⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › canon!aemond 𝑥 hightower!reader ꪆৎ 𓏲 ݂ ˖ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. sry if this drabble sucks.. ♡ i just wanted to post a lil somethin' for y'all.. enjoy, my sweet bbs! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎ ⊹ cw: incest. forbidden love. themes of religion.
the night settles over oldtown like a velvet shroud, heavy with incense smoke and the distant toll of sept bells. you stand on the hightower's highest balcony, fingers curled around cold stone, watching the river gleam like a blade in the dark. below, the world hums with a holiness you've never been able to claim. above, the moon hangs pale and patient, a witness to every secret you've tried to bury. and behind you—always behind you—stands aemond.
you sense his arrival before any word escapes him—first the measured pull of his breath, then the faint rasp of his leathers shifting against itself, followed by the deliberate fall of a boot heel kissing the marble with a quiet, ominous click. the air seems to still in deference, as though the space itself bows to his presence. "cousin," he murmurs, the word drawn out in a low, velvety purr, a benediction curdled into something darker, almost bittersweet. his voice glides through the silence like a liturgy fractured at the altar, reverent and ruinous all at once.
you can feel it—his long, spidery fingers tracing the ends of your hair, slow and reverent, as though he's handling scripture. it steals your breath every time, the gentleness, the near-holy care with which he handles you, as if you were carved from something rarer than ivory, as if he fears breaking you yet hungers for the possibility all the same.
the song of your blood—your shared blood—thrums in your ears, a hymn rewritten in darker ink, forever stained and twisted. "you should not be here, aemond," you whisper shakily, though your body leans back into him of its own accord. you have always been devout in your rebellion where he is concerned, irritatingly so. his breath ghosts along the side of your throat, a taunt disguised as seduction. "and yet... here i am."
that's all it takes—the world collapsing into a single, searing point of awareness as his hand slides around your waist, deliberate, possessive, drawing you fully against the breadth of him. you feel the heat of his body even through the layered barrier of embroidered silk and worn leather, a heat so alive it makes the night itself feel colder, meaner, eager to steal what little warmth you might claim for yourself.
his grip settles with slow certainty, fingers splayed as though mapping territory, as though committing every contour of you to memory in case fate dares to pry you away from him. he holds you like a conqueror who has waited through endless winters for the land promised to him—like you are the one province he has bled for, prayed for, the single corner of the world he refuses to surrender to any king, any god, any destiny that would claim authority over him.
and the way your body answers—softening, yielding, betraying you with its quiet, trembling relief—only deepens the quiet vow in the way he pulls you closer still. "the realm… they speak of us," you say, though your soft-spoken voice trembles. "they say it is unnatural, cousin." a soft chuckle escapes him—quiet, cruel, protective.
"targaryens were forged on what others call unnatural, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," he declares. his fingers lift your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. the single eye that watches you burns, violet and violent, a star collapsing into itself. "do you truly care so much for the opinions of sheep, dearest?" you don't, not when he looks at you like this—like he's already carved your name into the marrow of his desire.
but there's a weight in you, too—a knowledge of what it means to be a hightower daughter; bred for piety, polished like glass, meant to reflect virtue back at a world that rarely deserves it. you've lived your life in sunlit halls, reciting the scripture of the seven-pointed star, pretending your heart didn't wander toward shadows.
he knows this, of course. aemond sees you—sees all of you—in a way no one else dares. "you were born to be good, sweet cousin," he hums, the pad of his calloused thumb brushing over your lower lip. "yet you look at me as if sin were a crown." a tremor shivers through you, delicate but damning. his smile curves sharp, teasing, and full of amusement. "you think me wicked, my lady," he continues, "but you still come when i call."
"i-i… i shouldn't," you stammer meekly, nearly whining. "mmh… but you always do." he presses a delicate kiss to the place beneath your ear—a kiss that feels like a confession and a curse. the world tilts softly, your pulse fluttering wildly. the balcony, the river, the whole of oldtown fades until there is nothing left but the rhythm of his possessive touch and the terrible, aching truth of your longing.
your hands rise, hesitant, then certain, gripping the front of his doublet as you finally turn to face him. you feel the steady beat of his heart, fierce and unrepentant. his blood and yours—two lines twining through history like ancient serpents. "say it," he croons. "say you are mine, sweetling."
the words bloom inside you, dark and forbidden and undeniably true. you've known them since childhood, whispered among library stacks and moonlit corridors, growing sharper as the years passed and the space between you shrank. when you finally speak, your voice is soft as prayer. "i am yours, aemond."
aemond inhales—a sound almost pained, almost relieved—and his arms wrap fully around you, possessive and tender all at once. he holds you like he intends to carry you into fire and drag you back out again, like he believes you belong in the heart of his ruin. "good girl," he purrs, forehead resting against your temple as he bites back a small smirk. "then let the rest of the realm choke on its righteousness."
from the streets below rises the distant murmur of oldtown, unaware of the quiet sacrilege blooming on its highest balcony. the breeze tastes of salt and summer rot, of something ancient stirring. he kisses you then—slow, certain—a vow older than your houses, a promise steeped in shared lineage and shared hunger.
and as his lips claim yours, warm and insistent and dizzying, you realize something stark and shattering: in this city of saints and solemn prayers, you were always meant to be someone's sin. every polished hall, every whispered blessing had been a prelude, a quiet shaping of your desire, steering it toward transgression. and aemond targaryen—his dark, mismatched gaze, his commanding presence, the subtle obsessive hunger in his greedy touch—was always meant to be yours, the sin you could not resist, the storm you were destined to surrender to.
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maybe can I request yandere Daemon Targaryen with velaryon or hightower reader
❝ 🐉 — lady l: this is actually quite cute lol. A soft yandere, but Daemon is only soft to the Reader, the rest be burned alive, in his view. Anyway, I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! 💚🖤
❝tw: mention of death, obsessive behavior, family conflicts, fluff and soft!yandere basically.
❝🐉pairing: yandere!daemon targaryen x hightower!female!reader.
Daemon doesn't like the people in your family, the damn Hightower's. He hates them all, especially Otto, your father. He has always made this very clear, never trying to hide the disdain he feels for your family. Daemon just didn't expect to fall in love with a Hightower.
Daemon paid you no attention at first. He thought you were like your father and siblings and he wanted distance from you all. He even tried to fight the feelings that came over him when he saw you, but it soon became useless.
Daemon's constant presence, initially cold and distant, changed around you. His furtive glances became more frequent, his words, once sharp, began to soften. He could no longer ignore the truth that was right in front of his eyes: you were different. Different from Otto, different from your sibilings. And despite all the hatred he felt for the Hightowers, he found himself wanting to be in their presence more and more.
Every time he met you, he felt a growing internal conflict: the deep-rooted hatred towards your family and the irresistible attraction he felt for you. Daemon found himself wanting you, wanting you and not just in a sexual way. He wanted to have you.
Finally, Daemon had to accept that, against all expectations and against his own will, he had fallen in love with you, had become obsessed with you and he was going to have you no matter what. Daemon knew that Otto would never consent to you and him being together but Daemon doesn't give a fuck about your father.
Daemon began to plan. He was not a man who let something so trivial decide what he could or couldn't have. If Otto Hightower was an obstacle, then he would be removed. It didn't matter the cost. Daemon used his cunning and influence to create opportunities for furtive encounters. Every touch, every word whispered in the silence of the night only strengthened his resolve. You also couldn't help but be drawn to his intensity, the danger he represented, and the promise of a passion that burned hotter than anything you had ever known.
You were conflicted as well. Daemon Targaryen was a man you were warned to stay away from, your father and your sister, now the Queen, had told you to stay away from the King's troublesome brother. But you couldn't. Daemon was kind to you, he liked you and you knew you liked him. Maybe you even loved him but you knew your father and sister would never allow it.
The nights became secret meetings, increasingly daring and passionate. Daemon was determined to make sure his love for you wasn't discovered until he wanted it to be revealed, for now, it was fun to be with you in secret. He knew that when the moment came, he would need to be prepared to protect you and the future he envisioned with you. And he would protect you with everything in him.
Every furtive encounter, every whispered conversation in the darkness, every touch that set your body on fire, only increased your dilemma. On the one hand, there was your loyalty to your family, your need to live up to their expectations, and your fear of repercussions. On the other, there was Daemon, with his magnetic presence, his bold words and his protective manner, which made your heart race in a way you had never experienced before.
You tried to keep your distance, and obey your family's warnings, but you always ended up returning to Daemon. He was irresistible, and the way he looked at you, with a mixture of desire and tenderness, made you feel special, seen, and loved. Daemon understood you in a way no one else could, and that was both a blessing and a curse.
Daemon wouldn't let you get away. He didn't care, he wanted you and that's why he went to his brother and asked him for you. Daemon knew that Viserys would agree to the request, after all, he owed him that. Viserys, although distressed at the thought of causing conflict with Alicent and Otto, gave in to his brother's wishes and you were formally granted to you as his wife (after the latter's mysterious death). And you finally officially became his in every way that mattered.
When you finally married him, Daemon became more protective than ever and he displayed you in front of his family like a trophy. He loved you but he loved teasing Otto and Alicent even more. When the conflict between the Greens and the Blacks began, Daemon would keep you tied to him tightly.
After all, you're just another reminder of why he should get rid of all the Greens. Especially because, when you became pregnant in the middle of the conflict, Daemon could not allow any threat to you or the baby in your womb.
Description: You, one of the last remaining ladies of Dowager Queen Alicent are brought before Cregan Stark, acting Hand of the King.
You attempt to cling to the former Dowager Queen like a child, your nails digging into her skirts. The fabric once a beautiful, vibrant green now dirtied and torn, her pale shaking hands holding your wrists trying to keep you with her. The both of you sobbing as Northmen pull you from her, ignoring your tears and your lady's pleas for your life. Your lady was good, she cared, she fought for you, even now in chains she fought for you, not only because you were her niece, but because you were a cherished member of her court.
“She has done nothing wrong, have you no compassion, you beasts?” She spits out the word like it is poison, her nails digging into your skin, leaving raised marks as they drag you from her grip.
“Please, do not take me from her. She is my lady, my duty is to remain by her side!” You try to fight against them, clawing at the man's face, neck, hands, any skin you can reach. You will not leave your lady. Not when she is all you have left, not when you fear what they will do to her if she is alone.
The Brothel Queens.
That horrid fool Mushroom had spread the tale, laughing at the way all color drained from your face. It had not been done, the usurper Rhaenyra had died before it could be, but who is to say it could not still be put in place? There are cruel men that remain within the Keep, cruel men who would see your lady punished for the Greens’ actions.
The Northmen clearly grow tired of your protests, and one backhands you. “Waste of time trying to reason with Hightower whores, Lord Stark should just get rid of them.” The force of the slap sending you stumbling into the wall as your lady cries out, tugging at the chains that keep you beyond her reach.
You hold your hand to your cheek, trying to scramble back to her, but you are caught before you can take a step.
“Quit struggling.” Another man snarls, before he flings you over his shoulder, your chin slamming against his armored back. The metallic taste of blood blooms on your tongue, and your vision blurs as more tears pour forth.
You can hear Queen Alicent’s cries as they carry you away. The agonized screams tear at your heart, echoing in your ears even when the door to the dungeons is slammed shut, and you find yourself back in the relative quiet of the Keep’s halls.
The Hour of the Wolf, that is what they are calling it, and you curse the whole of House Stark. How dare they, how dare they come here and act as saviors? You have not even seen Jaehaera since you were thrown in the dungeon with your lady, is she even alive?
You try to calm yourself, focusing on the floor, counting the marble tiles as your captor takes a brisk pace through the halls, muttering to himself in that barbaric northern way. He is taking you to the Tower of the Hand, and your stomach lurches. The screams of your cousin Helaena, sweet, kind Helaena return to your mind, the blood, Jaehaerys’ little body. It was beyond cruel that plot of cursed Daemon Targaryen, beyond cruel that Princess Rhaenyra would go along with it having lost her own son. How could she wish that pain upon sweet Helaena, a girl who had done her no wrong?
Finally, your captor lets you down, dropping you like a sack of potatoes. Pain flares through your body at your ungraceful landing upon the hard stone floor. Someone had removed the carpet, perhaps it had been dirtied. The rest of the decorations were still present, the rounded window letting light spill in, the hearth empty and boarded up to prevent any assassins from sneaking in. Besides that, it was pristine, untouched by the havoc outside its walls. Though you and Queen Alicent had been allowed to bathe—to walk towards the Stranger in rags, but not filth—before Lord Stark had sent word that you both would be moved, you still felt dirty. Still felt as though the stench of death, and the filth of grief, clung to your skin and hair.
“Lord Bolton, I asked you to escort Lady y/n, not drag her here as if she is a common criminal.”
“Apologies, My Lord, but she attacked my men.”
“Attacked?” You can hear the suspicion in his voice, picture the raised eyebrow.
“She attempted to claw their eyes out.”
He laughs, the damned Stark lord laughs, as if it is humorous that you feared so greatly for your life. “If your men are so easily caught off guard perhaps they need to spend more time training. It does no good to have an army so easily defeated by a single woman.”
You bite down on the inside of your cheek, uncaring if more blood fills your mouth, you cannot stand to hear his voice, cannot even raise your head to look at him. Will he kill you? You were not a key player in the war, merely a lady-in-waiting, a loyal one, a third daughter of a second son who did not leave her aunt even when she ordered you to. Perhaps you can make a deal, offer yourself as a bedwarmer while the Stark lord is here? Attempt to convince him your lady should be sent back to Oldtown to remain under house arrest with what little family you and her had left. Though he is a Stark and their honor is known, he would not take a mistress…
Bowing your head, you take hold of the seven-pointed star around your neck, a gift from your aunt. You swear that you will go with him, back to the frigid North, if it means your lady would not die in a cell haunted by the ghosts of this cursed keep.
You are too lost in your thoughts to notice that Lord Stark has dismissed Lord Bolton and is kneeling before you, his eyes fixated on the blood trickling from your lip, the ever-forming bruise on your cheek.
“Lady y/n?” He asks softly, much too softly for a man in his position.
You swallow hard and force yourself to raise your eyes, your mouth still tastes of iron, and you know you must force your spine to be made of it as well.
Lord Cregan Stark is handsome, strong jaw, dark hair, eyes like storm clouds, full lips and a scattering of stubble and roguish scars. But his handsome looks do nothing to dampen the raw strength, the aura of a warrior, a man who has killed and will again, that cannot be hidden beneath cloaks and clothing. Broad shoulders, large, calloused hands, and arms that tell of training and hard work, he towers over you even as he kneels, and you are terrified.
“My Lord?” You answer his question with a question, unwilling to give anything away to this beast.
“Are you hurt? You are bleeding.” Cregan says, reaching inside his cloak and pulling out a handkerchief, gently dabbing at your wounded lip.
You flinch back, and he pulls away slowly, his hand still outstretched, leaving the handkerchief between you. “I did not mean to hurt you, my apologies.”
“It was not your fault.” You say quietly, your eyes downcast, focusing on the handkerchief, the pristine white cloth marred by scarlet, blood scattered amongst snow.
“I will have those men disciplined, you are a lady, and should be treated as such.” He sounds earnest, you can detect no falsehoods, but still you are wary.
“Thank you, My Lord, but it is not necessary. I am a prisoner of war; I do not expect to be treated as an honored guest.” You say demurely, clasping your hands in front of you, wincing when you see the blood that covers them.
Cregan takes a waterskin from the desk behind him, the very desk Lord Hightower used to sit at, and wets his handkerchief before gently reaching for your hands. You watch as he cleans the blood from them, using soft circular motions, his calloused hands warm against your much smaller ones, and he does not release them until they are clean.
“This is your home, is it not? You should not be treated as such in your home.” His voice is warm, warmer than his hands, and if you close your eyes you can pretend. Pretend he is a brave knight who has rescued you, not a barbarian from the North who aided those who keep you prisoner.
“This is my lady’s home as well, and she is treated far worse than I.” You protest, praying that he will not grow angry and strike you.
“Your aunt—the Dowager Queen has been sorely mistreated. I arrested the men who cast her into those foul dungeons, and she should be returned to her chambers by the time we have finished here.” Cregan says, folding the handkerchief and setting it with the waterskin on the desk behind him once more.
“I am glad to hear that.” You say, finally able to meet his eyes.
“I am honored I could lighten your spirits.” He says, a wolfish grin gracing his lips, his gray eyes flashing with an unreadable light.
This is what you have prepared yourself for, you must do it, for the good of your lady, for Jaehaera if she still lives, for the realm. All women know a satiated man does not wage war, does not continue the fight when it has been won, he simply takes his prize and returns home. You gather your courage and place your hand upon Cregan’s, looking up at him through your lashes, hoping you do not look as horrid as you feel. “Perhaps you would allow me to show you how glad I am, My Lord?”
He sucks in a breath, almost imperceptibly, a blush blooming across his face, his eyes widening a fraction, and for a moment he does not seem so beastly.
“I cannot imagine you had many comforts on your journey, it is such a long way from Winterfell, is it not? And now after all that fighting you must hold a war-torn city together until others come to a decision, how awful.” You pout at him, for him, and allow one of the torn sleeves of your gown to slip off your shoulder.
“Aye, it was a long journey.” He manages to say, his fingers twitching beneath your hand, his breath catching in his throat when you move your hand to his wrist.
His shuttering breaths embolden you, and you shift forward, placing your other hand on his thigh, the muscle is firm to the touch, you note. “Such things must weigh so heavily upon you…if I am able to lighten that burden, I would be more than happy to.”
“You do not need to.” He says, his eyes flickering from yours to your hand on his thigh. “Truly, Lady y/n, I would never press myself upon you, I am not that kind of man.”
“But I want to, I want to help.” The lie rolls off your tongue easily, for it is half-truth. You cannot deny Cregan is attractive, but he still holds your life in his hands and could easily crush it at any time. There is something dangerously appealing about that, though, and you find that despite the dangers, you are desperate for the warmth he radiates.
Cregan’s eyes darken, and he groans low in his throat, closing the distance between you, stopping a hairsbreadth from your lips. “Tell me to stop, push me away, scream, slap me, I will not fight you. I will have you seen back to your lady, there will be no punishment.”
Liquid heat rolls through your veins at the sound of his desperate rasp, the restraint he possesses to not surge forward and claim you as his own. “Lord Sta—”
“Cregan.” He corrects softly, “I wish to hear you say my name.”
“Cregan, I do not wish you to stop.” You tell him, head spinning with the way his mere presence overwhelms your senses, the scent of pine and campfire smoke, his warm hands, his eyes, so dark, so deep you might drown.
Cregan’s lips meet yours, tasting of salt and honey, an oddly pleasant combination, his hands on your waist, beacons of warmth and civility, as his lips take you under, whispering heated words every time you part for air. “Say it again, I beg of you.”
“Cregan, please, do not stop.” You oblige him, grabbing at his tunic, pulling him impossibly closer, desperate for him to do something. Like sully that Stark honor and bind himself to you forever, giving you some kind of foothold in this new era that he has helped usher in.
He pulls back, breathing ragged, and he looks at you, truly looks at you. “If I do not stop now, My Lady, I will not be able to stop at all and I—”
“I wish to hear you say my name.” You echo his words from before, threading your fingers in his dark locks, and guiding his lips back to yours, but turning at the last moment and pressing your lips to his jaw.
“Y/N, please, if you do not stop me”—he lets out a strangled curse when your lips drift lower finding a seemingly sensitive spot, your teeth making a home there—“I am a man, an honorable one, and I have fought and won a war, and I am tempted, by the gods I am tempted, but I do not wish to view you as a prize.”
“Why not? I wish to be your war prize.” You press the words into the skin of his neck, reddened marks blooming in your wake, his grip on you tightens at your words, his head falling back exposing more of his skin.
“Others take me, will you truly have me live up to their stories, the barbarians of the North who steal innocent maidens away from their homes?” Cregan asks, even as he leans into your touch, moaning when you shift in his lap.
“My home is where my lord husband is, wherever he will have me.” Your words drip with implications, your lips pressed to his ear.
He shivers at the sensation, his eyes impossibly dark, his voice low, heady with lust. “I will have you in Winterfell.”
Young!Rhaenyra x Alicent's younger sister!Reader ; A little Viserys x Alicent's younger sister!Reader
Everything changed after Viserys chose yn to be his bride instead of Alicent. yn is scared on her wedding day and Rhaenyra comforts her.
Tw: Old marriages, comfort, swearing, anxiety, age difference (yn and Viserys), Otto be a Bad Father
"I'm scared,"
Yn said as Rhaenyra tightened the ties on her beautiful white wedding dress. Rhaenyra looked at the Hightower girl and sighed, softening her gaze. She knew Yn was scared, and at just fifteen years old she was already marrying the current king of Westeros, Viserys Targaryen.
Rhaenyra wasn't close to Alicent's younger sister, but to Alicent. They were both friends, best friends, but seeing little Hightower almost tremble with fear made her rethink whether she really wanted to have children, after her own mother died in that damned childbirth.
"Don't be, my father is a kind man"
"I'm talking about the wedding and the… wedding night, I'm scared"
Yn said turning around and walking around the room making the Targaryen stop tying her dress, she could see the tears welling up in Yn's eyes along with the fear, Rhaenyra felt strange. Was this the feeling of wanting to protect a little sister? Did Alicent feel that way too?
Rhaenyra just gently held Yn's hands and hugged her gently, it was strange for both of them but it was necessary at that moment
"Don't be afraid, I will ask my father to be kind and I will be by your side at the wedding"
Rhaenyra said as she hugged Yn tightly which was returned by her, she looked at Yn's belly and felt sick thinking that at only fifteen or sixteen years old she would already be pregnant with her first or second child
"My mother told me that our battle is at the time of birth, I will be with you"
Rhaenyra said finishing preparing yn, Rhaenyra gently kissed the Hightower's forehead and left her chambers. The hall was full of food, wine, parties while Viserys stood in front of the current Septon
The doors opened and Otto stood beside his youngest daughter, Iyna. Alicent stood beside Rhaenyra and the Targaryen could see what seemed to be anger in her best friend's eyes. The footsteps approached and Otto kissed his youngest daughter's forehead. Soon Iyna stood beside Viserys who kissed her hand.
"You are beautiful, my bride."
"You too, my king."
Iyna tried to make her voice sound strong but it still failed. Hearing the Septon's words made her feel desperate, a lump in her throat, suffocating. How cruel was her father? In addition to forcing Alicent on Viserys, Otto also tried to manipulate Iyna into refusing the marriage.
"Now the husband may kiss his wife."
The Septon's words stopped Yn's turbulent mind. Viserys smiled gently and held Yn's hands. The girl gave an innocent smile and soon their lips met.
While the party was going on, Rhaenyra stood next to Yn. Perhaps the Targaryen wanted to adopt her new stepmother, and her father would probably let her, and no one would stop her.
Poor Otto tried so hard to keep his granddaughter away from the Weird Lizard Men but then they pulled their polygamy bullshit.
The reader has to deal with Aegon, Aemond and Daeron competing over who gets her pregnant first. Day, noon and night, any one of the is taking the reader to bed (or in slightly more public areas...).
She hasn't been able to sit properly for days.
When manages she to get away from the Weird Lizard Men, Helaena takes this as an opportunity to have some alone time with her cousin herself...
Helaena deserves her time with her favorite family member, Ok??
Using Helaena to shield the reader from the boys has become a routine at this point and it's also all they can do honestly.
Alicent also stays around apologizing for her sons and asking if the reader is in too much pain, while the reader is layed down on the bed looking like a broken crab.
Otto tries to distract the Lizard men from the reader, but fails after 3 minutes when they realize she was not on her chambers.
Reader has a panic attack when the boys arrive on Helaena's chambers, she is so done.
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Otto finally notices the strange obsession his royal grandkids has for his other granddaughter. He thinks that marrying her to another and sending her away could solve this. They might just forget her after all and focus on their royal duties. But no. The next day, Hightower is in chaos as the lady's bed is found empty the day of her wedding.
Meanwhile, the four siblings arranges for a Valyrian ceremony. The reader is confused and scared because she should be preparing for her own wedding only to be surprised when her cousins tell her that she's already in her wedding ceremony and that she'll have to marry all of them. Afterall it would be unfair if she only choose one when all of them wanted her.
Reader thinks its a joke first. She's long used to their questionable affections and she only realizes the gravity of the situation when they ask her who she wants to bed for the consummation first.
Oh you know that it took the Old Gods and the New to make Aegon and Aemond agree with this idea.
I mean, they wanted their cousin, yeah, but these bitches don't like to share 😐
And although the idea of marrying in Valyrian ceremony is cool, i prefer the idea of them kidnapping a septon for this.
And the reader having to choose makes her panic, since she finally realizes that she has 4 mad cousins and is stuck with them forever.
So honestly, i would Helaena, cuz she has no dick and it's a sweetheart 😔
The reader is Otto Hightower's eldest daughter, she goes to Viserys the night Aemma died to comfort him. However she didn't go on her father's orders, he had still planned on getting her little sister Alicent to go to the king, believing her beauty would win Viserys over. But when Alicent arrived, her sister was already there and deep in conversation with the king.
The reader didn't go to comfort Viserys out of the goodness of her heart nor to empower her family. She's been obsessed with Viserys for a very long time (our girl low-key has daddy issues). So when the Dilf of the Seven Kingdoms was suddenly a widower, she wasted no time in jumping on the opportunity.
....LISTEN
I appreciate the love for Viserys but....
NOT ANOTHER DAUGHTER FROM FUCKING OTTO FOR GOD'S SAKE
Also, i completely understand her, i have daddy issues to some level.....
