#dragonstone

“It doesn’t have to be like that.” Rhaenyra tells her with sad eye’s.

“I do not want to lose my freedom. That’s what marriage will get me.” Y/n shook her head.

“If you take the time to find a man that you like and you get to know him you could find one that won’t treat you that way.” Rhaenyra tries to tell her hoping she’d understand that not all relationships have to be that way. She wasn’t all that shocked that her daughter viewed marriage the way she did when she was younger. But it saddened her that Y/n’s view on relationships was so bleak. Her own marriage wasn’t horrible to Laenor and neither was her marriage to Daemon. But Rhaenyra knew that she had been lucky in that department.

“He could lie just to get me to like him and then lock me away after our vows are said.” Y/n told her, it was one of her fears. Being lied to and falling for someone only to marry and then for them to show their colors and control her.

“I won’t let that happen.” Rhaenyra promises her daughter reaching for her shoulders and looking her in the eye’s. But she could tell Y/n didn’t fully believe her and Rhaenyra blamed herself. For staying in King's Landing to long and her seeing such horrible relationships there of all kinds.

Rhaenyra knew Y/n was done talking about this for the time being so with a reminder to wash up before dinner later before leaving back to the castle of DragonStone. Once she got back to her chambers it wasn’t a surprise to her that her husband/uncle was there already.

“How’d it go?” Daemon asked, looking up noticing his wife/niece enter the room.

“She wants nothing to do with looking for a sutor or getting married.” She sighed.

“Did she give a reason?” Daemon questioned knowing Y/n more than likely had a good reason. After all she was the product of him and Rhaenyra before her marriage to Laenor, he and Y/n had a great relationship.

“She doesn’t want to lose her freedom.” Rhaenyra tell’s him, summing up the conversation she had with their daughter.

“She’s exactly like her mother.” Daemon smirked proudly.

Rhaenyra opened her mouth at his statement. “I was-”

“Exactly the same way. But you had a different type of duty to uphold. She doesn’t have to carry the weight of it like you did and because of that we can take our time and so can she. That way we can make sure Y/n doesn’t end up in a loveless marriage.” Daemon interrupted walking over to her and cupping the back of her neck putting their foreheads together. Neither of them planned to let any of their children be in loveless marriages.

“There’s a celebration in a week’s time. Maybe someone there will catch her interest.” She spoke after thinking over his words.

“Hmmhmm.” Daemon hummed but he was convinced his little dragon wouldn’t curve her view that easily. Someone would have to really work for her affections.

^     ^     ^

It was finally the day of the celebration and Rhaenyra and Daemon along with all their children had flown on dragon back to the Red Keep. They weren’t the only ones to travel for the celebration, lords and ladies and others had traveled far for the celebrations. 

But Y/n knew the ball being held was also a way to subtly get her introduced to the available men of the realm for potential suitors. Y/n was standing before her mirror looking at herself in the ball gown specifically made for tonight. It was beautiful, Y/n thought.

“Come in.” Y/n called out at the knock on her chamber door.

“You look beautiful.” Rhaenyra smiled at her beautiful daughter as she entered the room and walked over to stand right behind her.

“Thank you.” Y/n looked at her mother in the mirror through their reflections.

“I know you're probably not excited about tonight. But I ask that you at least try.” She pleaded with her hoping she’d at least give it a chance.

“I will try. But no guarantees.” Y/n sighed not really wanting to but she’d try. For her mom she’d try.

“That's all I ask.” Rhaenyra smiled gratefully.

Later at the celebration Daemon had noticed Y/n was trying to just stay in the corner to be unseen. Just observing the ball so he decided to go over to her and talk to her figuring it was the perfect time.

“I see you look so thrilled to be here.” Daemon said as he stood next to his daughter.

“Over the moon.” Y/n said with a flat tone of voice. Both observed the people filling the room.

“I can understand your feelings about this. There warranted. But may I ask you to do something?” He spoke up tilting his head down in her direction.

“Mother already gave me the ‘At least try’ talk.” Y/n rolled her eyes looking back at him.

“I’m not going to tell you to try.” He scoffed.

Y/n furrowed her brow confused. “Then what?”

“I just want to ask you to be nice to the poor bastards that are here to try and woo you.” Daemon sent her a wink followed by a mischievous smile.

“I’ll tell you what I told my mother. I’ll try but there are no guarantees.” Y/n smiled up at him with the same mischief.

“That's my dragon.” Daemon kissed her forehead before giving off in search of his wife/niece.

Y/n was polite to everyone that came over to talk but most seemed to lose interest and leave her be when she showed no interest in fawning all over them. Y/n didn’t mind, she wasn’t going to be something that she’s not.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.” Cregan Stark leaned down to whisper in her ear from behind.

Y/n turned her head slightly at the voice. It was very close but surprisingly not unwelcome. “You're very observant.”

“Cregan Stark.” He introduced himself as he moved around to stand in front of her and bowed.

“Y/n Targaryen.” She nodded her head in acknowledgment.

“I can tell.” Cregan smiled leaning in closely but not to close to crowd her.

“Oh?” Y/n raised a brow.

“You are glaring daggers. If looks could kill princess, well . . .” He tilted his head teasingly. Which was shocking to anyone that knew the Warden of the North if they saw him. It wasn’t in his nature but for some reason it came easy if the princesses company.

Y/n was intrigued by his playful nature so she turned her body to face him. Both of them are leaning against the wall near them. In their own little bubble they created rather quickly.

“And here I thought I was being subtle.” Y/n answered.

“You mask it pretty well with boredom.” He nodded telling her she was in fact masking it but not from him.

“Oh well that I’m not trying to hide.” She looked him up and down, almost challenging him to change that.

“And why are you so bored and dare I say angry? If I may ask, of course.” Cregan placed a hand on his chest mocking hurt.

“You may Lord Stark.” Y/n was shocked on the inside at his humor and the fact he came up to her and didn’t start off with talking himself up or marriage. He wanted to joke, have a real conversation with her as if they didn’t have titles attached to their names. “This whole night is a set up for me to find potential suitors.”

“And that causes such a reaction?” he questioned with a comically shocked look.

“Yes. I don’t want to find a suitor. That means getting married.” Y/n told him.

“And why do you despise marriage Princess?” Cregan was genuinely wanting to know why she felt so strongly against marriage.

“I don’t want to be locked away and controlled.” Y/n tells him straight.

“And that’s marriage to you?” Cregan wanted to know more. Like ‘Why?’ she felt that way. He knew things were different here than the North, but was it truly that different?

“Its what every man who is vieing for my hand wants. A name, status, and a woman to control and fuck to have their own heirs with. Nothing more. Not a woman with a mind of her own.” Y/n explains to him. She didn’t know why she felt she could tell him anything but he just felt different compared to everyone else.

Cregan nodded understanding her explanation and how true it was unfortunately. “You still want to do the things you love and enjoy. You don’t want to give up being your own person.”

Y/n looked him in the eyes shocked that he got it. “Exactly.”

“I don’t think you're being unreasonable. I think you just don’t wanna be a slave to your future husband.” He shook his head looking her in the eye’s with a kindness no suitor had ever looked at her with.

“That's what they all want. Slave for a wife, who shuts up and pushes out babies.” Y/n let out a sad laugh casting his gaze down.

“Yes, that’s what most of them want.” Cregan agreed but he took another step forward and cupped her cheek. The two were so close their chests were touching. Y/n looked back up and gazed into his eyes. “It’s not what I want.”

“Is that so?” Y/n looked into his eyes, curious but still cautious.

“Why don’t we dance, and talk? That way you can find out.” He held out his free hand as he offered to dance. Something that with anyone else he would not have offered to do.

Y/n thought about it for a moment debating if she truly believed him or not. And she did. Y/n put her hand in his. “Lead the way Lord Stark.”

“As you wish, princess.” Cregan smiled, leading her to the dance floor in the center of the room. Where the two only focused on the other the whole night, laughing and talking the whole time they danced.

“Looks like one man was brave enough to try and get to know her.” Daemon leaned in to speak in Rhaenyra’s ear. The couple knew Y/n was a pure dragon not just in blood but in attitude and it took someone brave to go up and be willing to get to know the sweet girl under the wall’s she had built to others. Of course the man brave enough was a Northern, a Stark no less.

“By the looks of it she seems to enjoy his company.” Rhaenyra smiled at the thought of her daughter having found someone that she’d let in and truly know her. Let someone make her happy in that special way that love can. “Maybe he’s the one.” She looked up to her uncle/husband with hope in her eyes.

“Eh, we’ll see about this.” Daemon smiled but he was also thinking of ways to test the young Stark. Make sure he was good enough for his little dragon.

Taglist:

It always started the same way: a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the salt-laden drafts of the Narrow Sea, followed by a blurring of the world's edges. The tapestries of the Targaryen conquest hanging in your chambers seemed to ripple, the woven dragons exhailing real smoke. The candles flickered, their flames turning a sickly, prophetic green before snuffed out by a wind no one else could feel.

You sat bolt upright in your bed, your nightgown damp with a cold sweat. Your twin, Daeron, was likely drowning his own visions in a flagon of wine across the hall, but your burden was different. Daeron saw the end of things; you saw the becoming.

A dragon alone, the whisper echoed in your mine, a voice like grinding stone. A shadow-twin against the iron rain. The shield that breaks before the storm.

"No", you gasped, clutching the silk sheets until your knuckles turned white. "Not tonight. Please".

But the Dragonmont — the great volcano that loomed over the fortress — felt restless in your marrow. You could feel the magma churning deep below, a reflection of the fire in your blood that was currently trying to burn its way out through your eyes. Every time you closed your eyelids, you saw it: a field of red grass, a crown falling into the mud, and pair of eyes — eyes you knew better than your own — shattering like glass.

You couldn't stay in the room. The air was too thick with the scent of old ash and impending rain.

Throwing a heavy cloak of charcoal wool over your shoulders, you fled. Your bare feet slapped against the cold obsidian floors of the corridor. The gargoyles perched atop the archways seemed to watch your pass, their stone eyes tracking the frantic Princess as you descended the winding, serpentine stairs. You avoided the Great Hall, where the guards of your uncle, Prince Baelor, stood vigil, and instead slipped through a narrow postern gate that led toward the sea.

The descent to the Black Beach was treatcherous in the dark. The path was a jagged scar cut into the cliffside, slick with the spray of a rising tide. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, choked with clouds that threatened a deluge.

When your feet finally hit the sand, the world felt slightly more real. The sand was not sand at all, but crushed volcanic glass, black as a raven's wing and twice as sharp. The Narrow Sea was a churning cauldron of iron-gray waves, crashing against the shore with a rhythmic, violent thud that mimicked the pounding in your own heart.

You walked until the salt spray stung your face, until your lungs burned with the frigid air. You stood at the edged of the water, where the foam licked at your toes like the tongues of ghosts.

"Is this it?", you shouted into the wind, your voice small against the roar of the ocean. "Is this the storm you want me to see?".

You closed your eyes, and for a second, the vision returned with terrifying clarity. You saw a man — tall, noble, dressed in the colors of your house — standing amidst a whirlwind of shadows. He was holding a shield, but the shield was made of glass and it was cracking. Behind him stood a girl, her face hidden, reaching for him as the sky turned to blood.

"It's just a dream", you whispered, your teeth chattering. "It's only a dream".

"It has never been 'just' a dream for you".

The voice was steady, grounded, and achingly familiar. It was the only sound in the world that could pull you back from the brink of the abyss.

You turned, your cloak billowing around you like a shroud. Standing few yards away, near the shadow of a jagged rock formation known as the Dragon's Tooth, was Valarr.

At this age, the son of Baelor Breakspear was a portrait of Targaryen perfection, yet tonight, the artifice was gone. He wore no circlet, no fine silks. He was dressed in simple leathers and a dark tunic, his dark hair dampened by the mist. He looked like a man who had been searching for something lost and, by the look in his mismatched eyes, he had just found it.

"Valarr", you breathed, the name a prayer.

"I went to your chambers", he said, stepping toward you. His movements were calculated, slow, as if he were approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any second. "Daeron was passed out, mumbling about wine and shadows. But your room...your room was cold. I knew you'd be here".

"I can't stop them", you said, your voice breaking as you gestured vaguely toward the horizon. "The ghost-fires...they're everywhere tonight. They're in the stones, Valarr. They're in the water".

Valarr stopped just inches from you. He was taller than you by a head, a solid wall of warmth in the freezing night. He didn't reach for you yet; he simply stood there, an anchor in the shifting sand.

"Then look at me", he commanded softly. "The stones don't speak, and the water has no memory. I am the only thing that is real right now".

"You don't understand", you sobbed, a single tear escaping and freezing on your cheek. "I saw you. I saw you in the storm, and you were breaking".

Valarr's expression didn't flicker. He didn't mock you or offer the hollow comforts of a septon. He simply reached out and took your hand. His palm was calloused from the sword, his grip firm and uncompromising.

"Then let me break", he said, his mismatched eyes locking onto yours with a fierce, terrifying intensity. "But I will not let you break with me. If the future is a storm, then we will find a way to silence it".

The wind howled, a predatory shriek that seemed to mock your words, but Valarr did not flinch. He remained a pillar of obsidian, his hand still anchoring yours to the present. The salt spray was a fine mist between you, coating your skin in a sticky, crystalline glaze. To the rest of the world, Valarr was the dutiful grandson of King Daeron II, the golden promise of a peaceful succession. But here, under the weeping sky of Dragonstone, he looked like something far older — a prince of a fallen empire, desperate to save the only thing that mattered more than a crown.

"The ghost-fires tell you that the world is ending", Valarr said, his voice dropping to a low, rhythmic vibration that you could feel in your own chest. "They tell you that we are puppets of the Fate. But the blood in my veins is hot, and the sand beneath your feet is solid. That is the only magic I care to believe in".

He let go of your hand, but only to reach into the heavy leather belt at his waist. He withdrew a dagger. It was a slender, wicked thing, its hilt wrapped in boiled ray-skin, its blade forged from the very heart of the Dragonmont — pure, razor-sharp dragonglass. It did not reflect the bruised moonlight; it seemed to drink it, a silver void held in his hand.

You stepped back, your breath hitching. "Valarr, what are you doing? The guards...if our fathers find us here—".

"Our fathers are sleeping", Valarr interrupted, his eyes never leaving yours. "And the guards are patroling the fortress and not wandering around the beach".

He paused, and for a fleeting second you saw a spark in his mismatched eyes that was something new, something you didn't know. "Tonight, we aren't cousins. We aren't pieces on a cyvasse board for our fathers to move. We are of the Blood of Old Valyria, and we are going to make a pact that the gods themselves cannot undo".

He stepped closer, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his body pushed back the chill of the sea. "You see me breaking in the storm? You see a glass shield? Then we will temper it. We will seal it with something the storm cannot wash away".

He held out his left hand, palm upward. With a swift, practiced motion that spoke of a terrifying resolve, he drew the obsidian edged acroos his skin. He didn't cry out. He didn't even blink. A dark, thick line of crimson welled up instantly, looking almost black under the storm sky. It smelled of copper and ancient fires.

"Give me your hand", he commanded. It wasn't a request; it was a plea disguised as an order.

You hesitated for only a heartbeat before reaching out. You trusted him more than you trusted your own mind, more than you trusted the treatcherous visions that haunted your sleep. Valarr took your hand with a reverence that made your heart ache. He was so careful, his touch feather-light as he drew the blade across your palm.

The sting was sharp and sudden, a cold fire that jolted you back into your body. For the first time all night, the ghost-fires faded. The visions of red grass and falling crowns vanished, replaced by the visceral, stinging reality of the now.

"Look at me", Valarr whispered.

He pressed his bleeding palm against yours.

The sensation was overwhelming. Your warm blood mingled, slick and hot, bonding your skin together. It was a visceral, primal connection that went deeper than any kiss or any spoken vow. In that moment, you felt his strength — not just the strength of a warrior, but the iron-willed determination of a man who would burn the world down if it meant keeping you safe.

"By the salt of this sea and the fires of this island", Valarr began, his voice talking on a ritualistic cadence. "I seal my soul to yours. The crown is a weight for the head, but you are the weight of my heart. I do not give my loyalty to the throne tonight. I give it to you".

He squeezed your hand tighter, the blood dripping between your lace fingers and staining the black volcanic sand at your feet.

"When the dreams come for you, they will find me standing in the way", he vowed, his face inches from yours. "When the sky turns to fire and the dragons start to dance, I will be the ground beneath your feet. I will be the silence in the noise. I will be the shield, sweet dreamer. The storm will have to break me into a thousand pieces before a single drop of rain touches your head".

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and shimmering with tears. "You can't promise that, Valarr. Not even a King can stop the wind".

"I am not a King yet", he whispered, his thumb brushing against your cheek, leaving a faint smear of red on your pale skin. "And I don't care for the wind. I care for the girl who sees too much. I care for the only person who sees me and not just the heir to the Seven Kingdoms".

The clouds finally broke. A sudden, heavy downpour began to lash the beach, but you didn't move. The rain washed the blood from your arms, but it couldn't wash away the pact. The sand turned to mud beneath you, and the roar of the ocean reached a deafening crescendo.

"The storm is here...", you whispered, your teeth chattering as the cold rain soaked through your cloak.

Valarr looked at the churnig waves, then back to you. A dark sort of protection flickered in his gaze. "Then let's get out of the rain. I have more to tell you, and the night is far from over".

He pulled you toward the base of the cliffs, where the shadows were deepest and the ancient stone offered a sanctuary that the castle never could.

The rain had become a deluge, a vertical wall of water that blurred the line between the sky and the sea. Valarr led you with an urgency that felt like a fight from the world itself, guiding you toward a hidden fessure in the cliffside. The cave was a sanctuary of salt and obsidian, shielded from the fury of the Narrow Sea.

Inside, the roar of the storm was muffled, reduced to a rhythmic, heavy thudding against the stone. The air was salt-thick and strangely warm, smelling of ancient earth, and the only light came from the occasional flash of lightning, illuminating Valarr's face with a ghostly brillance.

You were shivering, your wet cloak clinging to you like a second, freezing skin. Valarr didn't hesitate. He pulled away the heavy wool from your shoulders. His own tunic was already soaked through, revealing the hard, lean lines of a body trained for war. But his hands, as they reached for you, were trembling with an emotion that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Here", he whispered, his voice echoing softly against the cave walls. "The storm cannot reach us here".

He pulled you against him, and the contact was like a spark to dry kindling. After the blood-rite on the beach, every nerve in your body seemed to be screaming for his touch. The ghost-fires were gone, replace by a singular, burning focus on the man holding you.

"I felt it", he murmured. "When our blood met...I felt the weight you carry. I felt the shadows. Let me take them from you, if only for an hour".

He leaned down, his lips brushing yours — a tentative question that you answered by pulling him closer, your hands tangling in his damp hair. The kiss tasted of salt and iron, a desperate, hungry collision of two souls who had spent their lives playing roles they never asked for.

He moved with a reverence that felt almost like a prayer, his hands — still stained with the copper of your shared blood — framing your face as if you were a miracle he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to touch.

"Look at me...", he whispered, his mismatched eyes searching for yours, for the girl behind the visions. "I want you to feel nothing but our souls...our love. No shadows, no fire. Just us".

He lowerd you onto a shelf of smooth, dry stone covered in his own discarded leathe cloak, his movements agonizingly slow, as if every second of contact was something to be savored. When he shed his damp tunic, the warmth radiating from him was a physical force — the true blood of the dragon, untained by the cold ghost-fires of your dreams.

As he leaned over you, his mouth found the sensitive line of your throat, his kisses soft and lingering, worshipping every inch of skin he uncovered. When he stripped away the remnants of your wet shift, the cool air hit your skin, but it was immediately replace by the heat of his touch.

His hands began a slow, deliberate exploration, tracing the curve of your hips and the arch of your back with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. When his fingers finally found your heat, they moved with a gentle, rhythmic grace, coaxing a low, broken moan from your lips that was the only souns against the roar of the rain.

He positioned himself between your legs, looking down at you with an intensity that seemed to reach your very soul. There was no rush, only a profound, soulful need to be your anchor.

"You are so beautiful", he whispered, his breath hot against the column of your throat. "My sweet dreamer. My soul".

When he finally merged your bodies, it was a slow, fluid transition — a deep, deliberate filling that felt like a shield closing around you. You gasped, your hands tangling in his dark hair as he began to move with long, soulful thrusts. Every motion was a caress, a physical promise that he would stand between you and the storm. Every touch was an anchor. It wasn't just a physical union; it was the final locking of the seal you had created on the beach. You arched against him, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, your eyes fixed on his even in the shadows.

He reached for your hands and held them pinned to the stone, your fingers laced so tight so you could feel the pulse of your mingled blood.

"Stay with me, my sweet dreamer", he breathed against your lips, his voice breaking with a raw, protective love.

In that moment, the visions were truly silent. There was no red grass, no falling crowns, no smell of copper rain. There was only the friction of skin, the ragged sound of your breathing, and the overwhelming reality of Valarr. He moved with a fierce, protective rhythm, his eyes never leaving yours, as if he were physically shielding you from the ghosts of your mind.

The climax didn't feel like an explosion, but like a rising tide of gold — a warmth that started at your joined palms and flooded your entire being, washing away the prophetic humming in your mind. Valarr followed a moment later, pulling you close with a desperate, silence force, burying his face in your shoulde as he poured his heart and soul into you.

You clung to each other as the world outside continued to scream, two dragons huddled together in a hollow of stone, defying the fate that had been written for them in the stars.

Long after the storm had exhausted itself, you lay tangled together on the cloak, the rhythmic drip of water from the ceiling the only sound you heard. The first grey light of dawn began to creep into the cave, turning the obsidian walls into mirrors.

Valarr sat up, his chest bare, his dark hair a tangled mess. He reached for his discarded tunic and pulled something from a hidden pocket — a slender, silver chain, cold and gleaming. It had been his since he was a small boy, a token of his mother's house.

He didn't give it to you. Not yet. He wrapped it around his own fist, looking at it with a strange, somber expression.

"One day", he said, his voice quiet but iron-firm. "The world will demand that I be the Prince of Dragonstone. They will demand that I marry for alliances and lead armies for a throne I didn't ask for. They will try to put a crown between us".

He turned to you, his gaze softening.

"But they don't know what happened tonight. They don't know that my soul was sealed here, on the dark beach, to a dreamer who sees more than a crown in me. This chain...I will carry it until the day you need it most. And when I give it to you, it will be the sign that my promise still holds".

He helped you dress, his fingers lingering on the bandage he had fashioned for your palm from a strip of his own tunic.

You returned to the beach and walked to the fortress without saying a word. You walked back up the serpentine stairs in silence, two cousins returning from a walk in the rain. To the guards who saw you pass, you were merely children of the blood, perhaps a bit reckless for staying out in a storm. They didn't see the dried blood under your fingernails or the way your eyes searched for each other when you thought no one was looking.

Valarr stopped at the door of your chambers. He didn't kiss you, despite how much he wanted to — the risk was too great now that the sun was up — but he leaned in close enough for you to feel his heat one last time.

"Remember", he whispered. "The storm is coming, but I am the shield. And...I love you. Nothing is going to hurt you as long as I am here".

Yo watched him walk away, his silhouette fading into the gloom of the corridor. You touched your palm, feeling the faint throb of the wound beneath the cloth. For the first time in your life, you weren't afraid of the future. Le the dragons dance. Let the crowns fall.