#targaryen reader

You woke with a groan, your head pounding as if your septa had taken a rod to it without pause. Worse still was the unfamiliar sensation beneath your fingers—thick furs, not the soft silks of your own bed.

Your eyes fluttered open, then squeezed shut again against the cruel stab of morning light leaking through canvas.

It had been an unruly night.

You had slipped away from the royal festivities, offering up silent thanks that your father, Maeker and Aerion would not arrive until the morrow. If they had seen even a whisper of what you’d planned, you’d have felt the lash before the night was through.

Your thoughts drifted back to the night before…

Torches guttered in the dark, casting warm light over silk tents and roaring fires. Laughter spilled into the night air, mingling with music and the sharp scent of wine. 

You were meant to arrive with the rest of your family on the morrow, in a proper royal procession, to observe the tourney as a princess of House Targaryen ought.

Instead, you had slipped away days early with your cousins, Daeron and Aegon, chasing the promise of excitement like any common girl with too much curiosity and not enough patience.

The three of you had taken rooms in a shabby inn not far from Ashford. Daeron, as expected, cared more for his drinks than for tourney lists, and Aegon—sweet, earnest Egg—would have fell to his brother in neglect if you had not pressed a pouch of coins into the innkeeper’s hand and made her swear to keep an eye on him.

Only then had you slipped away on your own.

Ashford had been alive with merriment when you finally arrived, far removed from the rigid hush of court. You’d fallen in with a pair of painted whores who had laughed at your careful speech and noble posture before gleefully taking you in hand. They laced you into borrowed silks cut scandalously low, dusted your cheeks with colour, lined your eyes in kohl, and declared you ready for the festivities.

And then there had been the wine.

Someone pressed a cup into your hand. Someone else caught your wrist and spun you in a careless circle as you danced around the fire. The music swelled around you—drums pounding, fiddles shrieking, hands clapping in time—and when you laughed, the sound startled even you, bright and unguarded.

Cup after cup you indulged, until you were past the point of sensible. Feeling gloriously untethered from duty, expectation, and the careful posture drilled into you since girlhood.

Eventually, the night began to blur.

The fires smeared into streaks of molten gold. The tents lost their distinction, one silk wall bleeding into the next. When you stumbled into a tent at the edge of the grounds, you assumed it was your own and sighed in relief at the warmth.

A shout of laughter rang out.

You blinked, frowning faintly as you remembered—you didn’t have a tent at all. Meaning you had just entered a strangers.

The space was enormous, even through the haze of wine, and some distant, sober part of your mind registered that it must belong to a greater house. Thick furs covered the floor. Tankards crowded every surface. Half a dozen men and women were already deep in their cups, dancing and laughing and drinking.

You took a hesitant half step back—but a hand caught your arm and tugged you forward instead. Laughter surrounded you, warm and infectious, and before you could protest, a goblet of wine was once again pressed firmly into your hands.

Your already-drunken mind forgot whatever reason you’d had for leaving. The music swallowed the thought whole, and you let yourself be swept into the crowd, laughing and dancing without a care in the world.

You were drawn deeper and deeper into the press of bodies, into the heat and noise at the heart of the tent.

And there—at the center of it all—danced the handsomest man you had ever seen.

He towered over nearly everyone around him, broad as an ox, dark-haired, clad in fine silks that strained across powerful shoulders. When he laughed, the sound boomed through the tent, rich and unrestrained, as though the world existed solely for his amusement.

It seemed you were not the only one whose attention had been caught.

His gaze found you mid-spin. Hungrily taking in the way you moved, the careless grace the wine had gifted you. Heat crept up your spine under the weight of it.

Purposefully, you looked away and kept dancing, though you had to fight back a smirk. You did not miss the way he began to move through the crowd, nor the subtle way others made room for him.

Moments later, strong hands settled at your waist.

A warm breath brushed the shell of your ear, close enough that you could feel his heat seeping through the thin silk at your back.

“Well,” your mystery man drawled, voice rich with amusement, “either I’m drunker than I thought, or someone’s wandered into the wrong den.”

You grinned back at him, fearless in your wine-soaked courage. “Then you must be far drunker than you realized.”

A husky laugh rumbled out of him, low and pleased. With an easy strength, he spun you around until you faced him fully, your skirts flaring with the motion.

“Is that so?” he murmured, eyes bright, a challenge dancing there. “Well then, there’s only one solution for that.”

He plucked the empty goblet from your fingers and replaced it with a brimming one in smooth motion. “We must drink more…and dance!”

He seized another full cup from a passing reveller to take for himself before clinking it against yours, and tipped it back in one long swallow. You followed without hesitation, the wine burning warm all the way down.

Then his hand found yours again, and he drew you into the center of the crowd, spinning you beneath the torchlight as laughter and music crashed around you. The wine thrummed warmly in your veins, loosening every careful thread of restraint until you no longer felt like a princess at all.

You did not dance like someone trained to glide through courtly steps beneath a hundred watchful eyes.

You danced wildly and freely.

You laughed too loud, let him spin you too fast, and let the music pull you wherever it wished. Your hair slipped loose, your cheeks flushed, your breath coming quick with joy you had never allowed yourself to show in gilded halls.

And in that careless happiness, you didn’t notice the way he watched you.

Not like a courtier assessing a match. Not like a knight admiring a lady.

He watched you like a man witnessing a storm roll in over open sea—awed, thrilled, and not entirely certain whether he meant to stand still or chase it headlong.

By the time the fire burned low and the musicians’ hands grew tired, the tent had begun to empty. Laughter faded into murmurs, then into the hush of dying embers.

You were flushed, breathless and still in his arms.

Your eyes widened in horror as more fragments of the night crashed back into you.

The press of his hungry mouth against yours

 His hands wandering along every inch of your body. 

Your own fingers tracing the hard lines of him, the ridges of old scars beneath warm skin.

Breathless moans as the two of you lost yourselves into the pleasure of each other’s body.

You froze—dread pooling in your stomach—you became aware that your cheek was not resting on a pillow.

It was resting on a broad, solid chest, which was warm and very much alive beneath your skin.

You gasped and shot up, clutching the furs to your chest as if it could restore your honor by sheer force of will. 

Your gaze slid—hesitant, disbelieving—to the man beside you. Dark hair fell across his brow. One massive arm was thrown carelessly over his face, as though even the morning sun did not dare disturb him.

“Oh fuck,” you whispered turning away and running a stressed hand through your hair at what you had carelessly done. Then, another louder, more horrified, “Fuck,” came past your lips.

Memories continued to strike in disjointed flashes—your boldness, the way you had met his touch without hesitation. Heat rushed to your cheeks as you buried your face in your hands, mortified at how utterly unabashed and shameless you had been.

From beside you came a lazy chuckle.

“Good morrow to you too,” a voice rough with sleep and amusement said. He peeked at you through his fingers. “I didn’t think you would be up for another round so soon.”

He pushed himself upright, a roguish grin already tugging at his mouth—

—and you slapped him.

The sound cracked through the tent like a whip.

For a heartbeat, he only blinked at you.

Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a grin as he rubbed his cheek, eyes alight with unmistakable amusement.

“Well,” he drawled, far more entertained than offended, “I think I like you better sober.”

You leapt from the bed, dragging the furs with you as you began to pace the tent like a caged dragon.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” you demanded. “I am ruined. Absolutely ruined. I was drunk, I thought this was my tent—”

“If I recall,” he interrupted easily, utterly unbothered by his state of undress as he lounged back against the pillows, watching you with lazy interest, “you were an equally enthusiastic participant in last night’s activities. Hardly looked ruined to me.”

You spun on him, fixing him a scathing glare. “I am betrothed, you oaf!”

He shrugged. “As am I. What of it?” Then he paused in thought, brow furrowing slightly as his gaze swept over you. “Wait… are you not a Lyseni whore?”

“No!” you snapped, colour blazing in your cheeks. “If my lord husband-to-be finds out what we’ve done, we are both dead.”

He rolled his eyes. “And who is this fearsome lord husband-to-be?”

You stalked closer until you stood over him, furs clutched tightly around yourself like armour. “Lyonel Baratheon.”

He blinked and much to your surprise a slow catlike smile spread across his face. “Well,” he said, voice thick with amusement, “that’s a fortunate turn of events… for he is I.”

It was your turn to blink. “What?”

Then you laughed. Sharp and disbelieving.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“Have a look around if you doubt me,” he said lazily, gesturing about the tent. “The sigil of my house is all over this tent.” 

And when you did, your stomach dropped.

The crowned stag was everywhere—stitched into the heavy hangings, tooled into leather, stamped into the brass of discarded goblets. You had not stumbled into just any knight’s tent in your wine-blind wandering…

But into the tent of your lord husband to be.

Lyonel only leaned back against the pillows, looking far too pleased with himself. “At least we got the awkward part out of the way early.” His gaze flicked downward for the briefest moment where there was a stain of red before returning to you, a knowing glint in his eyes that only deepened your mortification. 

You stared at him, torn between horror and fury and the undeniable, traitorous spark curling low in your chest.

With a noise of pure outrage, you grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him.

He laughed, catching it easily, meeting your glare head-on with a grin that was entirely unapologetic.

“I’d heard Targaryen women were made of fire,” he said. “And you, my lady wife, have certainly proven the tale true.” A slow grin spread across his face. “I’ve always preferred a woman who knows how to throw a slap.”

Despite the disastrous turn your morning had taken, Lyonel proved—much to your surprise—to be a decent enough man.

He sent for garments more befitting your rank, replacing the borrowed silks of the whores with fine fabrics that restored at least the appearance of dignity. He kept his voice low, his men dismissed, and when all was ready, he guided you quietly from the tent at an hour when most of the camp still slept off their cups.

He protected what remained of your ruined honour as carefully as if it were his own.

And though he still infuriated you—still smirked too easily, still carried himself with that infuriating Baratheon swagger—you felt something in you soften.

Because what other man, upon realizing he had bedded not a nameless camp follower but the highborn lady promised to him, would move so swiftly to shield her from shame rather than revel in the scandal. 

Especially after the evidence of your passion had not been entirely one-sided. Because when Lyonel dressed earlier, he’d finally took notice of all marks you had left on him during the night you spent together. His expression shifted into one of unmistakable pride at the sight of them… The absolute rascal.

Ashford was far less charming when viewed through sober eyes, and you had to bite back a grimace as you trudged along the muddied paths between the tents. What had felt lively and inviting the night before now seemed loud, cramped, and distinctly unpleasant beneath your boots.

A swell of excited chatter caught your attention, drawing you toward the edge of the grounds. There, a makeshift tug-of-war had been set up, two teams straining against one another as the crowd roared its encouragement. Laughter and cheers rang out, raw and infectious, and despite yourself, a small smile crept onto your lips at the sheer energy of it all.

Not far from the contest stood a larger tent, its flaps pulled wide. Tables had been dragged out front, crowded with spectators who drank, wagered, and watched the spectacle unfold. Your gaze drifted idly over them—

Then snagged.

A large man sat among them, broad shoulders unmistakable even at a distance. And perched nearby, far too recognizable to be mistaken, was a tiny bald head.

You blinked, brows knitting as you leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the boy’s face.

He mirrored you exactly—same squint, same tilt of the head—and then, at the same moment, both of your eyes widened in recognition.

“Egg?”

The boy gasped and promptly ducked behind the large man beside him.

You were already marching across the churned grass. “Egg!”

The big man looked up at your approach, eyes widening in surprise as he scrambled halfway to his feet. “Milady?”

You barely spared him a glance.

“Egg! I see you hiding!” you snapped.

Slowly, your cousin stepped out from behind the man, a sheepish expression plastered across his face, hands clasped behind his back like a boy caught stealing sweets.

You threw your hands up. “What in the Seven Hells—”

“Milady, I beg your pardon if the boy caused any offence,” the big man blurted, bowing his head quickly. “He’s well-meaning, but I’ll give him a good clout in the ear to make sure he behaves proper.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “What—?! You will do no such thing!”

“Please, milady,” the man rushed on, clearly flustered. He failed to realize your indignation had nothing to do with leniency and everything to do with the fact that he had just suggested striking a Targaryen prince. “Punish him not. I will take the blame—he is my squire.”

Your gaze snapped to Egg.

He offered you a nervous, lopsided grin, shoulders hunching as though bracing for impact.

“He’s your what now?” you demanded.

“Squire, my lady,” Egg said quickly, meeting your gaze with a pleading look. “Ser Duncan has taken me in—just for the tourney, you see.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your eyes moved between the two of them, taking in the size of the knight, the earnestness of the boy.

“So it seems I do,” you said at last. “And has the ser been treating you well?”

“He has!” Aegon answered at once, a little too quickly, nodding with fervour.

“Wait—hold on,” Duncan blurted, spinning toward Egg in sudden alarm. “Do you know her?!”

Egg ducked his head for a heartbeat, then looked up at the knight through his lashes, eyes wide and artless. “My lady is a kind woman,” he said solemnly, “who took pity on an orphan child.”

You closed your eyes.

Just for a moment.

Seven save you from dragons with silver tongues.

Your eyes opened just in time to catch Duncan looking to you for confirmation. 

You offered him a tight smile and nodded. “Yes,” you said smoothly, the words slipping through gritted teeth.

Then you turned your gaze to Egg, narrowing your eyes in silent warning. “And I distinctly recall leaving you at the inn—in capable hands.”

Egg winced, the picture of contrition.

“I will return him at once, whence the tourney is over,” Duncan said at once, clearly eager to make amends.

You sighed. “In the meantime—” You reached into your sleeve and produced a small pouch heavy with coin, tossing it into his hand. “Take this. Make sure you take proper care of the boy… or I’ll have your balls.”

“My balls…?” Duncan echoed faintly, confusion knitting his brow—then his eyes widened as he registered the weight of the pouch. “Oh—no, milady, I couldn’t—”

Before he could finish, a familiar, infuriatingly pleased voice rang out behind you.

“Ah—there she is, my bride-to-be!”

You barely had time to turn before Lyonel Baratheon strode up and slipped an arm around your shoulders, drawing you effortlessly to his side as though he had every right to do so.

Duncan stared.

His gaze flicked from Lyonel to you and back again, his expression caught somewhere between awe and sheer disbelief.

Egg, on the other hand, merely raised an unimpressed brow, his look saying plainly: this is him?

You shot your cousin a sharp glare before rolling your eyes, resisting the urge to sigh.

“Yes,” you said dryly, even as Lyonel grinned like a man thoroughly enjoying himself. “What brings you by?”

He flashed you a bright, unapologetic smile. “Unfortunately, it’s not your beauty this time.” Then he jerked his chin toward Duncan. “I’m here for him. Yes—you, hedge knight.”

He slipped away from you and reached Duncan in two long strides, plucking the man’s cup straight from his hand. Lyonel took one sniff, grimaced, and promptly tossed it aside.

“What is this piss froth?” he muttered.

Without further ceremony, he grabbed Duncan by the back of the neck. “I need muscle.”

“Why?” you shot back, arching a brow. “Are yours not enough? Too small?”

Egg failed to suppress a snicker.

Lyonel only grinned wider, turning his head just enough to wink at you. “Come join me in my tent later and I'll gladly remind you how big they are.”

Your eyes flew wide. You shot him a sharp glare and stepped forward, arm already lifting with clear intent.

He anticipated it.

In one smooth motion, Lyonel shifted, placing Duncan squarely between the two of you. He rested a heavy hand on the startled knight’s shoulder and leaned around him just enough to look back at you, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

Then he turned his attention fully to Duncan.

“Will you heed my call to war?” Lyonel asked solemnly.

Duncan blinked.

That, it seemed was enough to satisfy him.

“Aha! Good!” Lyonel declared, giving Duncan a light, approving slap to the cheek before clapping his hands together. “We march.”

You crossed your arms, scowling, while Egg snorted softly beside you.

Gods help you.

You were to marry a menace.

Unfortunately, he was to be your menace.

And with Aegon insisting on participating in the game as well, you found you lacked the heart to deny him—especially when you saw his gaze brimming with excitement. So you followed after them and stood to watch, a cup of wine in your hand, offering silent support as the noise of the crowd swelled around you.

Duncan was ordered to the back, the thick rope cinched securely around his waist, while Aegon was placed at the front. He was the smallest of all the participants by far, dwarfed by the men beside him, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips at the sight of his fierce little frown and squared shoulders. Determination burned bright in him.

You smiled proudly. He was dragon blood, no matter how small he was. 

“If we lose this, I’ll be drowning your firstborn!” Lyonel bellowed over the din as he and the others dug in their heels and hauled with all their might. “Pull, you cunt-strapped dandelions!”

The crowd roared.

Your grip tightened on your cup as you watched the line strain, boots sliding in the mud—then inch, inexorably, forward. Lyonel’s team was winning.

Good.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across your face.

You absolutely refused to marry a loser.

But your smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared when you saw your oaf of a future husband abruptly let go of the rope.

“I’ll be back, I’ll be back,” Lyonel muttered, ducking beneath it and striding toward you as though abandoning the line mid-pull were perfectly reasonable. “I’ll be back.”

“Lyonel!” Duncan shouted in alarm.

“I’m thirsty!” Lyonel huffed.

“What are you doing, you oaf?” you cried, smacking his shoulder as he reached you. “Go back out there and help them!”

“I’m thirsty,” he repeated stubbornly, swatting your hand away—

—and then, to your utter outrage, he plucked your cup from your fingers and took a long, unapologetic drink.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sighed contentedly, and grinned at you like a man who had committed no crime at all.

“Much better.”

“I will have our marriage annulled,” you hissed, gripping the collar of his tunic.

He only laughed, brazenly pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before shoving the cup back into your hands. “Quite fortunately, we aren’t married yet—so that’s not possible.”

“Lyonel,” you snapped, warning sharp in your tone. 

He lifted both hands in surrender, still grinning. “Relax. I’m going back.”

And before you could strike him again, he ducked away, already laughing as he sauntered back toward the rope, taking a moment to smack Duncan on the arse as he passed.

“Looking good.”

In the time he’d been gone, the opposing team had gained ground. Little Egg was no longer firmly planted on the earth, but instead clung to the rope with both hands and feet, every scrap of determination in his small body holding him there.

Lyonel slid into place at the rear, seized the rope, and planted his heels.

“Fucking pull!” he roared.

With renewed vigour, his team heaved as one. The rope jerked, the line shifted, and then the opposing side went stumbling forward in a mess of flailing limbs and curses—straight into the mud.

The crowd erupted.

And so did you.

A triumphant roaring cheer tore from your throat before you could stop it, loud and wholly undignified for a princess—but in that moment, you didn’t care in the slightest.

You squealed as strong arms scooped you up and spun you around, laughter bubbling free as you came face to face with Lyonel’s broad, victorious grin. The world blurred for a heartbeat before he finally set you back on your feet.

Almost immediately, a smaller body launched itself into your arms.

Another laugh escaped you as Aegon clutched at you, eyes bright with excitement. “We did it!” he exclaimed. “We won!”

“Of course you did,” you said, smiling as you tapped his nose and leaned in closer. “Targaryens always come out on top.”

The words were soft, meant only for him, and you shared a secret little smile at the truth that passed between you like a hidden spark.

With a wink, you set him down and let Duncan sweep him back into the celebrating crowd.

“Darling…” Lyonel began as he stepped up beside you. He paused, and you braced yourself for whatever nonsense might tumble from his mouth next. “Do we now have a child I’m unaware of?” he asked, gesturing toward Egg.

“What? No!” you sputtered. By the gods, this man—he knew full well you had been a maiden until last night.

A night you had spent with him.

He waved you off. “Bah, it matters not. He’s an entertaining child. We can keep him,” he declared decisively.

“Lyonel—!”

“Anyways!” he cut in loudly. He leaned in until his face was inches from yours, grinning like a fool. “I won.”

You snorted and pushed his face back with your palm. “Barely.”

“A win is a win, my fiery lady wife-to-be,” he said, entirely too pleased with himself. “So—what’s my prize?”

You arched a brow. “And what is it you want?”

He leaned back in, his voice dropping low near your ear. “Well, I can think of one rather enjoyable—”

You smacked him instantly.

“Ow!” he yelped, clutching his arm. “You are a violent little creature…” He breathed, his grin only widening. “I love it!”

You rolled your eyes.

He wasn’t done. Tugging you a step closer, he continued, “As I was saying—since that’s clearly off the table—then… a kiss.”

“A kiss?” you repeated, suspicious.

He nodded solemnly. “A kiss.”

You studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “Alright. Fine.”

His eyes lit up with victory—

—but before he realized what you were doing, you pressed a kiss to your own fingertips and promptly smacked it against his mouth.

“There you are, darling,” you said with a sickly sweet smile, already turning on your heel. 

You didn’t look back as you walked away.

Behind you, Lyonel stood stunned for half a heartbeat before turning to find Duncan and Aegon watching him with varying expressions.

“Gods,” Lyonel breathed, awe softening into a grin. “I think I’m in love.”

And then he was hurrying after you.

Egg only shook his head, glancing up at Duncan. “She’s going to eat him alive.”

note: Aerion’s part is longer than I expectrd because… well I got carried away! I really have to rewatch daemyra’s scene sooo I can put it rightin my imagination and I also used rhae’s clothing that scene to use here in the fic too.

Being the youngest daughter of Maekar Targaryen means living in the shadow of a father whose heart turned to stone the moment Dyanna Dayne took her last breath. Your own mother was a political marriage to satisfy the both parties, and she birthed you with silver hair and lilac eyes that you inherited from your father, but she also gave you other features she passed down, like your skin. You might look the part of being a Targaryen, but you’re a ghost in your own home, and your father stares at you as if he’s searching for a face he’ll never see again. He looks for a resemblance to Dyanna that you don't have, while your other sisters carry her memory in their faces. You’re just a reminder of a necessity, and it left a void that no amount of power could ever truly fill.

The rest of your siblings are just a mess of broken pieces, and you’re always watching them from the shadows of the big halls. Daeron is the oldest, but he’s usually lost in the drink in his goblet while he tries to escape from his own dreams. Aerion is a brother who hates you because you don’t share his whole blood, and he treats you like an outsider every chance he gets. Aemon stays away from the family, and your sisters are busy with their own lives, while your beloved Egg is always sneaking off to escape Aerion, too. You’ve learned to do things in the way only a princess like you can, and that means testing the patience of the one man who actually looks at you.

Baelor Targaryen is the Hand and the heir to the throne, but to you, he’s just the uncle who holds your leash too tight. He doesn't have a daughter of his own, so he has taken you under his wing, and he tries to keep you shielded from the world while your own father forgets you exist. He treats you like a doll that might break while he ensures you remain untouched because he wants to save your hand for a high lord you deserve, and he treats your name as if it’s his own to defend. You feel trapped by his kindness, and his constant worry makes the whole place feel like a cage that gets smaller as time passes. Your beloved brother knows about the complicated relationship you have with your uncle, and Aerion loves to mess with your head because of it.

He whispers that Baelor is just another man trying to own you, and he pushes you to break the Prince’s heart just to see what freedom feels like. He always loved to toy with you, even when you were younger, because you and he don’t share the same mother. So it was nothing that he spent weeks filling your ears with stories about common folk beyond the Red Keep, because that was the easiest way to build an image for you, and he promised to show you things Baelor would never allow. He talks about walking through the realm without a single knight at your back, and he tells you the people in the streets have more life in them than anyone in this cold place.

That promise of freedom is what leads you to the small scrap of parchment paper hidden under your pillow, and you read his handwriting by the light of the fire. The note tells you exactly where the hidden door is and gives you instructions on how to get out without anyone knowing. You wait until the halls are quiet and the knight in charge thinks you’re already out for the day. The only sound you can hear is the wind passing by while you walk toward the corner of your chambers. The chair in front of the exit is heavy, but you manage to shove it aside, and the wood scrapes quietly against the floor as you clear the way to the wall. You press your hand against the stone, and it swings open to reveal a dark pathway.

There’s an unpleasant smell and wet stone, while you can see a small bundle of fabric sitting on the floor of the passage. You lean through the opening while your hands grip the edge of the stone frame, and you peer into the hallway to check if the coast is clear. Once you’re on the other side, you reach for the bundle, and you start to strip your heavy clothes. It lands on the floor, and you leave it right where Aerion’s gift had been waiting as if you're swapping one identity for another. You put on the brown tunic, then tie the laces at the front before slipping into the sturdy breeches and the dark grey doublet. The fabric is rough against your skin, but it has more life than anything you’ve worn in years.

You sit on the cold ground to pull on the boots, and you tug the laces tight until they’re secure enough for a long walk. You finish the look by tucking your silver hair under a cap, and you finally look like just another smallfolk in the city. Sevens, you even look like a boy in such a state. You stand up, and you shove the stone back toward the way it was, but you make sure to leave a tiny gap. You don't close it all the way because you need to be able to get back inside before the sun comes up and people come looking for you. You begin to walk down the narrow stone stairs once you're sure everything is good, and the air gets colder the further you go. The walls are damp, and the only light comes from the small torches flickering in the distance as you follow the path deeper.

You keep your steps quiet as you watch the uneven way beneath your feet while moving through the hallways and along the silent tunnels. The path eventually leads deep under the Red Keep, where the altar of the massive skull of Balerion is sitting. You take a moment to look at its enormous size before walking past it, then follow the hallway as it leads toward more steps. You finally feel the cold air of a chilly night after you reach the bottom, and you see a figure leaning against the wall. Aerion looks up as you approach, and he gives you a crooked smile. “Took you long enough.” Aerion doesn't wait for an answer before he reaches out to grab your hand with a firm grip.

He tugs you forward, and you follow him as he leads the way out of the keep and toward the city. Both of you hurried to reach the bottom of the stairs, and the silence of the Red Keep is replaced by the distant noise of King's Landing at night. Aerion keeps a fast pace while he guides you through the streets. “Stay close and do not let go of my hand,” he says as he looks over his shoulder to check on you. He turns a corner where the street is filled with brothels, and you realize he’s taking you toward the Street of Silk. You keep your head down while you clutch his hand tightly when you step into this kind of crowd for the first time.

“Is this it?” you ask while you try to process what you see and the strange faces. “It is,” Aerion laughs, and he leads you deeper into the noise. “Baelor would be mad if he could see you now.” You follow him inside a crowded building, where you can’t describe very well what the scent is that you smell. Someone snatches the doublet right off your shoulders as you push through the people, and it disappears into the crowd, but Aerion doesn't even try to stop them. He just yanks his own hood back to reveal his silver hair, and he stands tall as he leads you further into the room. “Let them have it,” he says while he looks back at you. “You do not need it here,” he adds.

You look around the room, and you see why he isn't worried about you missing your clothes. People are showing all of their skin everywhere you look, and you see women with exposed breasts while men walk around with their cocks hanging between their legs. In every corner, there are people fucking without any shame while the rest of the crowd just watches or drinks. You see bodies entwined together, and the sight makes your face hot, but Aerion just keeps moving as if this is the most natural thing in the world. It’s almost like he’s always here and used to it. Aerion leads you into a massive room where the room is filled with gasping breaths and sounds of pleasure.

You see people fucking on every surface, and some are sprawled across the cushions, while others are pinned against the walls or just doing it without shame on the floor. The sight of so many men and women thrusting or bouncing out in the open makes your heart race. He guides you toward the side of the room, and he doesn't stop until your back is pressed against a cold wall. Aerion looks down at you with a grin, and his fingers reach for the laces of your tunic. “You are shaking,” he whispers while he starts to undo the knots with slow movements. “Is the little princess scared of a few naked bodies, or is it just that you have never seen how people live?”

He loosens the fabric until it hangs open, and he shoves his hand inside to grope your breast. His calloused palm squeezes your flesh, and he watches your face for any sign of pleasure. “Look at them,” he orders while he yanks on the laces to open the shirt even further. “Do not turn away like a coward. You wanted to see behind the walls of the Keep, so you might as well see all of it.” His other hand drops to the waistband of your breeches, and he starts fumbling with it. You try to look away from the people nearby, looking at the two of you, but he grips your chin, and he forces you to keep your eyes on the room. He yanks the breeches down past your hips with a sudden movement, and they fall to your ankles.

“Much better,” he murmurs as he looks at you from your head to your toes while you stand there and have never felt more exposed than before. “Now you look like you actually belong here.” Aerion doesn't waste another second before he silences your protest with his mouth, and he crushes his lips against yours in a harsh kiss. You feel the warmth of his body as he pins you harder against the cold wall while his hand slides down between your legs. His fingers find your pearl, and he starts to grind his palm against your center with a harsh pressure that makes your knees weak. You try to gasp, but the sound is trapped in your throat as he slides his tongue into your mouth, and he rubs his thumb over the sensitive bud. The sensation is overwhelming while he toys with what’s between your folds, and you let out a muffled whine into the kiss because of the way he teases you.

He smirks against your lips when he hears the high-pitched moan you make, and he only increases the speed of his hand to make sure you can’t think of anything but him. “Good,” he murmurs while he breaks the kiss just enough to look at your expression. “Make those pretty sounds for me while everyone watches.” Aerion shifts his weight while he watches your face for any sign that you’re close to finishing, and he shoves two fingers deep into your cunt without any warning. The sudden fullness of your cunt makes you arch against the stone as the pain from the stretch of his fingers affects you while you try to clench around him. "Hngh-! ” You let out a choked gasp, and your fingers sink into the skin of his shoulders while you try to find your breath.

He doesn't slow down or give you a moment to adjust, but instead, he thrusts his fingers deeper until they’re knuckle deep. He smirks at the way tears start to pool in your eyes before he leans in close, and you can feel his breath against your skin. “Mmph... Ah! Enough... Aerion- nnngh,” you whimper while you squirm against his hand, but he only takes it to push his fingers deeper inside you. “Enough?” he mocks you before he starts to move his fingers at a rough pace. “If the High Lords of the realm could see their little Princess now... legs wide and sobbing in a brothel, do you think a single one of them would still want to marry you? You are tainted now,” he sneers while he increases the speed of his hand. “No one wants a girl who has been opened by her brother while commoners watch her make those sounds.”

“Hah... P-please," you whimper while the pain mixes with the pleasure, and your head lolls back against the wall as he shoves his fingers deep into you. He just watches you while your tears start to flow out because it’s all becoming too much. “You want more?” Aerion murmurs against your skin, and he suddenly drops to his knees while your breeches stay bunched at your ankles. You let out a broken gasp as he forces your knees apart with his other hand until the fabric of your breeches tugs against your skin and your wet pearl pulses from the feeling of the cold air. He keeps his fingers buried deep inside you while his tongue swipes across your folds at the same time.

“A-Ae-! Gods,” you cry out, and your fingers find his hair while he buries his face between your thighs to taste you out. The feeling of his mouth makes you grind against him as he sucks on your bud while his hand pumps inside. His other hand grips your hip to keep you pinned against the wall while you heave and sob his name. The way he licks and moves his fingers inside you is something you have never felt before, and you attempt to keep your legs from shaking too hard, but always fail. “Look at me,” he growls against your skin while he looks up at you with hunger, and he continues to flick his tongue against you until you’re sobbing from how he does it.

Aerion buries his face even deeper between your thighs while his tongue licks the line of your folds, and he uses the tip of his tongue to flick at your swollen pearl. You let out a loud moan that echoes through the place because you don’t even care if the other people here see your brother between your legs. The shame doesn’t matter if he uses his mouth to suck on your cunt that way, and you only think about the way he shoves his fingers deeper into you. You don’t care about the people watching or the fact that he’s your brother because the way he moves his tongue makes you forget it. You only want to feel more of him as you watch his dark hair move against your skin while he gulps down the slick around it.

You strive to open your legs further, even though the breeches at your ankles stop you, while you lean your head back against the stone, and you let your cries fill the air. “Emā se sȳrje orvorta eman mirre ēdas,” (You have the best cunt I have ever had) he mumbles against your skin while he swipes his tongue over you again, and his fingers pump deeper inside you until you feel something you can’t even describe. You grind your cunt against his mouth while you seek more relief, but he suddenly yanks his face away. You let out a frustrated whine that almost sounds like you’re complaining, which makes him slap your clit with his other hand in response, and he shoves his fingers deeper.

The way he uses his mouth and the thrust of his fingers make you moan loudly because you need his mouth back against your cunt. Aerion doesn’t put his face back between your legs yet, and it almost feels like he doesn’t want to, especially the way he stays there while he continues to use his hand. He watches your reaction while his fingers move fast around you, and the way his eyes stare at you is too much, as if you can even feel it touch you. “L-lēkia- A-Aerion… P-please- kostilus dīnagon aōha relgos arlī va nyke,” (Brother, put your mouth back on me) you cry out as you look down at him.

He smiles at you from below while he finally moves his face back against your center to start working his mouth again. He flicks his tongue up and down your folds with a greed that makes you sob while he sucks at you as if he is starving. You feel his fingers continue to pump, and his mouth focuses on the pearl until your entire body shakes from the pressure. He devours you while he ignores the sounds of the brothel around you because he only cares about the way you taste. Aerion gives you a few more hard thrusts before he yanks his fingers out where he leaves you gaping and empty. He stands up fast, and you immediately feel the cold air of the brothel on your skin when the warmth of his body against you disappears.

He doesn’t say a word when he turns his back on you, and he starts walking fast toward the exit as if he doesn’t want you to catch him. You are left heaving against the wall with your breeches pooled at your ankles and your shirt hanging open that reveals your exposed breasts to the entire room. “Aerion-! N-nngh- hah... wait!” you gasp while you strive to find your balance. You clutch at your open tunic to hide your chest, but you can't even move to follow him because your legs are still shaking from his touch. You watch his silver hair disappear into the group of naked bodies, and you realize he’s actually leaving you here. “Lēkia! Sevens- Aerion!” you call out again, but the sounds of people moaning nearby drown your voice.

You feel the pulsing feeling between your legs, and you hurried to tug your breeches back up before anyone else decides to take advantage of you. “Damn him,” you hiss while you angrily fix your beeches with clumsy fingers. You put your breasts back into the tunic, and you yank the ties shut as fast as you can while your heart beats fast against your ribs. You look around the room with a panicked expression and notice a few men staring at you with hungry eyes. The sight makes you finish tucking in your shirt quickly, and you run toward the exit to try to find him before you're truly lost around the city. You stumble out of the brothel, and the cold air touches your skin like it’s a slap in your title that you’re walking out like this.

You don’t even realize the cap that hid your silver hair is gone, and you just keep walking as the wind blows those strands away. Your clothes are messy, and the way you tuck your tunic is not even proper, but you don’t care because you just want to get away from that place. A few drunkards hanging around in the alley stop to stare as you pass over them. “Is that... silver?” one of them mutters while he squints his eyes through the dark as if he’s trying to confirm if it’s one of the Targaryen bastards because who could even have silver hair but in such a state like you have right now? No highborn will wear that filthy fabric. “Cannot be,” another responds, and he leans against a wooden post. “What would a dragon be doing coming out of a hole like this?”

“Look at the way she walks,” the first one whispers while he watches your shaky legs. “Someone definitely had their way with her there.” You really tried to keep your head down and not fight with them because you would just get yourself caught. You pick up your pace while your heart thumps against your ribs like you are wishing no one would ever recognize you. Every person you’re walking by feels like a hand reaching for you, and every muffled laugh from a nearby window sounds like a mockery of your shame. You reach the side entrance of the Red Keep, and you slip through the door while the silence of the castle swallows you whole. Thanks to the Sevens that the knight on duty was distracted by another night, so they didn’t even blink an eye in your direction.

The halls are empty except for the rats lingering around and the fire from the torches. Everyone is asleep, and the only sound you can hear is the scuff of your boots against the floor. You feel small in the big corridor while you hug your arms around your chest as a poor attempt to feel fully covered, despite the fact that you’re even clothed, and because you can’t stop trembling from the cold. You walk past the closed doors and along the walls as your messy hair falls over your face while you keep your eyes on the floor to avoid being seen. You can feel the air on your swollen lips as you realize how exposed you feel without your doublet because you are only wearing a tunic.

A few of the laces are still untied at the top, but you don’t even bother to fix them. You just want to be in your chamber and hide, so you pick up your pace, which makes your boots thud louder against the floor. You reach the hallway, turn at the end of it, and you almost start running until a tall figure steps out from the shadows and blocks your path. You nearly crash into his chest, and you stumble back while you struggle to keep your balance. You saw the dark hair and stern expression of Baelor when the dim torchlight fell on his face. He stands there with his arms crossed over his chest while he looks down at your messy hair and your untied tunic with a look of pure disgust.

“Where have you been?” he asks, and his voice sounds like he’s mad. You try to walk past him by taking a step to the side, but he moves to block you again, and he stays put. “I asked you a question,” he says before he steps closer, and he forces you back toward the stone wall. You just shake your head, and you try to look away from his gaze because you can’t bear the way he’s judging you. It’s almost like he sees a different person right now, and it’s not the lovely niece he knows. “Did you hear me?” Baelor asks again while his voice rises a little, but not enough to wake people, and he looms over you. “I want to know which brothel you crawled out of and which whorehouse allowed you in.”

His words stirred emotions deep inside you, and what he said is probably worse than a slap. You look up at him and try to stand tall, like you are gathering your confidence to talk back to him. “It is no concern of yours where I spend my time,” you said while you met his eyes. “You are neither my father nor my King, and I do not owe you an account of my activities!” you said with annoyance before you tried to push past him again, but Baelor reaches out, and he catches your wrist. He yanks you back toward him, and he holds you so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“It became my concern the moment you brought shame to this house,” he hisses while he stares at your messy hair and tunic. “Was it Aerion? Did you let that boy drag you into the mud?” You let out a bitter laugh before you twist your arm, but he doesn’t let go, and his eyes are now eyeing you angrily at your swollen lips. “Aerion knows how to spend his time,” you spit out, and you lean in toward his face while your eyebrows knit together. “But you are so occupied with the King’s business and the duties of the Hand that you likely have not laid hands on a woman in years.” Baelor’s jaw tightens, and his grip on your wrist gets even tighter until it hurts. He doesn’t say anything for a second, but you can see the rage behind his eyes as he stares at your swollen lips and your slightly opened tunic that will surely reveal your chest if he pulls the tie more.

“Is that what you believe?” he asks, and his voice is strained as he yanks you closer to his chest. “That I have lost my way?” He doesn’t drag you away, but instead he shoves you back against the cold stone of the corridor wall with a sudden force that knocks the whine out of you. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, and he uses his other hand to grip your throat. It’s not enough to knock you out, but it's enough to catch you off guard. The hallway is empty, and the dim torchlight makes his shadow loom over you as you can feel the warmth of his body. “You think I am too old and too tired for the likes of you,” he whispers after he leans down and his breath touches your ear. “But look at you. You walk back here in this state, and you expect me to ignore how you ruin yourself for a night with Aerion.”

You look up at him, and a taunting smile spreads across your face because you can see how much you’re getting under his skin. You almost look like you enjoy the way he’s towering over you, and you only smiled for a moment before it disappeared. You widen your eyes, and your eyes start to water while you stare at him with a frightened look. Luckily for you, you have a talent for faking your emotions. “You are hurting me,” you whisper, and your voice sounds small in the empty hallway. His hand is still tight against your neck, and you can feel the heat from his palm against your skin. You’re not actually in pain, but you watch his expression for any sign of hesitation. You lean your head back against the wall, and you let a single tear roll down your cheek while you keep your eyes looking at him.

“Is this what you want?” you ask, and you let your voice tremble just enough. “Are you truly going to hurt your only girl because of Aerion? I thought I meant more to you than a reason to lose your temper.” Baelor’s grip doesn’t loosen, but you see a flicker of something in his eyes when you call yourself his girl. He looks down at your swollen lips and then back at your watering eyes while his chest heaves against yours. He leans in closer until his nose brushes against yours, and you can feel his anger. He can easily see through the act, and his eyes darken when he realizes you are trying to play him. “You are not a girl,” he says roughly. “You are a woman who does not know her place, and you think you can play these games with me because I have been kind to you in the past?”

He tightens his grip around your throat, but it’s not in a way that will choke you out of air; instead, he wants you to feel the pressure while he looms over you. He lets go of your wrists, and they drop to your sides, but you’re pinned too firmly against the wall to move. “Do not play the victim with me when you were just in the arms of a prince who cares nothing for your safety,” he growls, and his face is inches from yours. He slides his free hand down your chest, and he slips it under the hem of your tunic. His palm is hot against your skin as he moves upward, and he finds your breast under his palm. He squeezes your flesh firmly, and his thumb brushes over your nipples while he watches your tears dry up.

“Nnngh... H-hah n..." you moan breathily as you arch your back against the wall. The sound makes his jaw clench, and he moves the hand that is already at your neck to slide his fingers up until they touch your lips. He shoves them into your mouth to make you choke on them while his palm is firm against your chin to hold your head from looking away. He forces your jaw open with two fingers he placed over your tongue to keep you quiet. He pressed his weight into you so you could feel the hardness of his cock under his clothes, and he kept his other hand busy under your shirt. “Keep your mouth shut,” he commands, and his voice is gritty. “You will wake the people in this wing.”

You let out a muffled moan against his hand, and you look up at him with wide eyes while your heart thuds against your ribs. He let out a deep groan from his throat, and he started to grope your flesh with pressure that makes your legs feel weak. You try to say something back to him, but you can only make a whine around his fingers while he stares at your face. You look up at him through your lashes, and you reach down with your free hand to find the heavy shape of his cock through his breeches. You wrap your fingers around the length of him, and you feel him throb under your touch when you squeeze him. Baelor lets out a deep grunt, and he closes his eyes for a second as he reacts to your hand.

He doesn’t pull away, and instead, he uses his hand on your face to control your mouth. He shoves his index and middle fingers deeper into your throat while he uses his thumb and his remaining fingers to grip your jaw tightly. He forces your mouth open wider, and he curls his fingers over your tongue to keep you from speaking or biting down. “Mmmph... Hngh! ”You gasp, and your eyes water for real this time when you feel his fingers reach close to your throat. “Seven hells,” Baelor curses, and his voice is hoarse as he leans his forehead against yours. “You are a bold little whore, and you think you can handle a man like me just because you have been playing with Aerion.”

He keeps his fingers buried in your mouth, and he moves his other hand from your breast down to your waist. He fumbles with the ties of your breeches, and he yanks them open with a harsh tug. He doesn’t stop there, and he slides his hand inside to find your wet cunt while your hand keeps working on his cock through the fabric. He finds your bud, and he rubs his thumb against it with a force that makes your knees buckle. "Nngh-! Mmmf!” you cry out against his fingers, and your cunt gets wetter as he pleases you with his thumb. “You want to be used?” he whispers, and he stares into your eyes while he works his fingers inside your mouth with his hand inside your cheeks. “I will give you exactly what you deserve.”

Baelor pulls his hand away from your cunt and mouth before he turns you around with a surprising movement that leaves you breathless. He pushes your face against the cold wall, and he yanks your breeches down to your knees. He holds your ass, and he feels the softness of them for a moment before he leans closer and grinds his clothed cock against you. He wraps one arm around your body, and he slides his hand underneath your tunic so that it rests firmly on your breast while he stays close against your back. “Iksan vaoreznuni,” (I am sorry) he starts apologizing in Valyrian against your ear, and his voice is laced with a guilt that wasn’t there before. “I did not mean to be so harsh with you, my little dove.”

He keeps grinding against you while his hand kneads your chest, and he nuzzles the side of your neck as if he wants to be even closer to you. His anger turns into a desperate affection as he holds you tightly against the wall while his breath hitches. “You just do not understand what it does to me when I think of you in those places,” he murmurs gently, and he closes his eyes as he feels the warmth of your body. You move your hips back against him, and you feel him through his breeches. You grind your arse against his front, and he lets out a heavy groan. You lean your head back against his shoulder before you smile.

“Are you jealous?” you ask softly. “Does it bother you that I was there with my legs open while other men watched? Does it eat at you to think that any one of them could have taken me on the floor and used me until I could not walk?” You feel his heart thudding against your back, and his grip on your breast gets tighter because of what you’re saying. You chuckle, and you move your arse against him again to make sure he feels you against him. “Aerion is young, and he has the fire for it, but you are just an old man who thinks an apology will make me forget how you just had your fingers down my throat,” you whisper, and you shove your arse back into his pelvis.

You feel his breath against your ear while you move your hips to feel his thick cock against your soft flesh. He makes a rough sound, and his fingers sink into your skin. You don’t stop, and you close your eyes while you mock him with your movements. “You are slowing down… Maybe you are just scared that you do not have enough blood left in you, actually, to handle a woman like me,” you murmur, and your hair brushes his face when you lean your head more to his shoulder. He let out a snarl, and he yanked his breeches down past his hips with a single motion. He doesn’t give you a second to prepare before he grabs your waist with both hands, and he positions himself at your entrance.

He pushes into you with a sudden thrust that buries his cock inside you in an instant, and the force of it makes you cry out. You have no choice but to place your palms against the wall to keep your body from falling while he pins you there with the weight of his body. He moves his hands, so they’re both holding onto your hips before he begins to work you against him with a hard force. He isn’t just thrusting into you, but instead he is yanking your hips back to meet every ram of his cock, and the impact makes your face uncomfortably rub against the wall. “You want to talk about Aerion?” he growls in your ear, and his voice is filled with ugly rage. “You think that boy has the fire for this when he could not even keep you for a whole night? He left you in the dirt like a used whore because he is a coward who only knows how to play instead of being a man.”

He pounds into you even harder, and his fingers on your skin are enough to start bruising with how he puts pressure on it while he uses your hips to control the depth of every plunge. “I was going to be kind to you… I was going to take you back to your chambers to- " He cuts himself off while he buries himself inside you to the hilt. “To give you the gentle touch you deserve,” he taunts as he yanks your hips back to meet every ram of his cock, and the impact makes your forehead bang against the wall. “But, no, you just had to keep your tongue wagging,” he hisses while he pounds into you without any plan to stop this any sooner. “Look at you now,” he grunts when you clench around him. “You’re being used in a hallway by the old man you look down on.”

He keeps a tight grip on your waist while he pistons into you. “You’re taking every inch of me while your precious brother is probably with another whore’s cunt." Baelor lets out a moan against your neck, and he moves one of his hands from your hip to your arse. He grips the soft flesh painfully before he pulls back just enough to hit one of your arses with a loud slap that can be heard through the corridor. He doesn’t even care if someone hears the sound or if your father, Maekar, happens to walk around the corner and find his youngest daughter being used by his dear brother. He doesn’t want to hide anymore, and instead, he looks like he wants the whole castle to know exactly who is fucking you like a hound.

“Go on then,” he growls, and he pushes his hips into you with a thrust that makes your toes curl against the floor. “Do not hold back your voice for my sake.” He buries his entire length inside you, and he stays there for a heartbeat to let you feel the fullness of it. “I want you to moan so loudly that every guard and every servant in the Red Keep knows what you are.” He lets his cock throb inside you, and his thickness makes your breath hitch. “Let them all hear how the future king handles a slut like you.” A slap to your arse makes you arch your back with a loud moan to hear from it. His hips start to hammer into you again with a relentless pace and don’t stop for breath. He keeps yanking your hips back to meet him so that you take every bit of him.

His eyes focus on the side of your face, and you can only gasp for air while he seems possessed by the need to have you. “I want them to know,” he murmurs while he kneads your skin. “I want Maekar to hear his youngest daughter making these sounds for me while Aerion sleeps alone in his bed.” You keep your palms pressed against the cold stone, and your arse is arched high to meet him while he works behind you. Baelor doesn’t just thrust anymore, but instead he digs his fingers into your waist so he can force your arse to slide over his cock, and he makes you take every inch of him with each drag. He decides how the pace will go by yanking you back against him while he drags your ass forward to force a moan out of you, and he doesn't let you move an inch unless he’s the one guiding you.

The sounds of both of your skin contacting are loud in the empty hall, and he groans when he feels you clench around him with every slide of his cock. He isn’t gentle at all, and he seems surprised by the way your body welcomes him like that. “You are so tight,” he grunts in your ear, and his voice is strained while he tries to keep his pace. “How can you be this tight after a night with that boy? Did he even touch you at all, or are you just built to take a man this way?”

You let out a broken moan while your back arches even more, and you feel the weight of him filling you completely. You turn your head just enough to look at him, and you let a small smile show on your face even as he hammers into you.

“Do you like it, Uncle?” you gasp, and you shove your arse back to meet him while your heart thumps. “Nngh- do you like how t-tight I am for you? Mmn- tell me.” Baelor lets out a sound that is almost a growl, and he nods while he buries his face in your hair. “Sīkudi nopāzmi" (seven hells), he mutters, and he leans closer into your back while his cock pulses inside you. “Damn you… You know I do- " You let out a laugh, and you wiggle against him, taking him more deeply as you purposely clench around him. “Aerion never put his cock in me,” you whisper while you feel him slow down from his movements behind you. “He only used his fingers and tongue. You are the only one who has been inside me tonight.” Baelor stops for a split second after he hears you, and then he pounds into you, which almost knocks your palms off the wall.

He doesn’t wait for you to catch your breath, and he just pounds himself against your arse while he grips your waist so hard that his knuckles turn white. He sounds like he’s losing his mind, and he shoves his face into your neck while he keeps the same pace without any mercy. “Tonight?” he spat out, and his voice was laced with surprise. “You say I am the only one who has been inside you tonight, but what of the nights before this one?” He yanks you back against him to shove himself deeper inside you, and he holds you there while you feel him twitch. “How many men have used you?” He moves your hips in a slow circle to make his cock rub against your womb, and he watches the way your back arches. “How many times have you given yourself away while I was not looking?”

You gasp as his palm smacks your arse again, and your back arches until your spine feels like it might snap. You feel him filling you, and you shake your head while you try to keep your palms on the wall. “N-no one, uncle- " you cry out, and you shove your arse back to meet his pelvis. “I am a maiden, and no man has ever had me. I have never done this with anyone but you.” The words make him groan while he guides your hips back to meet his thrust. He isn’t even holding back now, and he slaps your arse again while he fucks into you. He looks like a man possessed after hearing that you were a maiden, and he keeps his eyes on the back of your head while he claims you in the middle of the hallway. “A maiden,” he repeats, and he sounds almost disgusted with himself even as he keeps ramming into you. “You are a daughter of the Prince, and you have a name to uphold, yet you let Aerion drag you into that filth?”

He leans his chest against your back to crush you into the stone while he shoves his cock deeper into you to show his anger. “Did you not even think about what would happen to you if someone else had found you first?” He doesn’t even seem to realize the irony of his words while he’s having his way with you here in the open. “You are lucky I am the one who caught you because any other man would have just taken what he wanted and left you ruined in the street.” You clench around him because of what he said, and the pleasure is so good that you finish right there against the stone. You squeeze him tightly, and you feel yourself getting soaked while you let out a loud cry. Baelor lets out a groan when he feels how much you got soaked compared to a few seconds ago, and he realizes you just spilled around his cock while he’s still moving.

You let out a whine, and you turn your head over your shoulder to look at him. “No one else will take me now anyway- " you whisper while you feel him throbbing inside you. “After all, you have already taken my maidenhood in a hallway.” You feel his breath on your neck, and you lean your forehead against the wall to catch your breath while his cock pulses inside you. “Who would want me after the Hand of the King has had his way with me?” You say those words to hurt him, and you feel your knees wobble. The reminder of what he has done makes him snap, and the way he shoves his cock into you almost knocks the wind out of you. He doesn’t stop, and instead, he uses your hips to drive himself even deeper while his face is twisted with rage.

He’s breathing raggedly, and he looks at you with a look that shows he’s done playing games. “Then you will learn to lie like the rest of them,” he growls, and he pounds into you so fast that your head hits against the wall again. “Many a lady has fooled her husband before, and you will simply do the same. If you wanted to stay pure, then you should not have gone out with Aerion.” He slaps your arse just to let out what he’s feeling, but he also likes how it bounces, and the sound it makes is loud. Baelor pounds into you even harder while he’s starting to feel that he’s close to his own release. He moves his hands away from your arse, and he wraps one arm around your neck to hold you steady while his other hand slams over your mouth. He’s trying to silence you because the way he’s fucking you made you let out a loud scream that will wake the other.

It’s ironic because he was just telling you to be loud not so long ago, but now he’s panicked that someone might actually come looking for the source of the noise. Your chest is still pressed against the wall, and you can only make muffled sounds against his palm while he moves on your back. “Mmmph! Nnngh-! ” you cry out behind his fingers, and your eyes open widely while you feel him hit the spot inside you that you didn’t know existed. Your back is arched, and your hips are tilted up to take every inch of him while he can’t control his temper. “Quiet,” he grunts in your ear, and he pants while he’s working to catch the feeling of release. “Bloody- you are too tight, and you are going to get us caught with those sounds.”

He keeps his hand clamped over your face while he shoves his cock into you with a heavy pounding that hits the back of your womb. He’s not thinking about anything but how you feel, so he’s just trying to get as deep as he can before he can’t control himself to pull away. You feel his fingers dig into your cheek, and you can only moan into his palm when his cock throbs inside you. “Hngh... haah...” he lets out a heavy sound, and his body goes rigid while he finally cums inside you. He keeps you pinned to the wall, and he doesn’t let go of your mouth until he’s sure you won’t scream again. Baelor pulls out just as he’s about to lose it, and he spills white seed right against your arse instead of inside you.

He lets out a sound that is almost like a whine while he coats your skin because he wasn’t planning on leaving a babe in your belly just yet. He’s breathing hard, and he immediately shoves back into your cunt after pouring all of the drops on your arse. You can feel that he’s still throbbing, and he’s trying to push his seed inside you, even though he’s already spent it all on the outside. He keeps his hand clamped over your mouth while he forces himself back in. "Mmmf-! ”You moan against his palm, and your arse grinds into him while you feel full again. You can feel his seed clinging to your skin while the remnants drop down to your thighs. “Look at the mess you made me do,” he says while he tries to recover, and he keeps his hand over your face to stifle your moans.

He’s acting on pure instinct now, and he grinds his cock against your walls to shove the slickness from your arse back inside you. You can only let out muffled gasps while he holds you, and he doesn’t pull away until he’s satisfied with it. Baelor finally pulls away before he looks down at your arse to see how his seed covered it, and the sight makes him let out a groan. He’s clearly affected by the mess he made, and he moves his hand away from your mouth before he lets go of your neck. He turns you around to make you face him, and he takes a look at your messy state while you try to catch your breath. He’s breathing hard, and his eyes move to where your breeches are yanked down to the ground. He reaches down, and he pulls them up first because he wants to make you look presentable before he even thinks about fixing his own clothes.

doesn’t say a word while he tugs the fabric into place, and his hands are a little shaky as he tries to hide away the evidence of what just happened. “Look at me,” he commands, and he hooks a finger under your chin to lift your head while he’s finishing with your clothes. “We cannot have anyone seeing you in this state.” You lean your weight against him because you can’t feel your legs, and you look up at his face while he tries to fix your hair. “Your chambers are closer than mine,” you whisper, and you watch his jaw tighten at the suggestion. “You cannot exactly let me walk looking like this.” He clearly doesn’t want to bring you there and risk people seeing him carry his niece into his room, or, even worse, someone seeing you leave in the morrow.

He knows the gossip would be hell if anyone caught a glimpse of you slipping out of his door in the morning, but he looks at the state of your clothes, and he knows you’re right. He lets out a frustrated huff, and he suddenly leans down to scoop you up into his arms while he ignores that he didn’t properly put his breeches on. He carries you down the hall with hurried steps as if he’s running in a race, and he doesn’t stop until he reaches his door. He brings you straight to his bed, and he tosses you onto it while he finally turns to lock the door. Baelor stands by the door for a moment while he tries to catch his breath, and he finally turns to look at you, where you’re sprawled on his bed.

He looks at your tunic, and he sees how dirty it is, which makes him let out a frustrated sigh because he knows those clothes have already touched the mattress. You aren't making it easy for him, though, and you start to roll across the fine sheets while knowing it’s a filthy thing. “Stop that,” he said before walking towards you, and he lunges forward to catch your waist before you can ruin the entire bed. “You are going to dirty it, and I will not sleep in a bed that smells like shit.” He ignores your stubborn look, and he begins to help you out of the fabric. He pulls the tunic out of your body before he yanks the breeches down, while his fingers brush against your skin, and he doesn’t say a word until your clothes are tossed onto the floor.

He reaches into a chest at the end of his bed, and he pulls out one of his own nightclothes before he offers it to you. “Put this on,” he mutters, and his voice is still hoarse while he looks at your state. You look at the fabric, and then you look at him while you bat your eyelashes as you slowly push the garment away. You make it very clear that you have no intention of wearing his clothes, and you lie back against the pillows while you don’t wear a thing. Baelor stares at you for a long moment, and he feels his resolve slipping while he takes in the sight of his niece in his bed. “Fine,” he grunts, and he turns his back to you so he can finally strip out of his layers, too.

“If you wish to be difficult, then you can sleep… like that, but do not complain if you get cold.” He starts to change his own things, but then he feels your gaze on him, and it makes him pause halfway through. He looks over his shoulder, and he sees the way you're watching him, and he decides to abandon his own night clothes as well. He climbs into the bed while he's showing skin as you do, and he pulls the heavy covers up to hide both of you. He stays on his side of the bed, and he stares at the ceiling while attempting to ignore the fact that you’re lying there completely naked right next to him. You aren't about to let him keep that distance, though, and you slide across the distance until your skin brushes against his.

You wrap your arms around his chest so you can cling to him while you nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck, and you can feel the way his heart beats against his chest. “Still so tense, Uncle?”You," you murmur, and you breathe against his throat. He doesn't try to push you away, but his hand moves up to rest on your hip with a firm grip. “You should be asleep,” he mutters. “Tomorrow is going to be… You aren't helping.” You let out a small laugh, and you nuzzle deeper into his body while you enjoy how he feels against you. “You're being a sour old man just because you finally got what you wanted,” you tease, and you tilt your head up to look at his defined jawline.

“Though for all your stern looks and your seriousness... You still fuck like a man on his deathbed.” Baelor finally looks at you like he will drink you in with the way you’re batting your eyelashes and your grin. “Is that so?” he asks before he rolls onto his side to face you properly. “Perhaps the old man has more endurance than you can handle if you keep testing his patience in his own bed.” Baelor pulls you closer, if that’s even possible, until there’s no space between your bodies, and he doesn’t say another word. He just closes his eyes, and he accepts that his life as he knew it ended the moment he tasted you because now he would rather burn the Seven Kingdoms to the ground than let you belong to anyone else.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

You feel heat in your face, feeling embarrassed to tell him, but you still tell him the truth. It was never in your nature to lie.

“Aerion said he was glad he didn’t marry me because he would have been bored with me,” you said, and if it weren’t for your fear of pricking yourself with the needle, you would have continued embroidering just to calm your nerves and avoid seeing your uncle’s face.

“Since when do you care what Aerion thinks?” Baelor asks, appearing serious but inwardly confused and intrigued. Moons ago, you went to him for help because you didn't want to marry Aerion, and now you seem worried about his opinion.

“I don't care what Aerion thinks of me. I care what you think of me. I don't want to make you unhappy,” you say, looking at him with a mixture of anxiety and worry. “I don't want you to get bored of me, I want you to enjoy my company.”

Oh, his sweet and beloved niece.

Baelor doesn't waste any time. He gets up from his chair and walks toward you, sitting down beside you, your knees almost touching.

“You never bore me,” he says softly, gently taking your hands. “I like being with you. Even when we’re not talking, your company brings me peace.”

“Really?” you ask with a small smile, and Baelor can’t help but give you a quick kiss.

“Really,” he confirms, feeling pleased to see the worry disappear from your face and your eyes shine with warmth instead.

“I like your company too,” you say, because it’s true and because you want him to feel loved and appreciated as well.

This time, it’s Baelor who smiles. “I know.”

Aerys paused hesitantly; a momentary flicker of doubt crossed his mind before he shook his head. “My sweet, you must go.”

“I'd rather not!” Before his hand snatched your wrist firmly and steadied, pulling you closer. 

This time, he clamps down on the pulse of your hand, locking you in place as his gaze drops onto yours. To all, Aerys was a scholar, a man with no interest in marital love. But for you, he is the fire that snaps, tranquil when unbothered, but furious when smoke arises. 

“You will ride with your uncles,” your father’s voice steady and grounded. There was not much left for you to say. If Aerys wanted something, he didn’t raise his voice. He lowers it, like a sly whisper of the night. 

“That is final.”

His soft fingers slide down your cheek as you look at him— wide eyes, stomach curling, before you muster the courage to whisper.

“Yes, Father.” 

Aerys nods, as if convincing himself that his decision was just. 

But words taste like ash. Dread pools thick and heavy in your chest because all he’s done is push you farther away, no sons at his disposal. No birthright, only the one you wear on your arm like a knight’s armor, cold, heavy, and polished for someone else’s disposal. 

Aerys falls short in what it means to be a father. His presence is long abandoned from the moment the sun rises. The remarks he once spoke of at supper are etched in the past. However, his name lingers, like a moth to a flame. Wherever his name goes, you were there. Some say that Aerys is a dragon that awaits its supper. He roams aimlessly, far beyond the reach of his pack. 

Your mother, Aelinor Penrose, was a stubborn woman. A loyal woman to her husband, who, despite years of marriage, did not conceive a child. But the truth was set in stone the moment he refused to consummate their marriage. Many in the realm were in disbelief once Lady Aelinor finally bore a child. Rumors rose that all assumed the child was not of Prince Aerys’ blood, but another. Mayhaps she took a lover to fill the thing he refused to give. 

When you took your first breath, the realm was stunned. You were King Daeron II’s first granddaughter long before Rhaegal had Aelora and Daenora. And in that moment when Aerys laid eyes on you, he knew you were his. 

Even now, as he watched you chatting away with your cousins, Valarr and Matarys, Aerys could still see that little girl– that little girl who held the world under its breath. 

Baelor stood beside him under the canopy of the Red Keep. His older brother, Heir to the Throne, was silent as he was. Despite no words being spoken, he knew what his brother was pondering. 

“She seems content.” His brother observed, locking his heterochromic eyes onto his eldest son, Prince Valarr, who greeted you with a warm nod. Aerys stilled, unbothered by his mundane statement. Underneath the veiled remarks, he knew Baelor well enough to know what etched his mind. 

His lilac gaze sharpens when you cup your wrists, shivering. “Get on with it, will you?”

Ever earnest, the Hand of the King chuckles. 

There’s no hiding it. Baelor fails to deny it, and the scene that lies before them would be a likely match. Far from a fool, Aerys kept to himself in careful restraint, weighing every word before speaking.  

“I know it may come as no surprise, but Father favors her.” 

King Daeron II had four sons, including Baelor and Aerys. In his realm, he adored his children the same, all becoming men of their own. He and his wife, Myriah Martell, were content until the moment their first grandchild was born.

His grandchildren drew forth a fondness from the King that the realm had never seen. Long before the time you came into the world, King Daeron II had already honored you by celebrating your nameday as his first granddaughter. You, who barely spoke your first words, were showered with rose petals and pearls from your grandsire. 

Aerys could hardly stop himself from rolling his eyes. You’re his daughter, of course, so he favors you before the King. But now it will be used as a political advantage.

“Father spoils her with things she does not need.” 

“She is a Princess of the Realm.” Baelor jests, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He merely ensures she is treated as one.”

“Is this what you hoped to accomplish, brother?” The younger one turns to face him. Aerys holds a stern gaze. “You believe Father will favor the proposal simply because she seems content?”

“I am not asking this because Father favors her,” the soft-spoken brother replies, his heterochromatic eyes meeting Aerys’s lilac ones. “I ask it on my own judgment, and with your consent.”

Fucking hells. 

Aerys admires Baelor as much as you do, but even Baelor’s noblest suggestions can stir annoyance in him. Aerys, the scholar, who has read countless tales of arrogant kings and knights who took advantage of women, simply because they could, and recognized none of those traits in his brother. Baelor was good, righteous, and beyond reproach.  

Then Aerys turned back to you, who was now conversing with your Knight in Arms, Ser Roland Crakehall. His divine crescent armor shielded you from Aerys’s gaze, for you both knew that if he stared too long, you could sense it. 

“There will be many suitors at Ashford. Consider this when we return,” the eldest says, patting his brother warmly, before he sees their youngest sibling, Maekar, returning with his horse. 

Aerys said no more, letting his stare linger. Both of you lock eyes for a moment, and a brief silent conversation passes between you. He takes in the thick velvet robe you had, a gift from your mother. She had long since said her goodbyes, and he could imagine she already misses you dearly. 

With nothing more to say, Aerys steps back into the cave he cowers in, leaving his cub alone in the rain. 

You wanted the sunset to pass. You desperately wanted to stop. As much as you wanted to stall the tournament, your uncle, Prince Baelor, made it clear that they must follow the wind. 

“Must you sulk, Princess?” Ser Roland had a knack for teasing you. He’s become quite accustomed to your company ever since you chose him as your personal Kingsguard.

He was handsome, yes. And once, a fleeting infatuation, but nothing more. From then on, you saw him as he was, a Knight of the Kingsguard.

You ignored his pestering, chewing the inside of your cheek, never once turning to him.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” The knight casually swayed from side to side. “That your father has sent you away again.”

“Sometimes I wonder if he cares,” you mumble, careful not to spill your emotions to anyone but Crakehall. He was trustworthy enough and had spent the last few years protecting you. 

Ser Roland looks at you with quiet understanding. “I’m sure Prince Aerys means well.”

You knew Roland Crakehall well enough to know he held sympathy. Knowing your father, Aerys’s intent for you to go to the tournament was not unintentional. It was another way to keep you farther away from him. Even if your father won’t admit it out loud, you spent your entire life studying him, more as an unsolvable riddle you cannot seem to figure out. 

You also cannot figure out Valarr, your cousin and son to Prince Baelor. He is a good man and a valiant knight. He is the future heir after his father. Until now, he was once a bright boy, full of wonder and studious with history. But now, it seems he’s outgrown his adolescent years. The way he looks at you– you don’t understand it, and that terrifies you. 

“The rain has passed,” Valarr rides beside you. He offers a kindred smile, the striking streak of silver on one side of his hair catching the light. You’ve always admired it, unlike the typical Valyrian traits, Valarr lacked the silver blonde hair and purple eyes. People worry about his standing as heir, but the prince makes up for it in his combat and knowledge. 

“Must we all speak about the sky?” you jest sarcastically, as the wind picks at the back of your neck. 

Valarr’s heterochromatic eyes, the same as his father’s, looked back at you, almost adoringly. 

“You will ride in the tourney.”

Valarr nods. “I will.” 

“Do not be the first unseated by some Fossoway boy.” 

From the corner of your eye, you caught his laughter, reminiscent of the light and melodic lyre’s song. His chestnut hair is warm under the restless sun, as Valarr picks up the pace ahead of you, sparing you with one last look. 

Dread had lingered in your stomach. The gnawing feeling that made you queasy after a long ride. Then there it was, Ashford in the distance. Your father’s words suddenly resurfaced in your mind, fueling your frustration and uneasiness. 

When the banners raised and the trumpets sang, you stepped forward. The townsfolk, ladies, and lords surrounded the Kingsguard, curious and concerned. Your family was here; it was a power play to have not only one Targaryen but many come to Ashford. You stared forward, avoiding the strange looks folks gave you. You knew what they were thinking of. Till this day, the realm held disbelief of your parentage, the child of a scholar, Aerys’ child. You weren’t a princess; you were a strange entity people wanted to poke at.  

Your attention was swayed when the stable boys halted your horse. The ladies-in-waiting who came alongside you hurried to your side once you descended from your horse. 

In the distance, you had hoped Ser Roland would be by your side, only to find Ser Donnel of Duskendale. 

“Ser Donnel.”

As the knight turned, he revealed another man behind him. This man was far too tall to be someone’s squire. Your gaze flickers momentarily, taken aback by his towering height. Ser Donell gave a respectful nod, while the tall man stumbled backwards, wide-eyed. 

“Princess, what are you doing here? You should be with your uncle.”

You rolled your eyes, though something sharper flickered beneath. “I am looking for Ser Roland.” For a moment, you caught the other man hesitant, his mouth parts, but no words came. “Do you know where he is?”

“He’s gone to the sh–”

“He is busy at the moment.” Ser Donnel replied evenly. The other man muttered something under his breath, his cheeks flushing. 

Hells. You couldn’t bear another moment in the stable. The air reeked of dung and sour hay. You didn’t want to spare another moment and bid the two men farewell.

A cup of wine was all you wanted. You wanted nothing more than to be left alone for the rest of the day. You longed for a bath to sink in a steaming pool and forget you weren’t in Kingslanding anymore. 

“Cousin.”

Aerion watched you from afar, a smug grin playing at his lips. His gaze lingered shamelessly on you.

“You shouldn’t be out alone.” His words lacked the usual courtesy that lords greeted you with. Instead, all you felt was the annoyance from hearing him speak. 

You roll your eyes again, a reminiscent tick he’s counted on seeing. 

“Where is Maekar?” He’s trailing behind you now. You didn’t bother stopping and let him have the victory of having your attention. 

Aerion’s robes swayed to the beats of his footsteps. The farther you ventured into the Ashford Castle, the more of your other senses began to pick up. Your cousin clicked his tongue, unbothered, ignoring the discussion of his father’s whereabouts. 

“He’s speaking to Lord Ashford with Baelor,” he sighs, watching you carefully. In the dark corridors, somehow the flames highlight your features perfectly. And somewhere in the glimpses of the torched passageway, he wants you to look at him. 

But you don’t, you never enjoy staring for too long. But for his sake, Aerion craves attention.

“Daeron and Aegon are missing,” he states, halting. Like clockwork, your pace stops, then turns to look at him. 

“Missing?”

“Unfortunately.” Yet not a bone in his body screams fear for his siblings. Aerion Brightflame never cowers, never yields– not to his brothers, not to his father, not to his uncle, not even to the King. 

“Fucking madness,” you bite out. 

He chuckles, nearly shedding a glimpse of genuine laughter. You intrigue him. Your sharp tongue is what makes you different from the rest of the ladies. Aerion watches you more closely now. 

“Not to worry, cousin.” he fakes a sad smile, almost mocking the situation as if it were the last thing on his mind. It wasn’t, however, you didn’t need to know. 

His lavender eyes meet yours.  

“I’m sure they are alive and well.” 

Aerion leans forward, but you remain still. 

Out of habit, you cup your hands together. “You don’t mean that,” you sneered, your lip curling in repulse. 

Aerion huffs, smirking with something like pride. 

The tourney began after dinner, when stomachs were full, and people’s spirits were still high. On the other side of the fence, crowds of folk hovered against the invisible barrier, eager to have a spot to watch the first round. The knight attending came to the jousting arena, all with pride and glory. All ten adored different colored platelettes, each from another House, high and mighty. 

But the fleeting sight of red and black catches everyone in excitement. 

Valarr rides in with purpose and strength. He honors the House of the Dragon by simply storming in with pure confidence. He circles several times around the arena, then his eyes lock onto the podium where all the lords and ladies sit. 

Prince Baelor graciously sat in the middle, with Maekar on his left. Prince Aerion was at his right end, next to Lord Ashford. 

His gaze skimmed the canopy, finally settling onto you. 

You took your place next to Prince Maekar, now in a different gown and headpiece altogether. Your hair was styled in an elegant updo, with gold hanging from your ears and neck.

He had expected no less from the Princess of the Realm. 

Perhaps his father notices as well, catching Valarr’s lingering presence near the podium. Baelor’s gaze meets yours, and he catches the playful admiration in your gaze. 

You didn’t need to say anything, as the dark-haired prince nodded, redirecting his horse back to the arena. It was an unspoken sign, reassuring you that he would fight well. 

Then, you notice a voice beside you. “Your father should’ve been here.” Maekar slumps in his chair, restless from the day’s journey. 

“He should’ve fought in the games.”

“You know why he does not.” You cast a look, and your uncle hums contentedly. 

“Ugh, my brother,” Maekar groans in fake disgust. “Aerys would rather bring a book than spare in a tourney.” 

Instantly, the world around you faded to background noise. Your attention is entirely elsewhere, reminiscing about something much fonder. In the comfortable space of a few people, a giggle escapes you. Your uncle looks surprised, then beams fondly. 

“Do you think he would’ve fought valiantly?” you ask, eyes brighter than usual. Beside him, Baelor notices your smile, beaming with foreign fondness– one of the rare moments you’ve openly expressed your love for your father. 

Maekar catches this and nods, turning back to the tourney as it begins. 

“Surprisingly, he can fight with a sword if he wants to.” A pause before you expected another playful remark. “Bet you’d have to strap a book to his horse.” 

While you continued conversing with your uncle, Baelor recalled his previous meeting with his brother. He watched as you laughed and covered your face from embarrassment. Compared to when you were at Kingslanding, you did not look as happy. You seemed content, and Baelor only wanted the best for his family. Even if it meant pushing the matters further onto the board. 

“You fought well.” 

The next morning, you visited Valarr, where the rest of the knights resided. As you made your way through the smoky path, Ser Roland followed a few steps behind you. This time, you decided on wearing deep purple, with amethyst jewels and pearls adorning your hair and hands. 

Valarr finished up training a moment ago and rested outside of his tent. Sweat gleamed from his brow to the bridge of his nose. Still in his rider’s armor, Valarr stands and bows politely upon your arrival. 

“Cousin,” he beams, resting his helmet by his hip. 

It was a ravenous morning, and the one thing he hoped to see was you. 

Suddenly, he straightens his posture and clears his throat. “You look beautiful.”

His compliment hits your heart immediately, making it skip a beat. Oddly enough, your hands grow clammy, and you feel a sudden flush of heat. 

Ser Roland notices too, returning a mischievous grin. 

You attempt to clear your throat. “Thank you.” 

Valar shyly shifts, making his way towards you. 

“Will you come tomorrow again, to watch me train?” His boldness catches you off guard, leaving you almost shocked at how forward he’s become. 

Your lips part. “Of course.” 

At this, Valar beams, ducking his head and brushing the sweat from his brow. 

You wished to stay longer before the other nights returned. But you’ve yet to underestimate how short-tempered the people of your blood could be. A horn shouts loud notes, signaling that a challenge had commenced, one-on-one. 

Your smile falters. 

From the other side of the arena, a rider emerges with ferocity only you recognize. He sprints fully towards where you and Valar stand, before removing his molten helmet. 

“Cousins.” Aerion simply states. 

Valar acknowledges him, while you contemplate his arrival. 

“Not to worry, I won’t embarrass you today.” He’s smug and knowingly draws his attention to you as if his words meant anything. When you remained silent, the white-haired prince strode over to his challenger, a knight from House Hardyng. 

Many recognize the fury of Aerion Brightflame. He’s convinced himself that he is the Blood of the Dragon– a dragon reincarnated in flesh and blood. Clad in black and red molten armor, covered in spikes and plated metal, he resembles every part of his royal lineage. 

While you did not care about his delusions, Aerion often spats the same ferocity you held for other Houses. Your disdain runs thick when they target your family, especially your uncle. Prince Baelor is noble and widely regarded as a true warrior, both diplomatically and strategically. His kindness touches everyone in the realm, fostering peace and loyalty to the crown as heir to the throne. 

You love your uncle dearly. Sometimes you wish you were born into his family of dark-haired boys instead of your father. Baelor was sweet and a good father. He looked after you when Aerys did not. He and Maekar taught you many things– politics, family, and marriage. 

Gods.

“Sit, my dear.” Prince Baelor gestures to the seat next to him. 

You left Valar to tend to his armor and climbed the podium to find your uncle alone. Dread filled your stomach again, likely fuelled by the circumstances about to unfold.

Uneasiness caught in your throat. “Aerion is impulsive. He takes things too far.”

Your uncle sighs, saying nothing more. “He thrives in the chaos.”

A pout forms, watching as both knights line up on opposite sides. The crowd filled the atmosphere with tension and anticipation. 

“He causes chaos,” You correct, clenching your jaw. 

As if knowing you were speaking of him, Aerion glances toward where you sat in his father’s chair. You kept a tight-lipped expression before giving him a look. Your uncle, on the other hand, fidgeted with his golden rings before humming in agreement.

“I spoke to your father,” your uncle begins, the anticipation slowly building as he treads delicately over the topic. “I wanted you to know before we return home.”

“Of what?” you ask, bracing yourself. 

Baelor senses your nervousness. 

“You are of age to marry,” he says, easing the words slowly. But it was already too late, your heart drops. “I have already arranged a proposal between you and Valar, for Aerys’ approval.”

“Valar and…” you hesitated, unable to finish, 

“I’m sorry I had to tell you this today,” Baelor continues, “but I wanted you to know before I spoke with your father.” 

Irritation fuels your being, as you clench your hands into tight fists. How could Baelor ask this of you? At a time like this? 

You had gotten along with your family for most of the tournament, free of doubts and word from Kingslanding. In the short time at Ashford, you wanted to stay longer, enjoy the rest of the festival life, and live freely. Yet your uncle asked you for something you did not. You could not commit yourself to marriage, as much as you were trained to do so; you couldn’t bear being in a loveless union like your father’s. 

Now, as the lances rose and the Dragon Knight charged to sate its hunger, you sat idly, pursed lips, fighting the tears from spilling from your face. 

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You liked the night. 

It shielded you, made you invisible in a world where you had to be a beacon or else be discarded and shunned. The smallfolk and noble alike called you silent, called you odd and even witless. In the darkest corners of the realm they whispered of the Lady of Storm’s End that she practiced the dark arts, that you bathed in the blood of enemies and friends alongside Shiera Seastar so your youth could be yours forever. That you were touched by the Targaryen madness. They pitied your husband for being married to one as odd and strange as you.

You had half come to believe those whispers yourself these days.

In truth, you were quiet, you preferred the ink stained pages of history than the laughter of a party. Your younger brothers Valarr and Matarys both teased you that you would’ve made a most somber knight and king, were you born a man. Lucky for them, you were not. The greatest thing you could serve the realm by doing was marry and give your womb to a Lord. 

You hated, no, despised that notion. Yet, you were raised on it. When you married your Lyonel he laughed all through the ceremony, joyous. Every day you expected him to become disappointed in your silence and mood, but he was not. He regarded your curious eyes a mystery and gave you a seat next to him when he received petitioners and smallfolk with their problems. He confided in you, he made your advice worthy of praise. You helped his coffers become richer tenfold after a year and many spoke you, not him, were the one with the power. Some men might’ve felt offended, some might’ve shunned you. Lyonel laughed in their faces. He didn’t care. He never cared. The Gods gave you a man who saw you for who you were, saw your potential and applauded it.

You covered your face as you descended the steps. How could you lie to him? 

Surely, this was terrible of you. Surely, you were not worth his love. But how could he ever understand? The curious rock you sneaked out of Dragonstone was no rock at all. But the very center of the known world. It was the power of Gods. The very power that brought the known world to heel and made your family kings and queens. The same power that for decades was gone entirely from the world now boiled beneath the surface of the most beautiful grey scales as a storm raged outside.

You had read the scrolls, whispered the language of your ancestors in the dark. You had been plagued by the most curious dreams of dragon fire and power without end. King Daeron called for the greatest maesters and scholars, yet no egg of his hatched, none. The sky remained empty. 

You placed it in a makeshift fire and stared at the flames. 

You prayed in High Valyrian and gasped when the surface cracked and broke as lightning struck.

It was a small thing. With curious golden eyes and scales like lightning. It came to you and you cradled it in your arms as the beast nuzzled your belly.

This sort of news, this sort of celebration. It was reserved for your house. Only you had the power. But how could you ever turn your back to the man that didn’t regard you as odd, that never once spoke over you or laughed at your expense. Your grandfather always used to jest that the firstborn usually came out ‘wrong’, they used to laugh, besides your father and mother and your dear brothers- they all snickered behind your back and said you were as mad as Maegor. Pity you weren’t born during his time, for you could’ve been quite the match. It used to bring tears to your eyes in secret.

Now you felt as if they could’ve said anything. It mattered not to you, not anymore. Servants bowed their heads and scurried away as you passed them in sure steps.

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You arrived in the grand chambers of your husband and tried to shake the chill from the castle. Your heart ached for the creature down below, but the castle thrummed and the thunder sounded like a heartbeat. You had hoped it to be enough.

Your eyes stung. 

He had his back to you, salt and pepper hair that fell in almost perfect curls. He was writing something, while whistling a tune. He looked behind for a second:

“There she is!” then returned his hazel gaze back to the letter. You removed your cloak and approached him. 

Lyonel turned and smiled, “What’s the matter?”. You couldn’t keep your tears to yourself anymore as he welcomed you in his arms. 

“Lyonel-I..” you placed your face in the crook of his neck. He smelled of amber and the love he bore for you rolled off in waves off of him, enveloping you in comfort and compassion “I’ve lied to you.”

You approached the prison in soft steps. The babe was in the corner, huddled around itself. Not for warmth. A dragon was fire itself, for… comfort?

Lyonel let out a breath and looked at you, then back at the dragon. Its grey scales a stark contrast to the damp floor and walls. You approached it and it perked its head at you, a soft sound escaped it as it ran to you. Your husband took a step back as you bent down and picked it up. Turning yourself around and looking once more at the Lord of Storm’s End, he laughed as he came closer, bending down his frame to look at the creature.

Hot tears rolled down your face as he asked in a whisper of pure awe:

“What shall we call him?”

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No one had to know. No one must know. Yet your secret could not remain so forever.

Stormfyre was his name, and he grew and grew each day until the very grounds of the castle rumbled with his breath. You brought him food, and food, and yet its hunger could not be sated. A dragon was a beast of the skies, what mother could you call yourself if you imprisoned your very heart. Steam rolled off of him and he cried each time you had to leave, mournful cries for he had no one and he longed for his home.

You took to the skies when you could no longer bear to see him in anguish, during the night, where the flap of his wings would be heard like a bad dream… of a more distant age. Your belly was sore from laughing at how he turned and you traveled long until you reached a deserted island and you could speak to him in your mother tongue. 

You promised him he will never again be imprisoned, if he wished so, he could fly hard and away. Maybe he would go to Valyria itself and make nest there, but he nuzzled his head to yours and you knew he had no wish for home but the one you offered him. You wished to bring him a saddle from Dragonstone, but there were many guards and eyes, too many. 

Stormfyre grew thrice in one month, then tenfold in the other. There were words around fishermen of lightning that took the shape of wings. Of howls that shook the very earth around Storm’s End. All cats surrounding the castle ran away and the dogs barked until they had no more breath whenever you returned. Stormfyre made his home in a cave at the bottom of Shipbreaker bay, no one would look there, no one would hear him. The road was long, but your horse carried you there each evening and no journey was too steep for your legs as you climbed down to him.

You spoke to your husband until early in the morning almost every night, belly sore with the urgency in his love making. You had to act. If your family would learn of this, he would be taken from you. Your very loyalty would be questioned and the threat of war would whisper around each tree and man.

When the king would die, the crown would pass to your father and then his eldest son, Valarr. But you were no mere noble house, you were dragonriders, and no family of yours harbored in their walls a companion like yours. 

Lyonel would whisper to you, if needs be, he would raise all of his bannermen at your command, from the Rainwood to the mighty Dornish marches and go to war for your claim: to place the valyrian circlet of Aegon the Dragon above your brow and crown you Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. If you would be kind enough to have him.

You laughed as you turned in his arms and he brushed your hair back and kissed your lips. His ambition knew no bounds and his confidence in you was to no end. His will grew alongside the dragon each day.

“My love” you paused as you too, brushed his hair back, soft curls in your hands. In this moment, you felt like freezing time and keeping him with you forever “I can not go to war with my family. They will not take this lightly. They will come for him and they will kill any who stand in their way. I don’t wish to bestow death.”

“Listen to me,” your husband was a dark shape next to you, his words were now iron “if the Gods choose you, my life, who are we to question Their will? You are a living miracle.”

“Lyonel-” you whispered.

“Let them snicker in their golden cups and worn down pages of history. They will rue the day they whispered cruel words of you. They cry to the skies for a gift you created here, under our roof. The dragon tasted the salt in the air and decided that now he would return. You must see it as I do…what other message could the Gods send us but this one?”

His breath was hot on your face. Truly you wished to see yourself as he did. But your brother was raised knowing he will take the throne, and a man’s pride is a fragile thing. Rhaenyra tried to be Queen and she was torn down and burned, when dragon fought dragon. But you were alone in the skies. None stood to challenge you. You swallowed hard and looked at the canopy above the bed. Stormfyre was restless tonight. You looked once more towards your lord.

“Promise me you will think about it. Promise me.” He squeezed you closer to him and you nodded as he kissed your forehead, the coarse hair of his beard rubbed against your skin.

He reminded you once more he would stand by your side regardless of the choice you would make before sleep claimed both of you.

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Each and every day, it seemed like you traveled to the edge of the world to commune with the impossible. You took to the skies as a shadow against the moon, riding a creature that had become less a beast and more an extension of your own repressed fury. Stormfyre did not need the whisper of ‘Dracarys’, for he felt the heat in your very blood. When a lord snickered at your "witless" silence behind your back, you felt his silver scales vibrate with a predatory hum miles away. When you laughed in Lyonel’s arms, the dragon’s tail lashed against the walls of his home in a rhythmic, joyful pattern. 

A year passed and the once colossal cave became too small for his divinity. His wingspan could cover half a village. He could swallow a cow hole. His teeth were the size of shortswords and twice as thick. His bellows would shake your ribcage in you. His silver scales were no longer smooth like the babe you once cradled, they had hardened into iron-like plates, overlapping like a suit of ancient armor crusted with the salt and brine of Shipbreaker Bay. You didn’t know how he could grow so big in such a short span of time. The one thing you were sure of, was that you could hide him no longer. 

They had to know, the world had to know. From the Starks of the North to the Martells of the South. 

The world was breaking, the air tasted of copper and betrayal. A new Blackfyre rebellion had ignited, a wildfire that King Daeron’s soft hands could no longer quench. The pretenders marched, their hearts fueled by the perceived weakness of your house, ready to tear the Targaryen name from the pages of history. Your father, Baelor, was a man of peace in a time that demanded a ruler made out of fire.

The next morning, the silence of your bedchambers was shattered by a single raven with a letter, its feathers as black as a funeral shroud. The sigil of it made the hairs on your arms raise: the single, weeping eye of Brynden "Bloodraven" Rivers.

Dread pooled at your ankles, sealing you to the floor and the chair. 

He was a man who lived in shadow and whispers- who saw too much, even in the fog of the Stormlands. He asked you of your life and apologized for not writing sooner, how he was a fool in that regard. Then he spoke of a most peculiar dream he had, where a dragonlord would once more rule the Iron Throne. He spoke of someone who could wake dragons from stone. How the current king was weak and brittle, how you had alliances and loyalties unbeknown to you, hidden in the shadows. How a thousand eyes and one would guide and protect your claim in the air and the ground. How the bastards must be brought to heel like the dogs they are, not by iron and diplomacy, but by Fire and Blood.

How great rulers do not seek to lead, they are called to it.

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authors note: yes the reader is cool as fuck so what so whattttt????? in all seriousness, I hope this was good, honestly. If you find it in you to write me a message you liked it, I would really appreciate it, other than that, take care of yourselves! 😘 thank u for reading

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“My squire thinks Aerion meant to kill the horse,” Dunk said, a laugh of disbelief escaping his throat as the words came out. A laugh that soon left him upon seeing the fleeting look of discomfort on Raymun’s face. He took a bitter swig of his ale as Dunk stuttered to find the words. “It’s just hard to accept that a knight might be so dishonourable- let alone a prince.” 

“Why’s that hard?” Raymun spoke, offering little comfort to the fact Dunk’s very perfect picture of true knighthood was being shattered in front of him. “No, I-“ Dunk shook his head, what kind of response would give any explanation to this? “They’re incestuous aliens Duncan.” Raymun begun, his voice hard and bitter with resentment unbecoming of such a gentle-looking man. “Blood magickers and tyrants who’ve burned our lands, enslaved our people, dragged us into their wars with no respect for our history or our customs. Every pale-haired brat they saddled on us has been madder than the last. Gods know how. The only honourable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm, is finish on his wife’s tits. So aye- I think he meant to kill the fucking horse.”

Silence overcame the pair, Dunk’s heavy breathing encased them both as he fell deep into thought. He had met a Targaryen last night in Lord Baratheons tent, and she had not seemed so maddening.

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“My darling wife!” A now rather drunk, Lyonel Baratheon called across the tent, the hour had grown late and many songs had been sung- not all so befitting for younger ears. He stood atop the table, pulling his antler crown from his head before stepping down and placing it on your head, as his hands trailed to meet your own. “It is late Lyonel, I have come looking for cake.” You spoke, a gentle voice that contrasted heavily with the booming one belonging to your husband. “Of course you have my star- oi you! My wife would like some of that cherry cake- yes the one I said nobody could touch- are you deaf? This is my wife, the cake was for her, stupid prick.” The last part having been muttered rather unsuccessfully under his breath. He guided you to the head table, walking backwards and bumping into several ornate centrepieces. “Come! Meet my hedge-knight I assure you- you will adore him.” He did not wait for an answer, instead pulled you to the table where he had been previously sat amongst the ever emptying tent.

“Ser Duncan, allow me introduce my hidden gem, my darling wife.” Lyonel beamed, Dunk blushed “Milady.”

“Ah-ah,” Lyonel interrupted, “Princess. She is the granddaughter of that fool of a King.” He sat himself down in the hearty chair, guiding your hips back into his own lap, arms circling your waist to pull your back into his broad chest. “Forgive me Princess, I am rather out of the loop when it comes to- well, royalty such as yourself.” He lowered his head, forcing a giggle from your throat as you kindly acknowledged the servant who brought you a plate of cherry cake. “There is nothing to forgive Ser, take this stupid crown off of me you oaf, and do not call my Grandfather a fool he granted you my hand did he not?” You grumbled playfully, the antler crown slipping toward your brow slightly before Lyonel returned it to his own helm.

“You’re a Targaryen.” Dunk spoke, sudden realisation sweeping over his soft features. “I am.” You responded, a warm smile that lit the fire within your mauve eyes. “Let’s not forget she is Lady Baratheon of Storms End,” Lyonel butted in once again, hands digging into the plump flesh of your gentle thighs. “Those Targaryens have no hold anymore, do they my doe, nothing but blood.” You rolled your eyes, they were still your family and you still had a dear amount of love for them, as much as your husband may hate that fact, it was as if he viewed it as deception for you to love your own family. “Lyonel.” You knew your husband well, he was a possessive man on a good day but when he was drunk his jealousy often found itself misplaced, and with your own family in attendance at the tourney you were not taking any chances of riling him up further.

You could feel your husband’s beard scratching against your exposed shoulder, your gown was one of the finest yellow silk, black lace trimmings and a stag embellished in gold thread across your heart. Unbecoming colours of a Targaryen Princess but perfectly fitting for the humble wife of the Baratheon Storm-Lord. “What brings you to Ashford, Ser?” Dunk was almost taken aback by your politeness- well, he was, never had he suspected royalty could be so gentle with common folk such as himself. “News of tourney’s travels fast I s’pose, had nought else to do really-“ he mumbled, watching as you picked the cherries from the slice of cake in front of you and ate them one by one. “And do you plan to enter the lists?” An ordinary question for a knight to be asked, but Dunk grimaced nonetheless. “I had planned to Princess, but with the old-man not being here to vouch for my honour, I have no right to enter as a knight.”

“Who was the knight that knighted you, Ser?” You asked kindly, he knew it was being asked kindly and he could see no ill-intent on your face, but the curiously accusing eyes of your husband watching him over your shoulder made it feel all the more imposing. “The old man was Ser Arlan of Pennytree, Princess. I- he would have been before your time I doubt you would recall him.” You hummed, swatting your husband’s hand away from your ever disappearing slice of cake. “He broke lance with my uncle I’m sure.” Dunk looked up, relief washing over his features, someone remembered him, someone knew that Ser Arlan was not a figment of his own imagination. “Yes- yes he did! How… I was not born at the time, I only know what the old man told me, you see.”

“I have quite the favour for history, as does my Uncle, he spent many nights in the Redkeep telling me of his tourney days in a hope to ease my nerves of my elder brother entering the lists.” You spoke fondly, your Uncle had always been kind, even-tempered, a welcome difference from your own Father who felt more hot headed with each growing day. Though you could never blame him, between your younger brother Aerion being the living evil he was, and your youngest sister Rhae and her experimentation with poisons and potions, its a wonder the man had lived this long without a sudden heart-attack. Your mother had always encouraged your fondness of your Uncle, it was rare you spent longer than a few moons at a time in the Redkeep, and your uncle had secretly confided in you that as much as his sons were the light of his life, he had always desired a little girl to spoil rotten. So you filled that role silently, you welcomed the silence and soft style of love your Uncle’s household brought. Earning yourself a place in many hearts of those within the Redkeep, so much so that the King, your Grandfather, had granted you say in your own marriage propositions. A gift princesses were rarely given.

“Must we talk of your Uncle, we were having a lovely evening.” Lyonel’s gruff voiced pierced the once fond silence. “My Uncle is a good man, he is fair. Ser Duncan I have no doubt should you remind him of the tale he will also recall.” a warm smiled graced your face. “I have no right to ask this Princess but perhaps you could remind him for me, before I undoubtedly make a fool of myself in front of more royal blood.” Your laughter was soft and welcoming, a hand coming to cover your mouth, small lines creasing the corners of your eyes. Your laughter, Lyonel thought there was no sound more beautiful, especially when he was the source of your entertainment. “You have not made a fool of yourself to me, Ser. But when my Father and Uncle arrive on the morrow I would be more than happy to refresh their memory.”

“Thank you, Princess. It means a lot.” His smile was grateful, you could see that plainly. Lyonel was right, you did adore this strange man. Speaking of your husband, you could feel his grip piercing you through your gown, “If you grip me any tighter, husband, I fear your nails may tear my gown.” 

“I’m sure Ser Duncan wouldn’t mind a show.” He winked at the tall man, who blushed furiously. Out of the entire first night of meeting him, Dunk had not seen the stag be so quiet and patient as he was when watching you, listening to you speak, feeling and observing your movements. In fact, since Dunk had met him Lyonel had not stop speaking until you were perched in his lap, guiding the conversation with him watching like some love-sick child. 

“I think it is time for us to retire for the evening, it was lovely to meet you Ser Duncan, I will try my best for you on the morrow.” Standing from your husbands lap you turned and pulled him to stand with you, his frame towering over your own, an arm lazily eloping around your shoulder, coming across your collarbone, hand pressed to your stomach. “Thank you again, Princess.” 

“Yes, yes enough thanking Ser Duncan, I hope to see you in the lists. Or our bed, our tent is always open.” He winked with a smirk as you hit him for his crude remark, before bidding the knight a final farewell and leading your husband back to your shared tent.

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“Earth to Duncan, hello?” Raymun waved his spilling goblet of ale in front of the hedge-knights face. “Yes, y-yes sorry you were saying?” Dunk shook his head, as if that would free his mind from the Princess in his thoughts. “I asked why suddenly the cats got your tongue.” Raymun said, his eyes giving Duncan a deadpan stare. “Oh, right. It was only last night I met a Targaryen princess, she didn’t seem all that deranged.”

“Oh. You met Lord Baratheon’s wife, the Sunshine of Storms End. She presents herself like a gentle doe, but you’ve got to remember she shares the same blood as her mental brother who killed that fucking horse. I’d bet anything behind the facade she’s worse than the lot of her brothers. I mean seven hell’s her youngest sister’s said to have a thing for pyrotechnics Duncan- heed my words, you cannot trust a Targaryen.” The way Raymun spoke, it was as if the words were fed to him, they were not his own yet he spoke them as if believing they were. 

Duncan shook his head softly, “She spoke to the crown Prince f’me, got him to let me enter the lists, vouch for my honour as a knight. If anything her husband seemed madder than she was.” Raymun grimaced, “you’re rather unfamiliar with the stature of Targaryen women, they poison those around them, with their words, their mind, what’s between their damn legs- she’s got that Storm Lord wrapped around her pretty finger and she’ll be his end one day. I wouldn’t put it past witchcraft. They’re enchantresses Duncan, sirens that walk the sand, and it seems she’s done her magic on you and all.” 

“Maybe,” Dunk spoke, suddenly very interested in the brass goblet within his large hands. He could not deny you were beautiful, soft, enchanting even. What about you could truly be so awful for a son of a common Lord to hate what you were so much. “Or maybe she’s not like them.”

“If you believe that Dunk, you might just be as mad as them.” The flap of the tent swung open, a bald boy in common clothes darted in. Egg.

“Ser Duncan please you must come quick- Aerion’s hurting her!” 

“Hurting who?!” Ser Duncan rose, following the boy without question, into a situation that need not involve him, and would only cause him too much trouble.

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A/N: hello hellooooo how is everyone?? I posted my first fic yesterday and it honestly got a lot of love I was not expecting so I really really appreciate that!! Bit of a slightly shorter fic today but I feel this one has more potential for other parts but I really don’t know. If anyone would be interested let me know. As always, requests are open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions are always appreciated!!