#baratheon!reader

inspo/outline/headcanons

the snow before the storm (what started this all haha)

welcome to winterfell

fights and falls

into the wood

diplomatics and dramatics

escaping execution

in camp

released in the riverlands

moms and murder

wondering why

grandfather's girl

a stark story

the journey north

to find forever

family ties

safe again

breaking broken

becoming

forever found

another queen

one leg up

in part

a need to know

in your dreams

way down we go

reconnected

always more

optimism

revelations

battles and breakage

silver linings

of thunder and ice -

(mini one shots that are just sweet, missed moments in the series)

robb -

comfortable

jon -

Lyonel spoke a few words, presenting them to one another, though Duncan scarcely heard any of it. His attention was entirely claimed by her appearance, even if he felt it so wrong to look upon her so openly, as though she were far beyond what a man like him deserved… afraid he might ruin her with what he was.

“My dear, I have selected the finest sweets for your enjoyment. They even prepared lemon tarts in your honor,” Lord Baratheon told her, gesturing toward a table heavy with confections from across the realms, before turning his attention back to demanding more wine for his cup.

Lady Baratheon released a soft snort and inclined her head in brief farewell, having little choice but to make her way toward the laden table, fully aware that the giant of a man her older brother had introduced was following close behind.

“Ser Duncan, is it not?” she asked without looking back, her gaze roaming over the pastries.

“Yes, that is me,” he answered, then quickly realized his lack of decorum in addressing her so plainly, as though she were his mare Sweetfoot.

“My…” he began, faltering as he searched for the proper title for Lyonel Baratheon’s sister. What should it be? Your Grace was too much. Lady felt far too unsuitable for such a woman. “…Princess.”

She lifted her attention from the sweets and met the blue eyes of the would be knight. “Am I yours, Ser?”

“No. No, no,” he hastily corrected himself, his gaze dropping away from hers. “You are a princess. Aye. But not my princess.” At last he managed to mend the tangle of his own words.

Lady Baratheon studied him for several moments, her eyes tracing his features with faint surprise. She was accustomed to lords who strutted within seconds, eager to impress her. Ser Duncan, with all his nervousness, stirred something closer to fondness.

“You will fight tomorrow,” she declared with certainty, (also wishing to change the subject and spare him further discomfort)

“I mean to try,” Duncan replied, the only answer he could muster. After a brief silence, he added, “I will.”

“Then good fortune to you,” the princess wished him. She did not question him nor warn him as others did. “Though of course, you could break a man in half with your hands.”

“I do not think such an advantage is permitted. I will have to rely on my sword.”

“A shame then.”

That drew a small smile from Duncan, though he quickly forced it away. The illusion slipped from him in shame. How dared he enjoy her company, and worse still, feel confident of entering the lists when he had yet to secure a knight to vouch for him…

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, denying himself further pleasant distractions. “I should… I should wait for Dondarrion. Forgive me, my princess.”

He had no time to correct himself, for addressing her like that, so before Lady Baratheon spoke over him. “But his son, Ser Manfred Dondarrion, is just leaving,” she said, gesturing toward the exit with her chin.

At once Duncan looked wide eyed in that direction, spotting the young man being pulled away by two women. “I must speak with him! I must speak with him.”

Before hurrying off after him, Duncan glanced back over his shoulder and offered the princess a shy, apologetic smile for his departure.

She answered with a small wink, lifting a lemon tart.

You missed home, and yet you did not want to go home because your dearest companion, the raven you had raised since he was a hatchling, had been struck down by an arrogant lord’s arrow and would not be returning with you. Not alive, at least.

When another round of drinks was called for, you got up and left, all patience for the revelry long dead. You walked back to your brother’s tent, keeping careful watch for any sign of trouble. You were a Baratheon; you knew to always watch for signs of a storm. Unfortunately, your grief blinded you to a particularly nasty sign in the form of your betrothed standing outside your brother’s tent.

“Lady y/n, have you finally come to your senses and fled Storm’s End to be with your dearest dragon?” Aerion asked, giving you a self-satisfied smile.

“No,” you said flatly, intending to push past him and try not to cry yourself to sleep.

Aerion caught your elbow. “Why not? What could possibly be more entertaining than your princely betrothed?”

You feigned thought for a moment. “Many things, watching paint dry for instance.”

He scoffed, shock flickering across his face. “I know I am at least as interesting as that.”

You could not help it; a slight laugh escaped your lips, and Aerion lit up.

“Do not puff up like a peacock; I am tired. That is why I laughed; I am so tired even your words can be perceived as humorous.”

His smile did not fade. “I will count it as a win, another reason why our marriage shall be splendid.”

“I do not think you are choosing the right word; perhaps you meant horrendous?”

He shook his head, the torchlight making his violet eyes look as if they were glowing. “No, I meant exactly what I said.” Then he paused and looked at both your shoulders intently. “Where is that bird of yours? What was its name, Enger?”

“Edgar,” you corrected, gritting your teeth against the wave of grief that threatened to topple you.

He snapped and pointed one finger at you. “Yes, yes, clever little thing. I remember he once tried to make a nest of your brother’s hair; that was quite humorous.”

You nodded.

His brows furrowed. “It is not like you to remain quiet about your bird.”

You swallowed hard; you did not want to tell Aerion of your grief; he would surely tease you mercilessly for being so weak as to cry over a pet.

His hand moved from your elbow with surprising gentleness until it encircled your wrist. “Lady y/n?” His voice was soft too, and though it felt wrong coming from lips you had only heard taunts and jeers from, it still hurled a final rock at the dam, and your tears burst forth.

Aerion’s eyes went wide, and he dropped your hand. “I-I did not mean to hurt you; I was not aware of my strength.”

“No, you idiot, I am crying because Edgar is dead,” you hissed, wiping your eyes angrily.

He cocked his head. “Dead?”

“Yes, some lordling fresh off his nursemaid’s leading strings shot him,” you said, your voice trembling with both grief and anger. “If only there were not others around, I would have killed him myself, but he walks free, and my dearest friend is wrapped in my spare nightgown until I return home.”

“Who was it?” He asked, an almost carefree calm about him.

It angered you, and you pushed at his chest. “Why do you care? Are you going to buy him a drink? Toast to his hunting prowess? Laugh about how he has upset your haughty betrothed and put me in my place? Fuck you, Aerion.”

He grabbed your hands, stopping you from pushing him again. “As much as I would enjoy fucking you, now is not the time, my glorious tempest.”

You rolled your eyes and tried to pull away from his grip. “Enough with the pathetic attempts at flattery; I will not fall for them. Now let me go, you brute.”

“Give me his name,” Aerion ordered, “and then I will release you.”

You groaned, narrowing your eyes at Aerion. “Fine, it was Ser Jonos Blackwood.”

He nodded and released you, but not before pressing his lips to your inner wrists, a shiver running through you at the warmth of them.

“Dragons truly do run hot,” you said offhandedly, rubbing your wrists against your gown to rid them of his touch.

He grinned. “How very perceptive of you, my tempest. It is good of you to recognize the greatness that lingers in my veins, as it will linger in the veins of our children.”

You pushed him away by his forehead, ignoring his sputters of disbelief at your actions. “Leave me be, dragon; I am not yours to hoard.”

Lyonel did not return to the tent until the early hours of the morn, apologizing in a strained whisper as he stumbled through the tent, knocking things onto the floor, the loud clattering jolting you from your sleep. You swore at him sleepily, then turned back over and fell back asleep, hoping he would just pass out in a chair and leave you in peace.

An ear splitting scream later awoke you, and you sat up with a jolt, recognizing the voice of your maid, Breda. You grabbed a robe and hurriedly tied it around yourself, calling out for her. You found her at the entrance to the tent, her face white with fear.

“Breda!” You called, rushing over and pulling her away from the entrance. “What has happened?”

“Ah, my tempest, good morn to you. I brought you a gift,” Aerion said, thrusting a basket out towards you.

You peered inside the basket hesitantly, bile rising in your throat. “Seven hells.” Nestled inside the basket on a bed of black velvet was a severed hand. “My Prince, what is the meaning of this?”

Aerion swung the basket back and forth on two fingers. “A gift.”

You stared at him in utter disbelief. “No, it is a severed hand. That is usually a threat.”

The corners of his lips quirked down. “It is the right hand of Jonos; now he will never kill another bird.”

Oh gods, he did that for you. In some twisted show of affection…?

“I-I did not ask you to do this,” you said, pushing Breda behind you.

“I did not say you did. It is a gift; it need not be asked for.” Then he beckoned to someone who brought forth a fledgling raven in a cage.

Your heart broke at the sight; it looked so very much like your Edgar.

“This is also a gift. I have named him Balerian, after the Black Dread. He has been trained to fly to my personal window; that way your letters to me will never be lost by the maesters.”

You took Balerian and freed him from his cage, speaking softly to him, urging him onto your shoulder.

“Do you like your gifts? Only the finest is acceptable for my betrothed.”

You picked your next words carefully. “I am grateful for the raven, but cutting a man’s hand off for what he could claim an accident will surely stir the king’s anger.”

Aerion shrugged. “You are my betrothed; I am duty bound to right any wrongs committed against you.”

You pressed your lips together in a tight line. An argument could be made, and clearly Aerion intended to do so if questioned.

“You do not have to keep the hand; I only wished to show it to you so you knew your pet’s murderer had faced justice.”

In an odd and brutal way that you had come to attribute to Aerion, it was…sweet, and it did feel good to know Jonos had been punished for his careless actions.

Balerian shifted on your shoulder, drawing closer to you, and your heart softened. “Thank you.”

He gave a half bow, motioning for someone to take the hand away. “You are most welcome. Now, if I might request a small boon in return?”

You folded your arms. “Gifts do not typically entitle the giver to a reward.”

He smiled, sharp and infuriatingly handsome. “I ask for your favor to wear. I am soon to do battle against a vile peasant.”

You did not even want to know what that meant.

“If I give you my favor, will you leave?”

“I will leave this tent, but I cannot keep you from dreaming of me.”

Gods, you hated him.

You went back inside the tent and grabbed a golden hair ribbon, holding it out to him. “There, go with my favor into battle, and leave me be.”

He took the ribbon, pressing it to his lips. “With my tempest’s blessing, I shall not fail.”

You did not wait for him to leave, just ducked back inside, pulling Breda with you.

“Was that Prince Aerion near our tent?” Your brother asked when he returned a few moments later.

“Yes, he came to give me a gift,” you said, hoping Lyonel would not ask any more questions.

“Odd, I am set to ride against him in a Trial of Seven tomorrow,” he said.

Maester Yormwell was stretched thin after the Trial of Seven, tending to many injured, including Prince Maekar. He sought Ser Lyonel’s permission to have you assist him.

“I’m certain my sister will be most eager to help,” Lyonel grunted as you helped place his arm into the sling. You added a few drops of milk of poppy to his red wine, raising the cup to his lips to help him drink.

“I will be happy to assist however I can,” you smiled at him. You had long tended to many injuries in the Stormlands and were skilled with stitches. While you would never be formally trained, Maester Lothan, who served at Storm’s End, had been happy to teach you what he could. You had a gift for healing after suffering an injury during a hunting accident as a young lady of three and ten.

“Prince Maekar complains his leg is giving him trouble,” Maester Yormwell said.

“And he is aware I will be treating him?” you asked, handing your older brother his antler crutch.

“He is. I would not have either of you feeling ambushed. He has heard tales of your skills and is accepting of your treatment.”

“I should make haste then,” you said, washing your hands at the basin before departing for the castle with your leather satchel slung over your shoulder. Your golden dagger was strapped to your thigh, and you were well versed in how to use it in case you crossed some ne’err do well along the way. People oft took advantage after chaos and tragedy.

You gathered your skirts and rushed through grass, dirt, and then over the cobblestones.

“I am here to attend to Prince Maekar,” you told the guards, giving them your name, and they escorted you to where the prince waited. You noticed their eyes lingering on the side of your face. In your hurry, you had forgotten to style your hair to cover the scarring. You jutted out your chin and followed them into the room. Your black braid swung across your back as you walked.

“My prince,” you said, lowering into a curtsey as the guards departed, standing outside the door of the solar no doubt. “Maester Yormwell did inform you I would be attending to you?” You simply wished to be certain lest you were made to feel a fool.

“He did, he insisted you are no stranger to these injuries. My stitches have opened up,” he replied, his violet eyes studying intently.

“Then I should examine you right away.” You removed the bag from your shoulder, unpacking your supplies as Prince Maekar undid his breeches. You kept your eyes trained downward, wanting to give him a modicum of privacy, as soon you would not be able to. You swept your long, dark braid over your shoulder, further revealing your scars and jagged flesh on the left side of your face and the lump of tissue that served as your ear. 

There was a sadness in Maekar’s eyes as he stood stoically while you examined his right upper thigh. Indeed, the stitches had opened, and blood oozed from the wound.

“I’ll remove the old stitches, clean the wound, and resow. This will still, would you like some milk of the poppy?” you offered.

“No,” he replied simply.

You carefully removed the thread, marveling at the thickness of his muscles beneath your palm. You had heard that Prince Maekar was a beast in battle. You flushed out the wound until the water ran clean. The edges of the wound were clean, no doubt from a sharp blade.

“Was this done by a sword, Your Grace?” you asked softly.

“Your brother’s,” he said dryly, and you had to bite your lip.

“It was you who killed his horse,” you whispered, steadily threading the needle.

“Men cannot be faulted for what is done in battle.”

“My brother would agree,” you said, pushing the needle into his flesh. He hissed, fingers curling under his hands. You worked quickly yet safely to ensure the wound was tightly secured. “There, it should give you no issue now.”

“Who taught you this skill?” he inquired as you prepared a dressing made with honey to place on top of the wound.

“Our Maester at Storm’s End. I know it is unusual, but I have always been eager to learn, and he was kind enough to teach me,” you explained. “My brothers and their friends had a knack for getting into brawls and becoming injured.”

Maekar reached out, taking hold of your chin and tilting your face as he studied the left side. The pink and white raised scarring started beneath your eye socket and trailed down to your shoulder blade. The hunt had been to drive a pack of wolves that had been consuming various wildlife and animals from the surrounding lands: sheep, pigs, and chickens. You had joined your father and brothers and learned just how fearsome the wolf pack was. One had attacked your horse’s leg, causing you to fall and meet a cruel fate from his powerful jaws as he ripped apart your flesh. Your father slaughtered that wolf and mounted its head above your bed.

“He tried, but he could not take my lovely doe, could he?” your father smiled, staying by your side as the Maester attended to you. Your brother took turns keeping watch and keeping you company. Thread stitched together your torn flesh, and bandages covered your face to help you heal. The pain was horrendous, and you were in a haze from the poppy’s milk, yet you lived, forever bearing the scars of the attack. For the next five years, you took to wearing a veil to conceal the damage.

“Baratheon women are a strong stock,” Maekar hummed. You searched for disgust or pity in his sad eyes, but found none. Instead, there was a hint of admiration.

“So I am told,” you smiled. His knuckles grazed over the puckered, rough flesh.

“Might I ask you to attend to my sons?”

“It would be my honor, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.”

Maekar asked if you would accompany him and his sons back to Summerhall, as Aerion still had a great deal of healing to do, and Daeron’s leg was on the mend. Lyonel hesitated to part with you, but gave his permission since you were long a woman grown. Summerhall was not too far from Storm’s End, and he sent one of his guards to help keep an eye on you. You were delighted by Maekar’s daughters, Daella and Rhae, and when you weren’t attending to the men of the house, you were dragged into tea parties and sweet girlish adventures with them. Their curious, small fingers explored the scars of your face, listening with wide eyes as you explained how you got them.

“You know how to use a bow and arrow?” Daella gasped.

“Mhmm, a sword and dagger as well,” you smiled.

The girls ran off, giggling, to find their father and pester him about taking up such endeavours. 

“They like you,” Daeron smiled as you examined his leg. He was able to flex and bend it with ease now.

“I never had sisters growing up; they are sweet girls,”  you said.

“Swee girls who miss their mother,” Daeron murmured.

“I suppose you all do. Mine died when I was but ten. Some wounds never heal,” you reasoned. “We can take the brace off, but you must still use the crutch to aid.”

“Wonderful,” Daeron sighed.

That evening, Prince Maekar requested your presence for a private supper. “My daughters have grown quite fond of you.” You were used to him silently moving about the castle, cocooned in his own grief, and at family dinners, he was generally quiet. You had forgotten how lovely his voice was.

The venison melted on your tongue. “I find myself enjoying your household very much, Your Grace.”

“Maekar, you must call me Maekar,” he insisted. “Your presence has been a breath of fresh air.”

Your heart thrummed, and heat overtook your face. “I have enjoyed it here, very much, Maekar,” you whispered. His name sounded strange on your tongue. Yet it also felt just right.

“I have always enjoyed a dark-haired woman,” he murmured, his violet eyes flickering to meet your dark ones.

Your jaw dropped open, and you gripped your cup, draining it as you hoped the sweet white would calm your nerves. You had long given up the hope of ever finding a suitor. You did not think any of the noble houses would wish for their son to marry a disfigured woman. Your father thought differently, constantly writing to secure a marriage pact. He made Lyonel promise to look after you, and he did. He once cut the tongue out of a Bracken man who made a disparaging comment about your appearance.

“I…am hardly worthy of being the wife to a Targaryen prince,” you stated, tears welling in your eyes. You felt too tall, too plump, too marred, too imperfect for anyone to love. Yet the way Maekar looked at you in this moment, you felt differently. The dragon looked ready to devour the doe.

Maekar’s palms pressed against the table as he stood, and it took him only two strides to reach you. He gripped your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“You will never utter such nonsense again,” he said sternly, and you could only swallow, but the lump remained in your throat. “You wear battle scars, same as me.”

“I hardly think what I suffered from the jaws of a wolf could compare to what The Anvil did at Redgrass Field,” you scoffed.

You gasped as his hands wrapped around your upper arms before tugging you to your feet. His mouth crashed against your heatedly. You clutched at his shoulders, letting his tongue claim your mouth.

“No more nonsense,” he scolded, tracing his thumb over your swollen lips. His mouth pressed against your face, feeling the raised flesh of the left side. You whimpered, but did not push him away. It seemed the dragon had claimed his doe.

Maekar announced the betrothal the next morning. Daeron offered up his congratulations, and the girls were thrilled. Aerion scowled.

“You mean to marry this beast?” he growled.

You barely had time to blink as Maekar moved so quickly, hauling Aerion to his feet.

“Boy, Ser Duncan should have knocked more sense into that thick head of yours on the field. She is to be my wife, and you will respect her. She helped to tend to your wounds.”

“She is ugly!”

Maekar’s hand cracked against Aerion’s face, and you jumped in your chair. Daeron busied himself with draining his cup, and the girls looked down at their plates. You held your tongue; it was not your place to tell a father how to discipline his son. Aerion’s words stung, but you were used to sharp, barbed words over the years. Aerion spat out the blood from his split lip.

“Her brother fought against us at the Trial; he wounded you, or have you forgotten?” Aerion hissed.

“Do not speak to me of brothers, boy. Her brother fought to defend a man whose honor had been slandered by my own blood.” I killed my brother defending you. Words unsaid, yet their phantom cut through the air. “You'd best apologize to her right now, or you’ll be sleeping in the stables amongst the animals. If you cannot accept her and be civil, you will no longer have a place in my house,” Maekar growled.

Aerion’s heated gaze turned to you. “My apologies, Lady Baratheon.” The fire still burned in his amethyst eyes.

“Thank you,” you whispered. Maekar released his grip on his son and returned to his seat. The food was finished in silence, and after Rhae moved into your arms. Maekar retired to his solar to send a missive to Egg and Aemon.

“You are not ugly at all,” Rhae said tearfully.

You smiled, holding her close and rubbing her back. “Shh, your brother did not hurt my feelings, but I appreciate your sweet words all the same.”

“Will you show me how to use a dagger?” she sniffled.

You suppressed a laugh. “Only if you promise me I will not find you in your brother’s chambers, hovering over his body with it.”

She sighed heavily. “I promise.”

You married in the summer, heat blazing across the Storm Lands, but you didn’t mind. You were a gown of blood red, with a sash of midnight black, adorned with shimmering dragonglass beads. An opulent ruby dangled from your right ear, and a large one clung to your finger. A gift from your new husband. The girls helped style your hair, so your scars were partially concealed. 

“I cannot believe you married a fucking Targaryen,” Lyonel groaned before bursting into laughter. “I am happy for you, sister. I know Father would be. He always hoped you would wed a good man. I suppose Maekar Targaryen counts as one.”

“Thank you, brother,” you smiled, the black cloak with the red Targaryen sigil fell down your back.

“Now come dance with me before I leave you forever in the clutches of dragons,” he laughed, dragging you into the middle of the room. Rhae and Daella held hands as they spun around together. You laughed as you danced with your brother, feeling dizzy as he spun you. You gasped, finding yourself in Maekar’s tight embrace. One arm remained around your waist while the other took hold of your hand before he whirled you around the dance floor like a commander leading an army into battle. You were surprised, not knowing he possessed such skill. Applause rang through the air when you two finished the dance. 

Aerion remained in a sour mood, but wisely kept his mouth shut, though you couldn’t ignore the look of pure vengeance in his eyes. You doubted the spoiled prince wished to sleep amongst the horses. However, you wouldn’t mind him sleeping in a ditch for one night. It seemed to agree with young Egg, who told you all of his adventures with Ser Duncan when they arrived two days ago. Even the Citadel had permitted Aemon leave to join in the festivities. You knew it warmed Maekar’s heart to have all his children at home. Daeron seemed taken with your cousin, Maris, and had barely touched his cup of wine all evening. Perhaps the soft eyed does were meant for the dragons.

The celebrations continued, but you retired to the bedroom with your husband. You trembled as he undressed you, and you did the same to him. Your fingers explored the pink and red scars that marred his chest, arms, and thighs. You pressed your mouth against his pale neck, nibbling with your teeth until red blossomed across his skin.

“This one I remember well,’ you murmured, stroking the scar on his inner right thigh, the one you had stitched together yourself.

“Barely noticeable, a testament to my wife’s skills,” he rasped, one large hand curling against the curve of your arse, making you mewl. You did not yearn for softness tonight; you wanted the dragon’s flames.

He lifted you with ease, and for the first time in your life, you felt like a small, delicate, trembling deer in the hands of a voracious predator. He held your ankles in his hands as his pelvis slapped against your flesh. Your eyes rolled back, letting him take control. Your nipples hardened, the rough pads of your fingers toying with them as Maekar fucked you. It was delicious. He took you twice more that evening.

You woke in his arms, curling against his large chest, pressing your face into the silvery white hair, and nuzzling the warm tufts. He lazily dragged his fingers through your long, dark hair.

“Good morrow, my wife,” he whispered.

“Good morrow, husband.”

The two of you dressed in black robes before the servants filed in with food and wine in which to break your fast. You smiled at the golden cup decorated with a powerful stag’s head; a wedding present from Lyonel.

“Never forget you are a powerful stag, sister. Do not allow these dragons to fuck with you,” Lyonel whispered in your ear as you danced with him.

You lifted the goblet to your mouth, wrinkling your nose at the rotten smell.

“And what is this?” Maester Lothan whispered as he waved the scent beneath your nose.

There was a golden blindfold wrapped around your eyes, and you made a face.

“Nightshade,” you answered. Foul, bitter, damp earth, rotten scraps of food.

“Very good, remember this one, my lady. This one is oft found slipped in wine.”

“What is wrong?” Maekar asked, seeing the look on your face.

“Someone has put nightshade in my wine,” you stated evenly.

“I will strangle that boy myself,” Maekar fumed.

You moved quickly in front of him, placing your hands on his chest.

“Stop! You cannot be sure it was him!” 

“I do not believe any of my servants would poison you.”

You cupped his cheek. “Please bring Prince Aerion to our chambers,” you instructed the steward. He nodded with wide eyes before scampering away. “Allow me to handle this, husband.”

“Why have I been woken?” Aerion scowled as Maekar dismissed the rest of the attendants, leaving the three of you alone.

“To explain why you slipped nightshade into my wine,” you stated. When the steward was sent away, Elyane, one of the kitchen maids, tearfully admitted that Aerion was seen in the kitchens early this morning, but she had no idea what he had done.

“Father, surely you do not believe this beast,” Aerion huffed, and your hand slapped across his face so hard that his ears rang. It made Maekar wince.

“My brother has taken tongues of men who called me far worse. Shall I fetch him? Or perhaps I should take it myself?” you hissed.

“You would dare touch a dragon?”

“I would dare to put a spoiled prince in his place. I survived a wolf tearing half my face off, do you think you scare me so? You are, but flesh and blood, and my antlers can rip through flesh and blood.”

“Father, you would allow her to speak to me in such a manner?”

“Boy, I would put my belt in her hands and let her whip you if that’s what she desired,” Maekar said dryly. “You are a disgrace to the family name.” Aerion paled.

“That is not my wish, but I do think you should send him away, husband,” you said simply.

“W…what?” Aerion stammered.

“Exile him,” you addressed Maekar, ignoring Aerion.

“You would choose her over me?” Aerion whined.

Maekar stepped close, holding Aerion’s face in his hands. “I do not know how to handle you anymore. You grow more vicious by the day. Your uncle is dead because of your antics. I love you, but you must learn. You will be sent to Lys. Now I suggest you leave before I break my promise to my wife and wrap my hands around your throat.”

Aerion left the room with slumped shoulders, and Maekar took your hand.

“You are fearsome, wife.”

“I learned early to hold my own,” you smiled.

“I do not wish for food right now, I hunger only for you,” he hummed, pulling you close.

~~

You slipped a plump grape between your lips as you watched Maera chase after her older half-siblings, her little legs determined to keep up with them. Egg scooped her into his arms, whirling her around and making her scream with delight. You smiled, fluttering your golden fan to stave off the humid air. You loved your daughter dearly, cherishing her as you decided she would be your first and only. Not that you weren’t tempted at times to provide Maekar with as many hatchlings as you could safely deliver. But he already had six to provide for, and you did not wish to make him feel burdened. Plus, you felt like a mother toward the little ones.

You took to wearing your hair braided back or swept into elegant updos, no longer feeling the need to hide behind veils or your hair. You also traded in your pale yellow and golden gowns for more elegant silks of blue, crimson, violet, and green. You were the lady of the house after all and married to a dragon prince. You finally felt peace in your own skin and beloved by your new family.

“Come, children, time to take a break from the heat,” you called out to them, motioning them to join you under the canopy. There were cups of cold milk, sweetened with honey, and fresh pomegranate juice for them to enjoy, along with fruits, nuts, cheese, bread, and cakes. Ser Duncan snored in a corner, pillows propped under his large body and belly full.

Maekar returned from his survey of the grounds, tugging off his gloves. He bent to kiss you, then each of the children, starting with Maera first. He fondly rubbed Egg’s bald head.

“Father, will you play hide and seek with us?” Rhae asked, pouting sweetly.

“May I have five minutes of peace?” he asked her kindly. She seemed to think about this before nodding her agreement. 

“They tired Ser Duncan out,” you whispered into his ear.

You poured your husband a cup of chilled wine as he sat beside you. “Daeron has asked permission to marry your cousin, Maris. I believe I heard your brother’s scream all the way from Storm’s End,” Maekar teased.

“Oh, how he is cursed with having dragons for family members now,” you laughed. Maera climbed into her father’s lap, tucking her head against his chest, her thick dark hair fanning over his doublet. He cupped the back of her head tenderly. He absolutely adored her.

“Mmm, are you sure I can’t convince you for another one?” Maekar whispered. “Eight seems a good number.” There was a twinkle in his violet eyes, his lips curving into a mischievous smile.

You smiled against the edge of your cup. “I suppose I would be open to negotiations, dear husband,” you teased as your womb began to ache.

“Seven Hells, Princess, what if we’re caught. It’ll be my head on a spike and my cock thrown into the sea,”

Princess YN Baratheon suppressed a giggle. “We’ve done this half a hundred times,” she whispered. She mounted the torch in a bracket, the flickering flames making the shadows cast by the dragon skulls dance. “My septa is busy with the children’s lessons. Father is hunting with half the court, and Joff too,”

“‘Tisn’t your father I’m concerned about,” Clegane said, but he was unbuckling his belt all the same.

“Oh, mother is with Uncle Jaime somewhere,” she said with a shrug. “Now hurry,” she insisted, hoisting herself up onto a ledge.

Sandor’s mouth twisted into a grin that any other princess would find grotesque, terrifying. But YN was no ordinary princess. A young woman of surpassing loveliness, with thick black hair that fell to her waist, a pale heart shaped face studded with eyes like sapphires- it made a pleasant change from all the blonde he was surrounded by as Joff’s sworn sword. They had been seeing each other like this for months, snatching kisses in alcoves, in the Godswood where no southerner went, and now, apparently, fucking in the caverns beneath the Red Keep, surrounded by the skulls of the Targaryen Dragons.

With a sigh, he watched as the princess opened her thighs, hitching her skirts up to her hips. He ran his calloused fingers through her folds, but she shook her head. “Hurry,” she insisted- and who was he to disobey a royal command such as that?

He brought his fingers to his mouth and groaned, sucking her wetness from them. “One day,” he said with a growl. “I am going to bury my head between your legs and devour that royal cunt of yours,”

He was pleased to see her squirm.

When he entered her, she gasped at the intrusion, as she always did, and he rested his head on the rough stone above her head as he felt her warm tightness clench down on him. “A fucking vice,” he grunted.

She moaned lowly, the sound echoing like a ghost’s groan around the dim cavern.

The pits beneath the Red Keep were soon filled with the sounds of skin slapping, and the slurping noises of her cunt as it clung to him despite his thrusts. He did not need to be rough with her, he found- it was as though her cunt were made to fit around him. He brought her to completion quickly, swallowing her cries with a kiss, before swiftly pulling out from her, splattering her thighs with his own release.

After a moment’s reprieve, she reached into her sleeve and produced a handkerchief trimmed with plain lace. He cleaned her up as best he could, running the lace between her legs and smirking as she quaked.

“Keep it,” she whispered. “My initials aren’t on it, so if it is found, no one will suspect us,”

He nodded, bringing the kerchief to his nose and inhaling their mingled scent deeply.

“Come on, Princess,” he murmured. “Back to your tower, before our absence is noticed,”

War brings out the demons we all try to hide beneath pretty clothes, polite smiles and cordial exchange in courts. But war? It brings out the worst in them. All the demons hiding beneath the surface see the light of the day.

My father was a man quite opposite of his father—my grandfather, Boremund. To him, his interests outweighed his loyalty—to his family, his daughters and the crown. It was the reason why I was here, in the Red Keep, all dressed up pretty and sitting in the Dowager Queen’s chambers, listening to her console me as if I held my marriage any dearer than she did hers.

Aemond Targaryen. The Second Son of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen. Brother of the now maimed King. Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm. My husband—who had barely ever acknowledged me other than the nights where he was to fulfil his marital obligations to me.

I had never dreamed of a marriage of love, or a knight in shining armour for myself. My mother—before she passed away—had made sure I, of all my sisters, know the reality of marriage in the world we live. That noblewomen like us seldom ever marry for love, or even find it in our lives. She did not love my father, that we all knew. But it was her duty to give him heirs—something she failed to do, as my father diligently kept reminding me while he was walking me down the aisle to the one-eyed prince. “Do not be an image of your mother. Give the prince sons and not daughters.” As if I had any control over it.

But what my mother failed to tell me was that men are bastards. All of them. Whether born out of a wedlock or otherwise. What she failed to tell me was that not all men respect their wives’ name in the court and retort to seek pleasure in other women’s arms and bodies when they are away.

And what I had failed to understand until it was too late, was that while Aemond pretended to be honourable and dutiful and dedicated to the realm, that I wasn’t the recipient of that dedication and loyalty. That I was only a token of an alliance between the Green fraction of the House of the Dragon and the Baratheons.

Larys Strong’s network of spies was a wicked little play of power that, for now, assisted the interests of the Greens. But I wondered, how long before he sets the eye on the Iron Throne? It was one of his spies stationed in Harrenhall that brought the news of my husband’s infidelity with no less a bastard who supposedly practices witchcraft. A Alys Rivers—a healer for the House Strong in Harrenhall.

Alicent had—out of sympathy or simply out of duty—called me and gently told me the truth, if Larys and his little rats were to be believed. Her cooing words of comfort and wide doe eyes filled with barely concealed sympathy reminded me a bit of my mother, but I was severely numb to actually compare the former Queen with the lady that passed away during childbirth.

I merely sat at the edge of the sofa Alicent had guided me to when I had arrived in her chambers, a soft practiced smile and formalities on tongue. So very different from the numb piece of breathing, living woman I had turned into when the words left her lips in a hushed voice. I didn’t even hear the whole of her words, just “Aemond”, “bastard named Alys Rivers” and “in his chambers in Harrenhall”. What else was there to listen? I certainly didn’t want anymore information on my disloyal husband—maybe even dishonourable.

“My dear, say something.” I blinked as the words fell on my ears, taking me out of my trance. I looked to my side, at the Dowager Queen who sat beside me, her long hair open and natural as they fell in curls over her back, eyes wide and looking at me with a maternal concern that had me shifting subtly in my seat. I do not know what would be appropriate to speak. No septa ever taught me what to say if I ever found out that my husband was with another woman, while I rotted in a castle that ate away at my sanity, one moment after another.

“Is she pretty?”

Was this Alys Rivers like me? Or did she have Valyrian features like the Targaryens and the Velaryons? Long snowy hair and bright eyes like my husband and his siblings and half-sister. Or was she like the Northerners? I hear they possess great beauty—a kind of raw beauty—unlike us Southerners. Was she young? Younger than me and Aemond? Or was she older than the two of us, more experienced in the ways of pleasure unlike myself who ever knew only one man—my husband?

My mind slowly processed Alicent’s flinch at my words, and a part of my conscience felt disappointed in myself to put her in a difficult position. She had been kind to me, in a manner that made me grateful, especially when the rest of Maegor’s Keep acted as if I was superior to them—which perhaps I was, in marriage to the present Prince Regent.

I stood up before she could answer my question, afraid that her reply would hurt me, whatever it would be. “No, my dear. Of course not.” That would mean that Aemond didn’t bed Alys because she was pretty, but because she made him feel things I could never; satisfy him in a manner I could never. What could be more humiliating than that? To know that I was incompetent in the single thing that was expected of me? Nothing. Nothing at all. “I am afraid that is true, my dear.” Which would only mean that I wasn’t pretty enough to attract my husband, that despite any and every attempt at winning some of his affections, I was simply not good enough in his eyes to be worthy of his love or affection or even, his attention.

Alicent stared at me, still sat upon the sofa while I turned around and dipped into a curtsy. Can Alys Rivers do a curtsy? I suppose she can, especially if she was only a healer. She must have curtsied more times than any of the noblewomen’s have.

“May I leave, your grace?” The sound of my voice—cold and foreign—made me flinch, but I didn’t care for it, or for the protest that surely sat on Alicent’s lips, ready to stop me and comfort me some more. I only nodded at her respectfully and I left her chambers in silent contemplation—of the reasons behind my husband’s infidelity and my own incompetence to keep him.

The guards and the servants in the corridors all greeted me with the same chants of “my lady”, an occasional “princess” as well. If only they knew that the latter title meant nothing to me anymore.

I opened the door to my chamber only to find my lady-in-waiting and several other chambermaids preparing a bath. So much for privacy to mourn my broken marriage.

So, I did what any woman of my stature would do. I pulled a pleasant smile, while the insides of me broke some more and the muscle of my cheek hurt. “What is all of this for?” I queried, gently stepping toward the center of my chambers only to take notice of the dress laid on my bed. Black skirt and bodice embroidered with a deep green thread, designs of leaves and delicate flowers with trimmings of the same deep green lace on the hem of the sleeves and the skirt.

“Vhagar was spotted nearby, Princess.” Of course she was. My husband’s mount. The proud, old Vhagar that chewed away Prince Lucerys Velaryon and his dragon in the skies. A brutal, merciless death. But since when was Aemond Targaryen merciful?

“Oh.” I struggled to keep the smile on my face, but I had years of experience on keeping a façade on. Especially since I had stood beside my father, on my mother’s funeral, while he tried to secure me a suitor. At just twelve, I had smiled at older men and lords while the insides of me churned in grief at losing my mother to a boy that died soon after. A tragedy.

The ladies only nodded, before my lady-in-waiting stepped behind me, opening the ties that held my simple dress together. How I wished to dismiss them all and shred the dress that lay on my bed to pieces. But I couldn’t do so, wouldn’t do so. And hence, I only placed my part with a smile and a broken heart, stepping out of the now discarded dress and into the warm water that did nothing to ease my heart and soul.

Soon enough, my body was washed and scented with oils of rose and lavender, hair washed and combed and left for drying and the new dress tied around me—restricting my breath, both figuratively and literally.

I felt lonely even when my ladies chatted and giggled over how the one-eyed prince is lucky to have a wife such as myself. I chuckled with them, no doubt I did, but the void in my chest only gaped with the reminder of how this marriage was only a prison for me and nothing else. A part I am supposed to play forever and ever until I take my last breath.

The doors to my chamber opened when my lady-in-waiting was braiding my hair, and I didn’t need to look up to know it was Aemond, because the hush that fell over the ladies prepping me up for him was an indication enough.

“Leave,” he commanded, his voice cold as the sea water, held enough rigidity to have all the other ladies scurrying away while murmuring rushed “my prince” and “my princess”. But my lady-in-waiting remained—not out of protectiveness or love—but out of confusion. She looked between myself and him, wondering if she should complete the braid or to let my hair fall naturally.

I didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge his pre scene through the mirror of my vanity or by standing up and greeting him. I only sat helplessly, picking at my nail bed while my eyes remained downcast.

“Did you not hear me?” He menaced, voice not rising but dropping to a low growl that had my lady-in-waiting dipping in a low curtsy, my braid long forgotten. “Apologies, my prince,” she murmured, her voice betraying her fear. I imagine she was still in that curtsy, head tipped down, hands shakily fisting the skirt of her dress while she waited for the Prince Regent to say something.

I sighed, before gently telling her to leave, standing up and finally turning around to look at my husband—who glared coldly at the trembling figure that left my chambers. He looked still the same, except for his long hair that looked less silky now and more war-rugged. But he had been on the frontier for quite a while now, maybe as long as Alys has been in her bed.

His features had also taken the toll of war. His cheekbones and jawline had sharpened, if that was even possible, the scar running along his face even menacing, thanks to the small almost invisible scars that marred his face. His blue eye had always been cold, observant in a way that made me shiver whenever his gaze fell on me. But now, it felt even more deadlier, as if he wasn’t just looking at me, but looking through me.

“Wife,” one single word of his had a shiver run down my spine, but I dutifully dipped in a curtsy, greeting him back, “husband.”

I watched as he closed the door behind him, caging me in this golden cage with a monster like himself. One that could devour me without any care for a consequence. Fear settled in the pits of my stomach, but along with it, was a slowly simmering anger. For the infidelity he committed, for the way he repaid my loyalty with a stain on my reputation—on our marriage.

“It has been a while,” he commented, filling the air that pulsed with tension between us, stepping closer before leaning on the canopy of my bed, still watching me like a predator preparing to pounce. Perhaps, I was the prey, but that didn’t mean that I would go down without a fight, especially when I don’t really need to obey him when he will, at the end, return to that witch’s bed.

So, I did something truly uncharacteristic of myself.

I tipped my chin up, and I smiled—not a sweet, polite, welcome-home-husband smile. A cold, dry smile that tethered on the line of being that and a sneer.

“Didn’t think you would notice, husband,” I replied with a tilt of my head, stepping around my vanity chair and moving to pour myself a cup of wine. But remembering never to turn my back on him.

My father had taught me that. To never turn your back on a predator, never let it out of your sight. One thing good, he did.

Aemond raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering with uncertainty before he masked it. But I caught it anyway. The realisation that the little fawn has developed her heightened senses and her speed. That she has grown up in a deer that knows when to run and protect herself.

“I fail to understand what you imply, wife.” The words were growled out, a silent warning to stop. But I won’t, not when my heart ached despite never loving him.

“Perhaps you should ask Alys Rivers.”

The look on his face was worth ever danger I was about to face. The surprise in his eyes, the parting of his lips and a dropped jaw. He hadn’t expected me to know, and he hadn’t expected me to comment on it even if I found it out. Unfortunate for him, I wasn’t a fan of doing what was expected of me once I was pushed over my limit.

He took a moment to recover, but then, his jaw tightened, fingers clenched in fist tight enough to turn his pale knuckles white. His eye flared with anger—dragon’s rage, my mother would say. But I wasn’t my mother—I was anything but her.

“Cautious, wife. I wouldn’t say anything further if I were you.” That was a genuine threat, one I wasn’t stupid enough to ignore. But I was hurt, by his actions and by his assumption that I would just let him do anything he wished for without fighting back.

“Oh? But unfortunate for you, I am not you.”

I realised I shouldn’t have said that when Aemond minimised the gap between us in two long strides, his lithe fingers wrapping around my throat with a force that had me stumbling backwards, my hips meeting the edge of the table harshly. His fingers tightened around my neck, enough to leave a bruise for later on and to take away my ability to breathe freely.

His face was dangerously close to mine—way closer than it ever has been. “Disrespect me further and you will regret it, wife,” he warned, venom coating his dagger like words, his fingers punctuating his threat with a squeeze that had my instincts flaring. My hands moved on their own accords, clawing at his hand that had restrained my breathing to the minimum—enough to leave me conscious but not sufficient enough to keep my body from reacting. I attempted to push him back, thrashing in front of his gaze, but I didn’t possess a strength that could overpower his.

He watched me, silent and unreadable, but his grip had loosened and I took in a greedy breath. I was scared—no doubt about it. I would be a fool if I wasn’t, especially when he had slain his kin before in the name of the war. When the court quietly speculated that he had tried to kill the maimed king Aegon—his own brother—in pursuits of the Iron Throne. What is a wife he doesn’t like to the likes of a brother he has grown up with?

But I also knew that he won’t risk killing me, not when the war wasn’t yet won and the Baratheon army and lands were of great significance to his fraction. While I know my father would only mourn me for a while before either marrying another sister of mine to Aemond or negotiate better terms with the Blacks, he didn’t. And he won’t try to find it out.

He let go of me after a while, taking a step back before turning around and marching out of my chambers and to only gods know where—not that I wanted to know right now. I just hurried over to the door, shutting it close and barring it before I turned around, back pressed to the wood as I finally found the privacy to let go.

My knees wobbled before giving out, and I was reduced to nothing but a heap of black and green silk and silent tears that rolled down my cheeks. The silence of my chambers pierced through my ears, clenching my heart in an unforgiving fist while my mind rushed to the two men who were responsible for this cruel fate of mine.

My father—Borros Baratheon. A coward. A greedy, pathetic excuse of a lord who conveniently forgot his oath of loyalty for the fulfilment of his personal goals—which still remain a mystery to me. What does he want? Wealth? Status? Pride? Perhaps, even he doesn’t know.

My husband—Aemond Targaryen. A Kinslayer. An unfaithful partner. Perhaps, even a fool. Murderer of his own nephew Lucerys Velaryon and his dragon Arrax. Slayer of his aunt Rhaenys Targaryen and her dragon Meleys. Executioner of Ser Simon Strong and his kin.

If only I could curse my father for this…abomination of a marriage I find myself part of. If only I had some say in this. Or perhaps, if only I was born to a father who wasn’t blinded by his greed or self-interests.