one thing and one thing only; Her schoolwork. A natural disaster could occur, and her only goal would be to make sure her textbooks stayed intact.

As she laid on the ground, the chill of the the dorm floor kissed her aching skin softly. An ever-persistent headache continued to nag her, and the light from her laptop screen only made her skull pound in a way that she knew wasn't healthy.

Each second that wasn't spent typing or looking over notes was a second wasted. She didn't have time to indulge in her own thoughts, or think about anything except the work that she needed to get done.

It was a few days into her second semester in college. The grey sky kept the sun out of sight, and Y/N couldn't recall the last time she was able to step outside without more than 2 layers of clothing. The flesh on her hands was dry and itchy, and she was constantly uncomfortable being in her own skin.

Maybe she was being pessimistic, but nothing seemed to be going right in her life.

Her grades weren't good enough, she was isolating herself from her friends, and she hadn't talked to her parents in ages. Everything in her life seemed to be going wrong, and she didn't know what to do.

Panic overtook peace, and Y/N could only throw herself into her schoolwork. In a world full of things she couldn't control, at least she could always try to improve her own grades. She could be anxious, overstimulated, and isolated, but she could also have good grades!

A few minutes before midnight, Y/N was now laying on her stomach, piles of papers surrounding her body, similar to how a picture is surrounded by its frame.

"Fuck me," she murmured gently, pressing the tips of her fingers into her temple. "I hate college, dude."

She stood up, and stumbled a bit due to the headrush that suddenly clouded her vision. The two Red Bulls she had drank a few hours prior seemed to have worn off, and Y/N was crudely aware of how tired she was. Her shoulders seemed to be stuck in a permanent slump, and her eyelids felt like two bricks on her face.

Tiredness, however, was the least of her worries. She had been studying for what felt like years, and it still didn't feel like enough. Nothing that she could do would ever be enough.

Like The Walking Dead, Y/N trudged to the bathroom, which was on the far end of her dorm. She was lucky that she had gotten a single, or else she would have to deal with not only her own presence, but also some stranger's as well.

In the haze of her own tired and frustrated mind, Y/N had forgotten that she had closed the bathroom door. She usually always kept it open, seeing as it was less to think about; Rather than having to open the door, she could just walk in. It was less work for her, a lazy student that was fueled by energy drinks and chips, to do.

Y/N was too focused on all the things she had to do once she was finished using the bathroom that she didn't realize the door was closed, and she was about to walk head-first into the wooden slab at full force.

A sickening smack echoed through the otherwise quiet room as Y/N's head came into contact with the door. She regained her footing just in time to stay on her feet as she backed away from the closed door.

Reaching up, she felt something dribble down her forehead. With a trembling hand, Y/N reached up and touched the substance delicately. A frown pulled at her lips when her eyes caught sight of the blood that now resided on her fingertips.

"Shit."

She then collapsed on the floor.

Was she in Heaven? Was she in Hell? Was she in Purgatory? Was she in the secret fourth option that was never described in her own religion, but still existed anyway? Y/N didn't know.

Wherever she was, it was quiet, save for the occasional whisper of the wind and the sound of a nearby bird chirping. At least her alarm wasn't going off.

Someone was touching her, a hand at her waist serving as a warning to Y/N that she was no longer alone. There was someone near her, and if she wasn't careful, she could end up in danger.

Hesitantly, she opened her eyes.

Yep, this definitely wasn't her musty college dorm that smelled way too much like stale air if she didn't open the windows for a few minutes every hour. Her eyes finally adjusted to the morning light that was practically blinding her.

The first thing she noticed was that she was laying on the ground like some hobo. Her body was covered in an itchy, woolen dress that made her long for her ratty, old college hoodie that softened with every laundry cycle.

She then noticed that there wasn't just one person next to her, but another small body that was slightly curled into her own. Y/N frowned.

Why the fuck was there a bald child that was practically melted into her own body? Was he bald by choice, or was it a medical condition?

Y/N slowly turned her head so that she was able to see who was behind her, and her confusion only grew at the site of a man with light brown hair that was practically spooning her.

"I knew that second Red Bull was a mistake," she muttered to herself, annoyance seeping into her tone even though she wasn't speaking to anyone else.

The child next to her began to stir. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hands and sleepily blinked. "Good morrow, My Lady," he said quietly.

She curled her lips. "Sure," she replied. "Remind me again who the hell you are? And, are you bald because of a disease, or is it simply a poor attempt at a fashion statement?"

He blinked owlishly at her. "I am Egg, My Lady. Do you not recall the events of last night? It would make sense, considering Ser Duncan said you drank many pints of ale at the Baratheon tent last night."

"Hey!" Y/N protested, no longer caring that the stranger behind her was sleeping. "I don't drink. Well, at least not since that Halloween party Sigma Chi hosted. I didn't even know they still made Four Lokos."

A hand pinched at the skin at her hip, and Y/N let out a squeak at the sensation. "Will you two quiet down? It is too early for your constant chatter," the man behind Y/N grumbled, clearly annoyed at the fact that his beauty sleep was interrupted.

"Ser..." The boy, who was apparently named after the main ingredient in an omelette, continued to stare at Y/N weirdly. "Something is wrong with her."

"What are you going on about, boy?"

"She's speaking in tongues, Ser."

Y/N decided she had enough of this weird and way too vivid fever-dream. She wrenched the hand that was holding onto her off her waist and stood up.

Now that she had a good view of the man that had been sleeping behind her, Y/N knew that she was metaphorically fucked if this ended in a physical confrontation. This guy was taller than anyone she had ever met, and he was far more muscular than anyone that she was used to seeing on campus.

She needed something to protect herself with, or else she'd probably be ending up in a murder mystery documentary. Y/N couldn't die knowing she looked like she hadn't showered in years.

Her panicked gaze darted around the small area that she was contained in, and it landed on a sword that was propped up against a tree trunk. Without sparing the two another glance, Y/N lunged for the sword. Once it was in her trembling hands, she pointed the sharp end at the man's throat.

The child gasped.

The man, still half-asleep, grabbed the sword boredly and threw it onto the ground. "It's too early to deal with your nonsense, Y/N," he told her. His eyes were now on her, and she scowled. "C'mon, back to bed we go."

"How the hell do you know my name, freak? And, why are your eyes so blue? Are you wearing colored contacts? That's pretty performative, you know."

She watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I knew allowing you to have that fourth pint was a mistake," he muttered out.

"Maybe she was poisoned," Egg suggested. "It'd explain why she's speaking like a crazed woman."

"Shut up, Omelette," Y/N sassed. "You're bald. Enough said. Now, does anyone want to explain why I was sleeping on the ground, and why I'm now surrounded by people who sound like they should be in Peaky Blinders?"

Duncan straightened up. He thought that Y/N was just attempting to fool him once again with strange phrases he had no clue of their meaning, but something seemed genuinely wrong this time.

She was too confused, and too out of it. It wasn't the ale from last night, and she hadn't been hit on the head recently.

Something was certainly wrong with her.

He slowly stood up and approached her hesitantly, like he would with a wounded animal. Y/N stood rooted in the ground as she stared up at the giant man that was standing before her.

"Y/N..." He spoke softly. "Do you know where you are?"

She rolled her eyes. "Uh, duh, I'm outside. What kinda question is that?"

"She's lost her mind, Ser," Egg argued.

"Why is the bald child so opinionated?" Y/N suddenly began to swat at the air around her, trying to make the bugs that were circling her go away. "Why the fuck are there so many goddamn bugs?" Her heart began to thump in her chest rapidly. She wasn't waking up. This wasn't a Red Bull-induced nightmare; This was reality. "Where am I? Where the fuck am I?"

The witty exterior had worn off. She was scared. Y/N fell to her knees and cradled her head in her hands.

Footsteps drew near, and soon, Y/N felt a hand cradle her neck, while another cupped her face softly. "Y/N," the man spoke, his voice no longer frustrated and instead surprisingly calm. "You're alright, I'm here. I told you nothing would ever harm you, and nothing ever well. I will always protect you, even if it's my last act before I perish." His bright, blue eyes bore into her own in such an intense way that she wanted to look away, but she couldn't.

Tears cascaded slowly down her cheeks. Whether they were tears of exhaustion or confusion, Y/N didn't know. But she was crying, and she couldn't stop.

The man clearly wasn't judging her for crying, and he wasn't asking her why she was, either. He just held her as she sobbed.

A realization hit her like a bucket of ice water on her skin:

Y/N wasn't in her world any longer. She was a stranger in a strange land, a foreigner in a place she didn't even know the name of. She was lost.

She needed to go home.

All you could focus on was the excruciating pain, the sweltering heat of the room, and the agony between each breath. It felt like it would never end, as you approached the sixth hour of your labors.

“Seven hells,” you hissed, fingers digging into the plush mattress as another contraction seized you. “Seven bloody, blazing hells.”

Baelor looked as though he would rather face a charging army, eyes constantly wandering over to you as he nearly wore a hole through the stone floor with his anxious pacing. He had arrived just in time—riding hard from a neighboring lord’s estate, where he had been attending a tourney when the messengers reached him.

The Prince of Dragonstone was rarely anything other than composed, unshakeably calm and level by nature. But in this moment, he was the picture of a nervous, wrecked husband.

He had removed his doublet hours ago, with tunic sleeves rolled to his elbows, and short cropped dark hair slightly disheveled from running fidgeting hands through it.

He stilled for a moment, before moving closer to the bed, midwives be damned if they didn't let him near his wife in a moment where she needed him.

"Your Grace, you must—"

“I will not be stopped from being there for my wife.”

The snarl was quiet, but it cracked through the room low and unmistakable, like thunder. His usual composure splintered; his heterochromatic eyes flashed dangerously at the older midwife, all princely restraint stripped away in an instant.

For a moment, it was not the gentle and fair Hand of the King standing there in the middle of his wife's birthing chamber. It was a dragon daring anyone to bar his path to his greatest treasure.

The midwife hesitated, then took a step aside, more than unwilling to be the recipient of the ire of the prince.

Baelor brushed past the small huddle of attendants surrounding your bed, and dropped to his knees onto the ground beside you, dignity be damned.

Your hands found his at once—scrambling, desperate, seeking the familiar comfort of them. They looked so small swallowed within his larger, warmer ones. Baelor cast his gaze to you, eyes soft and concerned. His other hand braced around you as the midwife directed him.

“Support her shoulders—yes, like that. When the next pain comes, she must bear down," the older woman nodded.

“I’m here,” he murmured for perhaps the hundredth time. “I’m here, my love. Breathe, just as they say. As slow as you can manage, you can do it.”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to rival the blade of his sword after a sharpening and polishing in the blacksmith's workshop.

“This,” you panted, voice feral, “is your fault.”

Baelor blinked, several times in fact, at your statement.

The midwife tried—and failed—to suppress a smile.

“My fault?” he repeated faintly, as if trying to trace the implications of that statement.

“Yes,” you snapped back rapidly, as another wave of contractions crashed through. “You—and your big—”

You broke off with a strangled groan as the contraction crested. Your nails bit into his forearm. “You did this to me.”

“If it would ease you, I will gladly accept full responsibility,” Baelor replied softly, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand.

Another contraction, sharp and merciless.

You grit your teeth hard, face screwed up as you hiss out, "I'm going to run a sword through you, Baelor Targaryen, I will banish you to the farthest corner of the land for this—" Your threat ended in a low, drawn out cry.

“I know,” he breathed, leaning closer, pressing his forehead briefly to yours despite the sweat, the heat, the chaos surrounding you.

"I will go gladly,” he continued, voice low and fervent. “To the edge of the world itself but not until this is done, and you are safe with our child."

Your breath came in ragged bursts against his cheek. He stayed there, unmoving, as if anchoring your storm.

“You may exile me,” he continued softly, “you may stab me, you may strip me of title and lands—”

“I will name the child something hideous,” you threatened weakly.

“You may name our child whatever you wish, my heart.”

“And they will inherit my stubbornness.”

“I pray our heir does, my love.”

The midwife, unable to help herself, muttered under her breath, “Seven save us.”

Your fingers crushed his, nails biting deep into his skin as your breath fractured into uneven gasps. The room blurred at the edges, voices distant, the heat suffocating and—

“Look at me,” Baelor murmured.

You tried. Gods, you tried, and you clung to his words, his voice.

His thumb stroked slow, steady circles across your hand, grounding you the best he could. When your grip tightened further, almost punishing in its desperation, he did not pull away. Instead he lifted your hand to his lips and kissed it lingeringly, and you swore you could feel every unspoken bit of his love and devotion in that touch.

“You are magnificent,” he said, as though you were riding into battle instead of lying in a birthing bed. “And I have never loved you more than I do in this moment.”

You glared at him through tears.

“If you say something poetic again,” you panted, “I truly will kill you.”

His mouth twitched. “Yes, my love.”

Your breath stuttered and something in you, despite this being your first, told you it was time.

The midwife cleared her throat sharply. “Your Grace, now. My lady must push.”

Baelor did not lift his mouth until the last possible second. When he did, he pressed one last, fierce kiss to your pulse point before bracing you again.

Another push, two. It felt like an eternity, an endless suspension in time.

Tears drip down your cheeks as you fall back against the pillows, breathing out gasps.

“Again, Your Grace,” the midwife urged. “Once more, now.”

You bore down again with a cry that tore from somewhere deep inside you, fingers crushing Baelor’s hand with what strength you had left. And then, there.

A sharp, indignant wail cut through the chamber, high, clear and you couldn't stop the sobs escaping your lips as it rang beautifully in your ears.

The midwife lifted the small, squirming bundle gently, inspecting the baby.

“A princess,” the midwife announced.

The words seemed to echo.

Baelor blinked as though he had misheard.

“A…?” His voice failed him, your husband rendered speechless. You'd never thought you'd see the day, really.

“A daughter, Your Grace.”

They laid her against your chest, impossibly and warm and astonishingly real. She had been bathed, and you gently breathe in the sweet scent of her delicate skin. Her fists were clenched in outrage, her tiny face scrunched in protest at the cold of the world.

You were trembling—not from pain now, but from something overwhelming and breathless.

“She sounds angry,” you whispered hoarsely.

Baelor let out a shaky, broken laugh.

“She sounds fierce. She will never be less than the brightest star in our sky,” he said quietly, fiercely. “Not in this realm, or any other."

He had gone utterly still beside you. For a man who had faced mighty wars and carried the weight and responsibility of an entire kingdom without faltering, he now looked completely undone.

Carefully—so carefully that it made your heart ache—he reached out.

His fingertip brushed the back of her tiny little hand.

She immediately grabbed him, the smallest fingers curling around his large one.

Baelor inhaled sharply, as if he'd been struck.

“It's as if she knows who I am, ” he murmured. You moved to offer him your daughter. Baelor moved so slowly, so delicately, as if he was afraid she would break.

“Yes,” you breathed faintly, a ghost of a smile curving your lips. “Of course she knows her brave, gentle father."

His hands hovered for a moment, suddenly uncharacteristically unsure.

“I will not drop her,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you.

“You had best not,” you whispered weakly.

A smile flickered across his mouth, but his focus never wavered.

He slid one arm beneath her small body, the other supporting her head exactly as the midwife had shown him. When her weight finally settled fully into his arms, he went utterly still. She was so small against the breadth of him, her dark lashes resting against flushed cheeks, her tiny mouth ifnally pursed in sleep.

He laughed softly, unfathomable joy in his eyes, and sank forward, pressing his forehead first to yours, then gently to your daughter’s downy head.

"Jaehaera," you say, sighing in bliss at the vision of your husband and daughter before you. "For the noble king, the just king."

A solitary tear slid freely down Baelor's cheek, eyes unable to tear away from the sleeping babe. "It's a good name. A perfect name."

You closed your eyes briefly, exhausted but your heart felt full to bursting.

“It's still your fault,” you murmured weakly.

Baelor exhaled a soft, joyful laugh. “I will carry that blame proudly. You have given me everything, I could live in this moment forever."

He leaned forward, pressing gentle kisses wherever he could reach—your brow, your temple, your cheek, your damp hairline—gratitude and devotion behind each intentional touch.