#tyrell!reader

Leaving Highgarden had been sorrowful.

Leaving it for a marriage to an entitled prince who was the second son of the fourth son was even more sorrowful. But you were not a complainer, or a grumbler.

You took the disappointment well, and still allowed your chin to jut out snarkily as you resisted the urge to sneer at the sight of King’s Landing.

Albeit, King’s Landing was not a completely different place, not like the unforgiving cold of the North and certainly not like the scorching heat of Dorne. But it wasn’t home and it would unfortunately be, your new home.

For a rose, you lacked the usual qualities, possessing a bittersweet personality rather than relying solely on charm. You were more, forward with your speech and preferred not to dance around your words but that in no way meant you were mean.

By now, you had mastered the act of being calculated and were almost always performing as the perfect, delicate rose. You were very much capable of kindness, but many were undeserving of whatever twisted sort of kindness you had to offer.

“Watch for her jagged edges, child. For she is no sweet and dainty rose to be held.” You heard Prince, or rather Ser, Baelor whisper into his nephew’s rounded ear once at dinner whilst you pretended to be occupied with picking at the bland food served.

Aerion blinked dumbly at you, taking you in.

Once.

Twice.

He grinned, boyishly—somewhat of a smirk—and parted his lips slightly, “I figured, Uncle.”

He grinned in the same warped way a few days later, just as you waltzed carelessly through the halls of The Red Keep. Aerion caught your eye, as forcefully as he could, and shuffled into your pathway.

“I am not sure as to why a plain-faced, brown-haired rose is to be my bride. I would’ve much better preferred to keep the Targaryen blood, what a pity.”

“What a pity indeed, Your Grace. What ever shall we do?”

“You shall keep your spiteful mouth shut. I am not opposed to hitting you, If I must.” Aerion snarled viciously, taking a sharp step forward.

“Yes, My Lord. Of course, Your Grace.” You mocked, expecting no repercussions because how dare he lay a hand on his bride-to-be? Your Father and Grandmother would never allow such an atrocity to occur.

“I assume you are settling in, then?” He clearly did not want to bother with addressing you properly, seeing you as below him rather than anywhere near being equal.

Despite his low claim to the throne, Aerion Targaryen was a prideful little thing.

“It is very different to Highgarden, but beautiful all the same.” You replied, a smile on your lips. His question was rhetorical, a way to poke fun at you, clearly, but you payed Aerion no mind.

He scoffed at this, scrunching his mouth tightly in distaste at your words. “What could your silly little flowery have to offer?”

“Certainly something similar to that of that Iron Throne of yours,” You quipped, “Your Grace.”

“The Iron Throne is worth more than your lineage, flower. Passed down from Targaryen to Targaryen for decades now, hold your tongue,” And, “If you weren’t my betrothed, I would’ve had it cut off by now.” He added, with an almost threatening tone.

“A shame, truly, Your Grace. I’ve always wondered what it’d be like,” You sighed wistfully, collecting your skirts, “Now, if that is all, I would much rather bide my time with your younger siblings. Good day, Your Grace.”

“Do not taunt me, little rose.” He hissed as your shoes clicked loudly, turning the corner at the sight of the end of the hall.

Since your arrival, the young princess, Daella, had taken a strange sort of liking to you. It was almost as if she wanted to be attached to your hip all day, and spouted the silliest things you could only describe as pure nonsense.

As you entered the princess’s chambers, after an unnecessarily long stare-down between you and the guards, she squealed at the sight of you.

“Sister!”

“I am not yet married to your brother, Your Grace. It would be befitting if you refrained from such affections for a small while.” You loured, curtsying politely.

“I refuse, It’s all so unbelievably boring!” She whined back, lightly stomping her polished shoes. “Alright,” You began, “Shall we take a walk in the gardens together? It appears to be quite warm weather.” Offering up your hand, Daella took it warmly and nodded, steering you toward said gardens.

The air was cool, despite the somewhat mellow weather and Daella kept you busy, chattering on about her most recent playtimes and the ‘tedious etiquette lessons’ she was beginning to take.

You hummed, mind drifting elsewhere, most likely to the thought that King’s Landing was not as bad as you had hoped it to be and that the Targaryens weren’t all dragon-deluded like the one you were engaged to and meant to marry in the days that followed.

From what you knew of it, married life was treacherous. And it was likely to be more treacherous with such a difficult husband. The pitying and knowing looks from other Targaryens irked you, it felt as if you were being ridiculed for something you had no say in.

You were lucky, you thought, that Aerion did not seem like the type of husband who stalled at brothels in the evening and frolicked around with beautiful women, too busy to even spare you a glance.

You assumed such acts would be seen as tarnishing the Targaryen house’s reputation to Aerion, and thanked the Gods for his uncontrollable ego.

“He is very much smitten with you, Sister.” Daella said offhandedly as you lightly pulled on her hair after she had pleaded with you to braid it. “Who?” You echoed.

“The Dragon,” She laughed, a twinkly sound, “My elder brother believes a dragon should have a prize. That prize is you, My lady. His pretty little rose.”

“To me, it feels like he’s already discarded me and we have yet to be married. How pathetic I must look.” Once you had finished intertwining each strand of Daella’s flowy hair, she rested her head onto your lap, gently inching closer as she let her eyes close in bliss.

You fought back the urge to smile, not wanting to allow yourself to feel comfortable or at ease in such an alienating place.

You placed a skillfully made daisy crown atop her tiny head, and then leant back to enjoy the embrace of the sun whose rays splayed out across the garden and splattered you with joy.

Busied with basking in the sun, you barely caught the footsteps of Aerion’s stupid shoes approaching, threatening to shatter your content moment. You squeezed Daella closer, receiving a curious eyebrow raise from Aerion who seemed amused by your cautiousness.

“Your Grace. Are you so dispensable that your father does not trust you with any of the usual tasks that are bestowed upon a prince like you?” You drawled out as he stood, arms folded over the other, at the edge of the garden.

“No,” He replied, bordering on defensive, “I am simply observing my wife and my sister. Would you rather I torment you with other activities?” You winced at his crude suggestion, quickly moving to cover a confused Daella’s ears.

“Ah, I see. The prince is rude and lacks manners, who would’ve thought?” Aerion narrowed his eyes in response, waving your comment away with his large hands. “Pay me no mind. As my presence is not wanted, not that I care, I shall overstay my welcome.”

Silence fell over the garden, neither peaceful nor tense. Rather, it was unpleasant and much unwanted.

“Would you like to play with us, Brother?” Daella suggested, in an attempt to ease the awkwardness. But Aerion simply scoffed, “Play? A dragon has no time to indulge in such foolish desires.” He said curtly, spinning on his heel to storm off inside whilst he muttered what you could only assume to be profanities.

A few beats passed before you and Daella erupted into girlish laughter, pleased by Aerion’s overreaction.

If all days were like this, You were beginning to think you could get used to such a life.

All days were in fact, not like the day you spent in the garden.

They were, as Daella would put it, boring.

You had been invited to dinner, again, only to discuss all things marital.

The wedding was to take place a week from now, and the feeling of dread that pooled endlessly at the pit of your stomach did not ease your nerves.

That, and the fact that Aerion seemed incapable of keeping his eyes to himself and not mentioning you every chance he got, even if it was just to spew pointless insults at you.

“It is unfortunate that the Targaryen blood must be diluted and tainted with that of the measly Tyrell’s.” Aerion jeered, dispelling you from your thoughts. He peered directly into your warm, brown eyes as he spoke.

You were unsure of how such a topic of conversation had emerged but you hadn’t been paying attention for a while now.

Maekar glowered at his son, discontent displayed in a singular look, “Silence, boy.”

“Yes, Father.” He muttered scornfully, casting a glance down towards his half-empty plate.

“Well, I think lady Tyrell is quite pretty.” Aegon squeaked out from his seat at the table. You smiled in appreciation, “Thank you, Your Grace. I find Your Grace to be the sweetest child I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.” Aegon blushed profusely at your words, shying away from your gaze as Aerion audibly groaned and rolled his eyes.

Not without making a commotion with his cutlery.

Aerion, you noticed, had a habit of playing the part of an angel whenever his Father was about.

It was pitiful and weak.

But at least he was not prone to alcohol like his drunkard brother, Daeron was. You had heard that dragon dreaming took a visible toll on its owner, which was apparent just looking at the two brothers.

Despite the occasional awkward quiet, the dinner was slightly enjoyable and temporarily relieved your mind of its worries.

A servant waddled in, shakily holding a tray of dessert, presumably to be passed around. Despite his nervousness, the servant swiftly moved around the large table, finally reaching your seat.

As the servant leant over you to place your dessert in front of you, the tray tipped and whatever remained was now splattered on the skirt of your most highly cherished dress instead of inside your mouth.

You shouldn’t have worn it to dinner, of all places.

Before you could even attempt to clean yourself off or get a word out, Aerion spoke. “Congratulations, servant,” He said, sarcastically, “You’ve lost your place here,” He stuffed his mouth, using his other hand to flick away the servant as if the poor man would fly away.

“Your Grace, I—“ The servant trembled, looking around the table for anyone to defend him.

Unfortunately, most knew better than to challenge Aerion Targaryen.

You, on the other hand, did not.

“While we’re at it—Guards? Throw him in the dungeon, I’d like his hands cut off too, since they seem to be utterly useless.” Aerion scarcely glanced at the servant he had practically exiled, appearing to be completely composed in his anger.

“I think not,” You interrupted, “I shall get a new dress, no harm was done.”

“Harm was done. My wife has had her dignity damaged, what would you rather me do?”

“I would rather you do nothing at all, husband.”

“Children,” Maekar urged, agitated, “Cease your incessant squabbling. My ears are fucking ringing.” He cursed, not bothering to maintain any sort of image of himself, not that there were many pleasant things to hear about Prince Maekar.

“The servant shall go and the lady shall receive a new dress.” He finalised. Said servant scuttled away, faltering in his movements but not forgetting to thank you and Prince Maekar for your forgiveness.

You smiled, triumphant and ignored the metaphorical daggers you could feel piercing you from every angle. You didn’t bother looking, you knew they stemmed from Aerion.

The wedding was a long and winded ordeal, extravagant and every bit unnecessary. Of course, Aerion had demanded that a bedding ceremony were to take place despite him later throwing those present out of the room.

You hadn’t been expecting anything special, slightly scared from stories you had heard from other ladies. Surprisingly, Aerion was good at everything.

Today, Aerion was to compete in Ashford Meadow, something about a tourney. In reality, it was an opportunity for him to show off.

You did not want to go, you never bothered yourself with tourneys at home, and preferred to keep that tradition. But being Aerion’s freshly wed wife, you had no choice in the matter.

A fancy carriage you had never seen before, plastered in the Targaryen’s sigil, carried you to Ashford Meadow. You had heard of it many a time, but of course, this was your first time touching its soil.

It was a pretty little place, littered with greenery and tents that encapsulated the very idea of fun. You had heard of a Puppeteer show that you had thought to be worth visiting during your stay.

Of course, You were stuck riding with a moody Aerion who for some odd reason, couldn’t stop leering at you.

You didn’t see much of Aerion that day, and were mostly alone, despite being a lady of House Tyrell. You passed by a peculiarly large man and his bald squire who had labelled himself as ‘Ser Duncan The Tall’, it was a fitting name.

It was an odd encounter and the squire looked quite familiar, but it was difficult for you to get a good look at the young boy’s face with it being covered hastily by a cloak.

By the time you had grown tired of wandering about, the joust was beginning and you were urged to hurry along.

Instead of sitting with your Father-In-Law and apparent Uncle-In-Law, you opted for your new cousin despite protests. Valarr was a sweet boy at heart, a nice contrast to the grumbles and glares you were used to being on the receiving end of with Aerion.

“The tourneys here aren’t quite like the ones in Highgarden. It all seems much more—brutal.” You whispered, swaying closer towards Valarr. He chuckled in response, “Yes, Cousin. They are quite different, in many aspects.”

You nodded idly along to his words, watching as Aerion finally trotted in, wearing dramatically decorated armour that almost made you snicker.

You held it in.

Partly in fear that he would have your head.

He steered his equally as dramatically decorated horse in your direction, addressing the Prince that stood next to you. “Cousin, do not worry. I won’t embarrass you today.” Valarr simply stared back at Aerion and said nothing.

Aerion’s face contorted into one of disgust, most likely anger, at how close you and Valarr were but he let the expression wash away.

That worried you.

You couldn’t tell if there was some sort of tension between the two or not. And you weren’t able to dwell on the thought any further as Aerion finally acknowledged you, “Must I ask you for your favour, Wife?” He looked stormily between you and Valarr, eyes flickering bitterly.

You smiled, not politely, “No, Husband. We wouldn’t want the people of Westeros to see you beg, now would we?”

He turned his head sharply in retaliation, before you sighed, slinking closer to the barriers in order to lean toward your husband.

“A rose. Do not make it a big deal, and I would prefer to not hear any of your clever retorts.” You attached the small garland to the chest of his armour as you tilted unsteadily.

Aerion fought back a grin, pulling his helmet over his face and trotting into his designated place. You stayed quiet and watched as flags raised and shouting ensued, gesturing that the joust had begun.

Both horses cantered forward and targeted the other. It seemed the other knight was doing well, his wooden lance only narrowly missing Aerion.

You secretly hoped he would somehow plummet from his horse.

The sickening crunch of a wooden lance turned your attention back to Aerion, watching in silent horror as his lance impaled his opponent's horse, causing all sorts of further collisions. The poor knight was crushed by his flailing horse and was dying due to fatal injuries to—well, everywhere.

Your face, however, stayed stony despite the atrocity that took place before your eyes. You knew better than to react, people like Aerion enjoyed wild reactions. It gave him a pleasant feeling that surely would blossom into something bordering sinister.

You made a note to never give Aerion your favour again.

Looking ever so pleased with himself, Aerion relished in the screaming and booing that derived from the crowd, his win clearly disrupting their soft hearts.

Ultimately, the joust ended in pure outrage and was not brought up again.

Until that evening when Aerion accused you, of all people, of being unfaithful.

You were simply undressing in your shared chambers, more than ready to slip into your nightgown when your temperamental husband began to insult you and your household for the nth time.

“Whore,” He spat, “If I wanted a whore, I would’ve picked one up at the brothel.”

With your back facing him, you were collected. You continued your movements, but slower. “I see,” You hummed, “Would you prefer such an arrangement, Your Grace?”

He scoffed, “And now you dare to mock me?”

“I would not dare, My Prince.”

Aerion pressed his tongue against his cheek in annoyance, grabbing your wrist to spin you around aggressively, before glowering straight through you.

“You think I haven’t noticed you clinging to my cousin like a desperate slut? Your need disgusts me.” He uttered, now antagonistically cupping your face and harshly squeezing your cheeks into his rough fingertips. His nails pressed uncomfortably into your skin and you winced faintly, letting yourself slip.

“I’ll admit, your cousin is quite handsome but—“

Your ears rang a little, accompanied by a sharp, stinging pain as you registered that Aerion had opened his palm to slap you unfairly across the cheek.

You wouldn’t be surprised if it was bruised.

“If you’d like to stay as my wife, You will not ever pay another man such compliments in my presence.” He deadpanned, tone cold, and in no way polite.

“Yes, My Dragon,” You droned, not bothering to even attempt to sound enthusiastic, “However, It is not my fault my husband barely addresses me.”

Aerion laughed, a hollow sound. Empty and dangerous. “Is that what you want? Attention?”

You nodded as best as you could, fighting from his grasp. “I am lonely, Your Grace—“

“Aerion.” He corrected.

“Yes, Aerion. I am ever so lonely and was not sure how to receive attention from such an—an important person like you.”

“Did you not once ridicule me for strolling the Keep during the day?”

“I was dimwitted then, I did not know what I was blabbering about.”

Aerion cocked his head, assessing your truth. If you had stroked his ego enough, this would work.

And it did.

His grip loosened and instead, Aerion planted his mouth on yours. As forceful as usual, the kiss was not a gentle one, but one that made your stomach churn and your knees buckle slightly all the same.

His tongue nudged yours, asserting his claim over you and grazed over your teeth lightly before he tugged on your lower lip. Betraying your head, you let out an airy moan, much to Aerion’s delight as he further beamed into the kiss.

“What a greedy rose. My very own whore to do with as I please.” You simply crooned, kissing him back and pulling hopelessly on his niveous roots as he spoke through your entwined lips.

His hands wandered, everywhere he touched leaving your body tingling and aching for him, before he settled on resting them on your hips and used them to guide you onto the bed.

Aerion pulled away to rest his forehead against yours as he caught his breath, panting wildly.

“Your mine,” He snarled, “My rose, all mine.”

You nodded frantically, swallowing your heart along with your saliva. “I am yours, Aerion. And you are my brave dragon,” He whimpered, almost breathlessly, at your words and let you caress his tousled hair when he began to claw at your nightgown.

Aerion unbuttoned your gown hastily and peeled it off, groaning excitedly at the sight of your bare breasts he had been eyeing for weeks now.

He rubbed the cheek he had bullied earlier and murmured his apologies, “I will never lay a hand on you again, Wife.”

“It is more than alright, husband. I was wrong, you simply gave me a punishment suited to my misdeed.” You lied, concerning yourself with removing his nightshirt as he did to you.

Aerion straightened his back, suddenly feeling like himself again and slumped forward to suckle on your neck, biting and marking you as you mirrored him.

You watched Aerion tower over you, sighing at the pleasurable feeling of his mouth on your neck. So pleasurable that you almost didn’t notice his finger teasing your entrance before two slipped past, working you open.

Your mouth fell agape as Aerion moved his attention to your breasts, swirling his lengthy tongue briefly around each nipple to distract you from the feeling of his thumb pressing gently against your pearl.

He continued, fingers plunging deeper into your throbbing walls and thumb circling the right spot so eagerly. “Too much, Aerion. It’s too much.” You complained, struggling to find his wrist to grab in protest.

Aerion ignored you, increasing his pace until your thighs shook and you moaned louder than usual, signalling your peak.

But he did not halt then, lapping at your folds until you shook slightly again from the overstimulation.

He grinned toothily at his work, looking down at you as he swiped across the side of his mouth with his thumb. He bent down to press another kiss to your lips, lazily using his hand to spread your legs open again, “I will—I will fill you with my seed, all of it. My pretty little rose will carry my heirs.”

“Are we not done, My Dragon?”

He laughed hollowly again, “I will not stop, even if you beg me.”

In a little more than a week, Aerion had managed to land himself in the centre of trouble and had imprisoned that giant you had passed a week prior.

Apparently, beating a deluded Targaryen was a crime.

Currently, you were tasked with cleaning Aerion’s cuts and grazes from being kicked down.

Honestly, you thought he at least deserved a good beating.

Aerion had become strangely docile since you had last bedded him, and was now situated with his head in your lap. His arms slithered around your sides, wrapping securely around your waist.

“How dare that wretched beast dishonour a dragon in such a way. For a whore, a stupid little whore who had the nerve to disrespect my house and its name. Me, a prince!” He mumbled angrily into your skirts, trying his hardest not to seem weak by stilling when you brushed past a particularly painful spot.

“You must’ve bedded many whores before me, I think it is a little ungrateful to disregard them and their skills.” Aerion halted his movement of circling his finger around your hip bone to scoff, “I did no such thing. Besides, that giant attempted to attack a Targaryen. A true-blooded Targaryen.”

“Yes, how idiotic of him. He will surely be punished for his crimes.” You brushed the sides of his hair with your fingers delicately, fibbing to soothe his ears.

“The dragon will kill him,” Aerion hissed, “And the dragon nought never lose.”

You fought back the urge to wince as you finally finished sanitizing and dressing the last of Aerion’s wounds. You tapped him on the head twice, urging him to sit up and he obliged.

“You are foolish if you are to believe that winning against that giant will be easy. I wish you good luck, either way.” You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, much to your husband’s displeasure.

“That was not a kiss befitting a dragon. When I return, I will claim my reward, my wife.” He mumbled, letting your hair pass through his calloused fingers. He stopped himself abruptly, and frowned.

He seemed appalled with his sudden change in behaviour. Frankly, embarrassed by the fact that you, a thorny rose, had wormed your way into his equally thorny heart.

If it was still in there.

Nonetheless, You knew Aerion enjoyed your affections and that he was now, right underneath your thumb, exactly where you had planned him to be since the beginning.

And so, you sent your husband off into a trial you knew he’d lose, preparing yourself for the temper that would greet you later.

The lists had always been your favorite part of any tourney.

Not the feasting, though Highgarden’s tables groaned enough beneath sugared lemons and swan pies. Not the dancing, though the minstrels did play sweetly in your father’s halls. No, it was the thunder of the hooves, the splinter of wood, the breathless hush before the impact, and to see which knight would win out in the end. That was where your heart thrived for.

And this tourney was yours. Your father’s reasoning for having such a tourney was for how bountiful this year’s harvest was as if it wasn’t bountiful every year for the Reach. You thought perhaps it was just another reason for your father to hold another party.

But Highgarden never looked so fair. The banners of House Tyrell; green and gold roses on fields of spring fluttered from every tower. The scent of roses drifted on the breeze from the gardens below the lists, mingled in with the hints of trampled grass and horses. The knights glittered like a field of fallen stars.

You sat with your cousins beneath a silk canopy embroidered with the golden roses. Your father’s voice carried somewhere over your shoulder as he spoke with another liege lord of the Reach, but you weren’t listening. Your eyes were fixed upon the field before you.

“That one,” you said suddenly, leaning forward.

“Which one?” your cousin Ellyn asked, fanning herself lazily.

“There,” you insisted, pointing rather unladylike with your fan towards a knight in a bright checkered surcoat of yellow and black that rode into position. His helm was the shape like the head of a bee, with black strips and delicate gilded wings flaring back from the temples.

Your cousin Theo barked a laugh. “Seven saves us, is he going to sting someone?”

“He already has,” you said under your breath.

For the knight was not merely a spectacle. He sat his horse well. His back straight and his movements assured. When he lowered his lance, there was no hesitation. His opponent a man from House Caswell thundered toward him.

The crack rang like a clap of thunder. His lance struck true. The other knight fell against him, tumbling from the saddle in a scatter of splinters and dust.

The stands erupted.

You found yourself on your feet before you realized it. Cheering for him rather loudly.

“That is Ser Humfrey Beesbury,” Ellyn said, peering up at you. “From Honeyholt.” She grabbed your silk sleeve pulling you back down to your seat.

“Of course he is,” you murmured.

He removed his helm then, and you felt something quite unladylike twist inside you.

His hair was dark gold, sun touched. But it was his mustache that undid you, thick and proud, curled faintly over this top lip. It was the exact shade of clover honey. It caught the sun like amber.

Theo leaned closer. “You stare like a cat at cream.”

“I am admiring his form,” you said primly.

“You are admiring his face.” Ellyn corrected.

“And what a face indeed.” You replied, unable to stop yourself. “Look at him. He looks as though he’s stepped out of some storybook. And that mustache…”

“What of it?” Theo grinned wickedly.

You lowered your voice. “I wonder if its smells of honey.”

Ellyn choked on her wine.

“And if it tastes of it?” you went on, softer still. “I would not mind finding that out.”

“You are a wicked rose.” Ellyn whispered, half scandalized, but half delighted.

“Bees and roses do belong together.” You said matter-of-factly.

Ser Humfrey rode back to his pavilion amid cheers, and you felt the day change in that instant. The lists were no longer simply your beloved sport. They were him.

For three days he rode. For three days he did not fall.

His bee helm became a terror of the lists. Knights twice his size had cracked before him. Once, an opponent from House Hightower struck him squarely upon his chest, and you gasped, your heart leaping into your throat, but he held fast, steady as an oak.

“He rides like a man who has something he needs to prove,” Theo noticed.

“Or of something to win,” you whispered.

On the third evening, when the sun was sinking behind the towers of Highgarden, you made a decision.

“You cannot,” Ellyn insisted.

“But alas, I can.” You said back.

“But you are a daughter of House Tyrell!”

“Yes.” You smiled. “Did you forget? Roses are not shy flowers.”

Before courage could deserted you, you descended from the stands. The knights dismounting, squires bustling about like ants. You could feel eyes upon you as you crossed the trampled grass in your green silk gown.

He stood near his pavilion, helm tucked under his arm, speaking to his squire. Up close, he was broader than you’d realized. His shoulders were strong and his skin was sun kissed.

His mustache was even finer up close.

He noticed you at once. His words faltered.

“My lady,” he said, bowing low. His voice was rich, like a warm summer’s mead. “You honor me.”

“Do I?” you asked lightly. “I had thought it was you who has honored us all these last few days.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Thank you, my lady. But I only ride.”

“You do more than that.” You admitted.

He studied you then, carefully and respectfully. “You are of Highgarden.”

“I am.”

He hesitated. “A Tyrell.”

“I am that also. Daughter of Lord Tyrell.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Unsure if it was surprise or calculation. You could not blame him. A daughter of Highgarden did not usually wander into a knight’s pavilion unescorted.

“I have watched you ride, Ser Humfrey,” you said plainly.

“And I have felt your gaze also, my lady.” His tone soft. “It has steadied my lance.”

 A heat crept up your neck.

You drew the silken ribbon from your wrist, a length of greens embroidered with golden roses. “Then allow me to steady it once more,”

He stared at the favor you were offering as though it was a relic of the Seven themselves.

“My lady,” he breathed, “I am not worthy of such a favor. Especially not of one of a daughter of Highgarden.”

“Win,” you said. “And then we shall really see.”

His hand brushed yours as he accepted your favor. His fingers were calloused and warm. The faintest scent reached you, a mix of clean steel, leather, and something sweet.

Not quite honey, but something very close.

He tied the ribbon to his wrist with precise care, as though if he pulled too hard it might break. “For you, my lady. I will unhorse the realm.”

“See that you do.” You said sweetly. “But I must return to Highgarden before my father knows that I am gone. I will see you on the morrow Ser Humfrey.”

“Yes, my lady.”

As you exited his pavilion you paused before finding your cousins. You looked back at his black and gold tent and noticed when the breeze moved the opening he stayed rooted to where you left him, staring at the green ribbons adorning his wrist.

You felt your heart flutter beneath your chest. You let out a deep breath, hitched up your green silk skirts and made your way back to Highgarden and your cousins who probably will never let you hear the end of this.

The final day dawned bright and merciless.

The lists were packed beyond reason. Word had spread that Beesbury was to go up against House Fossoway, the last tilt. Gold against red.

He rode out with your ribbon proudly displayed against his sleeve. Brightly it sat upon his wrist for all the tourney to see.

You could not sit. You could not breathe. And then they charged.

The impact cracked like the breaking of the world. Both lances shattered against shields, but both men stayed horse. Tilt upon tilt had passed. Each time a lance splintered, a shield went soaring, but each time the riders stayed seated. This time before they were off on the last tilt Ser Humfrey quickly looked to you in the stands and you gave him the slightest of nods, before he charged again.

This time Ser Humfrey’s lance had struck true, he hit square upon the shield, and the red apple of Fossoway spun through the air as its wearer fell from his horse.

Silence, then thunder.

Highgarden roared.

He did not remove his helm at once. He sat still, as though he did not believe that it had happened. Then he turned his horse toward the stands. Towards you.

When he lifted his bee helm this time, his hair was damp with sweat, his mustache slightly disordered, and you had never seen a finer sight.

He was declared victor of the joust of Highgarden.

And when the time came for him to name the Queen of Love and Beauty, he did not hesitate. He rode straight to where you stood.

“My lady,” he called, his voice carrying across the hush. “You granted me your favor. Will you grant me the honor of crowning you?”

Your father looked between you and Ser Humfrey. Unsure of what was transpiring in front of him.

Your heart beat so fiercely you feared you might burst.

“You may.” You said. You stood making your way down the steps of the stands to the dusty list below. He dismounted from his horse in one swift motion. You met each other halfway, the wreath he held lightly in his hands.

You looked up to him smiling. He placed the wreath of blue roses upon your crown. Your eyes met once more, but this time close enough you could see the flecks of amber in his.

“And now?” he asked softly, for only you to hear.

“Now,” you replied, leaning just enough to feel the warmth of him, “I believe you must discover whether victory sweetens a man.”

His mustache twitched.

“My lady,” he murmured, voice low as dusk, “you are a dangerous rose.”

“And you,” you said, brushing your fingers ever so lightly against his wrist that held your favor, “are a very tempting bee.”

The crowd cheered, but you scarcely heard them.

Later, that night the castle hummed like a hive at dusk.

Servants hurried through the corridors of Highgarden with trays of spiced wine and roasted fish. Minstrels tuned their harps in the great hall. The victorious knights were to be presented and toasted before all of the Reach.

And one of the victors was a bee.

You did want to look your best tonight, so that a bee might pick this rose to pollen. Your maid laced your gown of Tyrell green that was threaded with gold so pale it caught the candlelight like nectar. Also hugging every curve of your body in all the right places. A small circlet of golden roses rested in your hair. Proper. Untouchable. Ever the beautiful rose.

You dismissed your maid stating you just needed a few moments to yourself and then you would be down. You waited till you were sure you no longer could hear her footsteps. Once you were sure you slipped out of your chambers near the garden stairs.

The air outside was sweet with night blooming jasmines. Lanterns flickered along the path towards the pavilions and tents, but most of the knights had already gone inside to dress for the feast. Laughter drifting through the tents.

Your heart beat as it had just like it had before that final tilt earlier today.

His tent stood near the edge; black silks marked with yellow bees. The guards at a distance paid you no mind, even though they probably should have. Why would a daughter of House Tyrell venture into the shadows alone?

You lifted the flap before your courage escaped you.

He stood within, half armored still. His breastplate laid discarded on a near by chair, but he wore his yellow and black checkered gambeson unlaced at his throat. His hair was damp from washing; his mustache freshly combed, the ends curling handsomely.

He froze when he saw you.

“My lady.”

“Ser Humfrey,” you said softly.

For a moment you both simply stared at one another, the quiet thick between you. A single lantern burned inside.

“You should not be here. You should be at the feast,” he said at last, though he did not move to usher you away.

“Yes, I should be. You are right.” You agreed. “And you will be the most toasted man in the hall.”

His gaze warned. “That is all because of you.”

You stepped closer.

“No,” you said. “Because you rode like a storm sent by the Seven themselves. I have watched jousts since I was but a little girl, Ser Humfrey. I have seen champions and fools, brave men and reckless ones too.” Your voice faltered. “But I have never seen a knight who made my breath catch in my throat.”

He swallowed. Briefly looking between you and your lips.

“You made me feel as though the world narrowed to a single lance,” you continued. “As though the lists were not earth and dust, but something almost sacred.”

He took a step toward you, slowly and reverent. “You steadied my hand. When I rode, I thought of you in the stands. Yours eyes upon me like sunlight on a field.”

You smiled faintly. “Then promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Do not lose my favor.” You touched the green ribbon still tied around his wrist. “When you ride in other tourneys, when you find yourself facing some monstrous knights twice your size. Please remember that a rose of Highgarden watches you still.”

His hand clasped gently over yours where it rested at his wrist.

“I will never ride without thinking of you.” He spoke. “Not if I live to be an old man with grey in my mustache.”

You tilted your head. “Your mustache would not suit grey.” Saying that wrinkling your nose at the thought.

He laughed at that. “Would it not?”

“No. It is meant to be honey.”

The word lingered between you two. He then went very still.

“And my lady, have you come,” he said quietly, “to test that theory at last? I have been made aware of your thoughts that you had said in the stands.”

Your pulse fluttered like wings.

“So, I have.”

The boldness of it shocked even yourself but you had never been one to let sweetness sit untouched.

You rose onto your toes and laid a hand against his cheek. His skin was warm, faintly rough. His mustache brushed your fingertips, soft surprisingly so.

“May I?” you whispered.

“My lady,” he murmured, his voice had gone husky. “You may command me.”

You leaned in. The first touch was tentative, a brush of lips against the curl of his mustache. It tickled slightly, and you nearly laughed. But when you pressed closer, and he bent towards you, his hand hovered at your waist before settling with care.

He kissed you properly then. His lips were warm, firm but also gentle. He tasted of wine and something sweet. Not honey exactly. But close enough.

When you drew back, your cheeks burned.

“Well,” he asked softly.

You pretended to consider his question. “Not honey.”

His brow furrowed in mock offense.

“But sweeter.” You finished.

His answering smile could have lit the pavilion brighter than any torch.

“My rose.” He murmured against your skin.

“My bee,” you returned.

Outside, a horn sounded meant to summon the guests to the feast.

He exhaled slowly. “If I do not attend, they will assume I have been carried off by brigands.”

“Then we must not give them cause to search the rose gardens,” you said.

Reluctantly you stepped away knowing you had to get to the feast before your disappearance had been noted.

But before you slipped out, you turned back one more. “Humfrey?”

“Yes?” he answered back.

“When you ride again, and the lance lower, and the world goes silent. Please remember tonight.”

“Oh, my rose. I will always remember. I would never forget,” he said. “And I will ride as though you are waiting for me in the stands.”

The great hall of Highgarden blazed with candle and torchlight. Gold and green draperies hung from the rafters; roses floated in silver bowls upon the tables. The scent of roasted meat and spiced apples mingled with roses filled the air.

You sat upon the high table beside your father, every inch the composed daughter of House Tyrell.

Ser Humfrey sat below at the victor’s table, garland in praise and surrounded by the other victors of the tourney games. Which they were also surrounded by lesser lords eager for the victors’ favors.

And yet. He looked at you. Constantly.

You felt it even when you did not meet his gaze—the weight of it, warm and intent. When you dared glance down, you found him already watching.

Ellyn leaned toward you. “If you stare any harder, cousin, you will set him aflame.”

“I am merely ensuring our champion does not choke on his wine,” you replied sweetly.

Theo snorted. “Right. You do not do so for the rest of the victors I noticed. You look as though you are planning to devour him.”

“A rose does not devour,” you retorted. “She entangles.”

Across the dais, Humfrey’s mustache twitched with a smile, as if he heard.

The minstrels struck up a lively tune. Lords and ladies began to rise for the dance.

To your surprise and the visible shock of half the hall, Ser Humfrey Beesbury stood from the victor’s table and made his way towards your table.

He bowed before your father first, properly. Words were exchanged, courteous and measured.

Then he turned to you and offered his hand.

“My lady,” he said, voice clear. “May I have this dance?’

Every eye in the hall seemed to sharpen in your direction.

You placed your hand in his.

“You may.

His palm was warm as he led you to the floor. The dance was stately at first, measured steps and turns beneath the watching eyes of the court. But when the figures shifted and you found yourselves closer, his voice lowered.

“Honeyholt is beautiful this time of year,” he said. “The fields are heavy with bloom. The air smells of clovers and wildflowers.”

“Does it?” you asked lightly.

“It does.” His thumb brushed faintly against your fingers. “The bees are busiest at summer’s height. The roses grow well there too.”

“Do they?” you asked again.

“If tended properly.” His gaze held yours. “I would see one bloom there always.”

Your breath caught.

“You are very bold, Ser.”

“I have learned that sometimes sweetness must be pursued,” he said. “Else another bee would set to claim it.”

You smiled slowly. “And what if the rose prefers the bee who won her favor?”

His answering looked fierce and soft all at once.

“Then,” he murmured, drawing you close through the final turn of the dance, “I will spend my life proving worthy of her sunlight.”

Never had anyone spoken so freely about you to you, but it felt right when he said it.

When the dance ended, you did not step apart at once. Around you, Highgarden glittered and whispered.

But all you could think was this. A rose of Highgarden had found her bee.

And you did not mean to let him fly far from you again. As you said, ‘A rose entangles.’

But Aegon knew better now.

His mother held no love for her eldest son. She held him at arms length, with contempt, her lips pursed as if she couldn't ever fathom smiling at her own son. With a faux guiding hand, never reaching for a tender touch, only a harsh slap to awaken him from thoughts of straying from the path laid out for him. Alicent Hightower liked to believe she loved her children to the best of her ability, but Aegon knew better, knew that her love came with conditions, and Aegon's was to keep the safety of her family, even if he was killed in the process.

His Grandsire was a bitter old man, who reached above his station as hand of the king, all but ready to snatch the crown from Aegon himself. He was the driving force for Aegon's ascension, seeing the malleable drunk as a way to reach his ultimate prize, to be King through Aegon. There wasn't a bone in Otto Hightower that cared for Aegon past the power he could bring him.

Aegon could hear his mothers docile voice, sweeter than those of the men whom sat around her. Her words blurred into a flurry of movement, her lips parts around the words he wasn't taking in.

He watched his mother. Seeing his lips in her mirror image, full and pink, a slight downtick in the right corner, a frown always threatening to take her tender disposition by the throat. He could see the shape of her eyes, wide like a doe, but all innocence was washed away by a bland rage that barely simmered beneath their dark pools of amber liquid, subdued and boring. She could see her picking at the skin of her nailbeds, a bad habit she never outgrew in her youth, a habit she passed onto Aegon, if his red and raw nails were a certain sign.

He could see so much of himself in Alicent, in his own mother, a mirror into Aegon's soul. But all she could see in Aegon was his father, and she despised him for it.

His gaze traversed from his mother, to the stoic statue was his brother. Foreboding and concealed all at the same time, Aemond was a fearsome foe.

Aemond spoke little, hums of approval passed his sealed lips, displeased puffs of air fled from his nose. When words did leave his lips, they were precise, vicious and cold in the manner, strait to the point, never one to flounder and flaunt with unnecessary grandeur. He spoke as if he were a worldlier man, knew the bitterments was war and what was required to secure their victory, through fire and blood, through destruction and death. Aegon didn't know if it meant their own destruction or their foes, Aemond's want for power knew now bounds.

It's what desired him to his Grandsire.

He saw a likeness in Aemond that he didn't see in Aegon, and he held hatred and resentment for his oldest grandson.

Aemond paid no mind to Aegon, as if he was not there, the chare beneath him empty, no figurehead to be seen. He spoke to the counsel with the convection of a King, hand perched on the hilt of his sword, as if ready to strike at any given moment, lest one of the lords spoke against him, as if it were treason.

As young boys, Aegon and Aemond were like most boys he supposed. They poked and prodded at one another, until one of them bled, pleading for the other for mercy, running and crying to their mother. Often it was Aegon tormenting Aemond for his lack of dragon, for being the boring little know it all, smacking him against in the training yard in the name of bettering his skills, but Aegon wanted his little brother to feel even just a moment of the bitter resentment he felt feasting in his insides, sloshing around with the sweetened wine he drank himself into a stupor with.

He wanted his brother to feel small, unwanted, unloved, just as he felt. But no matter what Aegon did, his brother would always have their mother behind him, caressing his with the tender touch he craved. The lick his wounds with her tender voice, chaste kisses to the crown to his head, all the while berating Aegon in the same breath.

Aegon knew he shouldn't have treated Aemond so, they were both circumstance of their family, they were the only people who could truly understand each other, but resentment flooded Aegon's bones, strengthening his hatred for everyone whom shared his blood, and couldn't taste the bitter bite of his flesh.

Aemond resented Aegon for what he was given, just because he had the audacity to be born first. He was given the crown of their founding family, he was given the undeserving respect of the smallfolk, he was given the time and energy the the King's counsel. He was given the best tutors and training teachers, but he never respected what has trust upon him, not in the way Aemond would have welcomed him. Now his brothers days were spent on the throne he desired so, drunk in his cups and stupidly stuttering around like the idiot Aemond has always known Aegon to be.

Aegon leaned back in his uncomfortable chair, hand reaching out to play with the ball before him, the marble feeling cool beneath his heated palms. He felt as of he were just melting into the wood beneath him, and no one seemed to notice.

Except...

A hand reached for his arm, a delicate little thing, decorated with gentle rings that glimmered in the afternoon light, shimmering shades of glittering gold, azure blue and brilliant emerald. The smooth skin of a palm caressed his forearm, thumb digging into the malleable skin beneath his wrist, as if she knew he was slowly floating away, grounding him to this moment, to her touch.

Oh but she....

She was a marvellous thing. Aegon hadn't seen anything so precious in his life, so delicate, so wonderfully beautiful. There weren't enough words in the world for Aegon to describe her, nothing could ever truly do her justice, and he had tried, many a times, much to her amusement.

The Lady Tyrell had been a gift Aegon knew he wasn't deserving of, it was as if the gods were cursing him to gaze upon the mirror of the Maiden, but never being good enough, strong enough, smart enough to be worthy of even a glimpse in his direction. Aegon would only think himself lucky enough to dream about her gentle touch, to be the lucky man whom would receive her affection, to have her smile at him in a manner he'd never seen a maiden smile before.

Her smile started small, only an upward pulling in the right corner of her lips, inch by inch, her pretty pink lips would stretch in the most delicious curve, revealing the pearls of her teeth, little creased would dip in the skin of her cheeks as she would freely smile, a crinkle would form in her nose, her eyes would glitter with a golden looking happiness, as if you were the centre of her world in that very moment, the very reason she was smiling, like you were the only thing that could make her happy.

Aegon wished he could bottle the feeling her smile encapsulated, pure and true happiness unlike anything Aegon has felt before.

How could a persons smile be so contagious?

Despite his reservations, the Lady Tyrell held no contempt for him. She gazed upon him as if she were seeing him for what he was and she was willing to accept him, bitter soul and all.

The Lady Tyrell squeezed his arm, only once, and it was enough to have Aegon retreating from the narrow tunnel he was burrowing himself into. His gazed picked up from the marble to look upon the visage of his wife.

His Wife.

They'd been married when they were ten and three respectively, much to young to be married, but as is the way Aegon supposed. He hadn't even been given the chance to speak with her, before it was announced in the King's Counsel that they were to be married.

But they've come a long way from those scared children they had been all those years ago.

But the one thing that hadn't changed, was the devotion and love she had bestowed upon Aegon. Day in and day out, there wasn't a moment in time where she didn't love him.

"Perhaps the counsel should take a breath" Her melodic voice pierced through his muffled thoughts, like it always did, his every being was tuned into every sound and moment she made.

"Pardon, your grace?" Lord Lannister paused a moment, looking at her with a look of confusion.

"You have been discussing for hours now" She mildly replied, keeping an easy smile on her lips, looking like the pliant woman they demanded she be. "If we were to be attacked by our foes, they would have done so already, surely you all see this"

"Just because it hasn't happened, does not mean it will not happen" Otto Hightower's condescending voice bounced around the room, looking down upon the Lady Tyrell, as if she were a speck of dirt on his boot.

Aegon clenched his fist, loathing that she was rained down upon by Otto's hatred because she was connected to Aegon.

She never seemed to waiver beneath his gaze, nodding demurely at the Hand, as if she were bending to his whims.

"I do not disagree my Lord" She announced. "But perhaps we have spoken on the themes of war for much to long"

"Your Grace, forgive me for speaking so candidly--"

"Then do not"

All eyes turned to Aegon, who for the first time since the counsel had gathered, had found himself voicing the words that had been rattling around in the back of his throat.

"The Queen has excused you" Aegon bluntly replied, leaning further back in his seat, pulling his arm along with him, turning it just so, allowing his palm to slide right along her. Their fingers gliding together like magnets pulling them together, locking them in place.

Aegon relished the feeling of her warm palm beneath his own, smooth skin against his own rough calloused skin, like silk against leather. The cool metal of her rings biting into his warm skin, a zinging shock to his system.

"Aegon, the counsel needs to speak about--" Alicent tried to gage her son back into the conversation, but Aegon was already detached from everything that was her.

"Your King has dismissed you" Aegon interrupted his mother.

Aegon looked to his mother, seeing her lips parted in surprise. She wasn't used to Aegon snapping at her so, he had always been so willing to bow to his mother, wishing for her affection in return.

But he now knew what love without restraints and conditions tasted like, he craved the affections of his wife, whom would willingly allow him to be loved without limits.

"Fuck off" Aegon waved off the counsel.

He didn't even watch as each member grumbled up their breath about something or the other. He didn't notice the shared look of concern on his Mother and Grandsires faces, he didn't see the glare Aemond had wagered his way, icy and void of any brotherly affection. He didn't see any of it, and if he had, he wasn't sure he would care.

Not when she was gazing upon him as she always had.

With love.

"You may have been too crass my love" She smiled as the last of the counsel left the room, the foreboding doors slamming closed behind Otto Hightower himself, sealing himself out of reach of the King.

"They are a bunch of power hungry cunts" Aegon shrugged.

"Be that as it may" She conceded with a soft smile. She pushed herself from her seat, keeping her hand within Aegon's, walking around her corner of the table, until she was standing directly beside the chair Aegon was currently lounging in. "They are here because they support your cause"

Aegon huffed a breath through his nose.

He used their connected hand to haul his wife's body into his lap, she fell willingly into his embrace, wrapping her free arm around his shoulders.

"I do not wish to speak about them anymore" Aegon announced, shifting his wife further into his lap, until the side of her body was pressed firmly against his chest, the warmth of her body radiating through the thick fabric of her dress.

"Then we shall not" She decided, resting her forehead against his temple.

In this moment, Aegon hadn't ever imagine he would feel a love like this. He couldn't have ever pictured someone would love him for what he was, not for what he could give them.

He placed a gentle kiss against her cheek, enticing a soft smile to paint her pink lips.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep, usually a place of solemn declarations and weighty pronouncements, was tonight transformed into a glittering, suffocating cage. King Viserys I Targaryen, in his endless, well-meaning but often misguided attempts to secure the future of his dynasty, had decreed a grand banquet. Its purpose, whispered amongst the ladies-in-waiting and muttered by the lords, was to find a suitable match for his second son, Prince Aemond Targaryen. For Y/n Tyrell, daughter of the Lord of Highgarden, the opulent affair felt less like a celebration and more like a gilded trap.

Her gown, a shimmering confection of light green silk embroidered with golden roses, felt heavy and restrictive. The scent of exotic perfumes, roasted meats, and expensive wines mingled in the air, thick and cloying. Y/n, usually at ease amidst the vibrant gardens and sun-drenched libraries of Highgarden, found herself acutely uncomfortable. Her father, Lord Lyonel Tyrell, a man whose ambition often overshadowed his understanding of his daughter’s quiet nature, had insisted upon her attendance. “A Tyrell must always be seen, Y/n,” he had declared, his voice firm, “and never more so than when a Prince of the Realm seeks a bride. This is an opportunity, not a burden.”

But to Y/n, it was precisely that: a burden. She had no desire to be paraded before a prince, especially not Prince Aemond. His reputation preceded him, a chilling tapestry woven from whispers and fearful glances. He was known as Aemond One-Eye, a moniker earned in a bloody childhood skirmish that had cost him an eye and, some said, a piece of his soul. In its place, he wore a stark, leather eyepatch that covered the left side of his face, a dark void that only added to his menacing aura. There were rumors, of course, whispers that beneath the leather lay a sapphire, a cold and glittering jewel he had set into the socket, but no one at court could say for certain if it was the truth or merely a chilling legend. His very essence, people said, was one of danger, of a silent, simmering intensity that made even the bravest knights uneasy. Maidens, in particular, shied away, their youthful dreams of princely charm shattered by the stark reality of his formidable presence.

*** 

Y/n had caught glimpses of him throughout the evening. He sat at the high table, a solitary figure even amidst his family, his posture rigid, his gaze sweeping over the assembled guests with an almost predatory stillness. He rarely smiled, and when he did, it was a thin, humorless curve of his lips that did little to assuage the fear he inspired. She watched as young ladies, pushed forward by their eager parents, would approach him, their voices trembling, their eyes darting nervously to his eyepatch. He would offer a curt reply, a nod, and then his gaze would drift away, leaving them flustered and retreating, their hopes dashed.

She felt a strange mix of pity and understanding for him. To be so feared, so isolated by one’s own reputation, must be a heavy crown to bear. Yet, she also felt a profound relief that she was not among those maidens vying for his attention. Her own interests lay far from the political machinations of court and the forced smiles of a royal banquet. Give her a dusty tome, a quiet corner, and the scent of old parchment over the clatter of cutlery and the drone of courtly gossip any day.

***

As the evening wore on, the wine flowed freely, and the noise level in the Great Hall swelled to an unbearable din. Y/n felt a growing desperation to escape. Her father was engrossed in conversation with a lord from the Westerlands, his back to her, oblivious to her quiet suffering. This was her chance. With a silent prayer to the Seven, Y/n slipped away from her seat, melting into the shadows along the wall. She moved with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to navigating crowded spaces unnoticed, her green gown a fleeting blur against the tapestries.

Her destination was clear: the royal library. It was a sanctuary she had discovered on previous, equally tedious visits to the Red Keep. A place where the clamor of court faded into a distant hum, replaced by the comforting silence of knowledge. She knew the way, having spent many hours there, poring over ancient texts and forgotten histories. The thought of the cool, quiet halls, lined with countless scrolls and books, was a beacon in the suffocating darkness of the banquet.

***

She navigated the labyrinthine corridors, her soft slippers making little sound on the polished stone floors. The sounds of the feast grew fainter with every turn, replaced by the gentle rustle of her silk gown. Finally, she reached the heavy oak doors of the library. They were slightly ajar, a sliver of warm, flickering candlelight spilling into the hallway. A small, hopeful smile touched her lips. Someone else was here. Perhaps a maester, or a scholar, equally seeking refuge.

Pushing the door open just enough to slip through, Y/n stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, beeswax, and a faint hint of something metallic, like ink. Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretched to the vaulted ceiling, their contents a silent testament to centuries of accumulated wisdom. She moved deeper into the stacks, her eyes scanning the spines, a sense of peace settling over her.

She found a secluded alcove, tucked away behind a particularly dense section on Valyrian history. A small table and two chairs were nestled there, illuminated by a single candelabra. And then she saw him.

Prince Aemond Targaryen.

He was seated at the table, his back to her, his head bent over a large, leather-bound tome. His silver-gold hair, usually meticulously braided, was slightly disheveled, a few strands falling across his brow. His single eye, usually so piercing, was softened by the candlelight, reflecting the pages before him, while the eyepatch remained a dark contrast against his pale skin. He was utterly absorbed, a stark contrast to the intimidating figure he cut in the Great Hall. In this quiet space, he seemed less like a fearsome dragon prince and more like a scholar, lost in the world of words.

Y/n froze, her heart leaping into her throat. She should retreat, slip away before he noticed her. But curiosity, a trait as inherent to her as her love for books, held her rooted to the spot. What was he reading? What captivated the feared Prince Aemond so deeply that he would abandon a royal banquet for the solitude of the library?

As if sensing her presence, Aemond slowly raised his head. His single, visible eye, the color of a winter sky, fixed on her, while the dark leather of his eyepatch remained a silent, impenetrable mystery. Y/n felt a familiar jolt of apprehension, but this time, it was tempered by a strange sense of intrigue. There was no anger in his gaze, no immediate hostility, only a quiet surprise as he took her in.

"Lady Y/n," he said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that carried easily in the hushed space. He knew her name. Of course, he would. He was the prince, and she was one of the maidens presented for his inspection.

Y/n curtsied, her cheeks flushing. "Your Grace. Forgive my intrusion. I did not realize the library was occupied."

"It rarely is by those who are not maesters or scholars," Aemond replied, his gaze unwavering. "And even less so during a royal banquet." He paused, then gestured to the empty chair opposite him. "Do you seek refuge from the festivities as well, Lady Y/n?"

His question was direct, devoid of the usual courtly pleasantries, and Y/n found herself appreciating his bluntness. "Indeed, Your Grace. The clamor of the hall grew... tiresome. I find solace amongst these pages."

Aemond’s lips, usually set in a stern line, twitched almost imperceptibly. "A sentiment I share. Please, join me. Unless, of course, you find my company equally tiresome."

Y/n hesitated for only a moment before taking the offered seat. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows, catching the sharp line of his jaw and the dark texture of the leather patch that guarded his secret. She glanced at the open book before him. It was a dense historical text, its pages filled with intricate script and detailed illustrations of ancient battles and forgotten kings.

"You are reading 'The Wars of the Rhoynar'," Y/n observed, her voice soft. "A fascinating, if tragic, account of a civilization lost to the dragons of Valyria."

Aemond’s head snapped up, his visible eye widening slightly in surprise. "You are familiar with it? Few at court bother with such histories, preferring tales of chivalry and romance."

"I find the rise and fall of empires, the strategies of ancient generals, and the philosophies that guided their people far more compelling than courtly gossip," Y/n admitted, a rare boldness entering her voice. "The Rhoynar, in particular, with their water magic and their matriarchal society, offer a unique perspective on power and resistance."

Aemond leaned back in his chair, his visible eye fixed on her, a flicker of something akin to interest replacing his usual impassivity. "Indeed. Their resilience, even in the face of overwhelming force, is remarkable. Though ultimately futile, their defiance speaks volumes of their spirit."

"Perhaps not futile in spirit," Y/n countered gently. "Their legacy, their stories, live on in these books. Is that not a victory of a kind? To be remembered, to have one's wisdom endure beyond the ashes of one's cities?"

Aemond considered her words, his gaze thoughtful. "A compelling argument, Lady Y/n. Most would focus on the physical conquest, the dragons' might. You see the enduring power of ideas."

"Ideas, Your Grace, are often more formidable than swords or dragonfire," Y/n replied, a small, confident smile gracing her lips. "They can shape generations, inspire revolutions, and build civilizations from the dust of fallen ones."

Aemond’s single eye seemed to gleam with a newfound respect. "Tell me, Lady Y/n, what other 'ideas' do you find so captivating? Do you delve into the works of the Old Ghiscari, or perhaps the philosophical treatises of the Summer Islanders?"

And so, the conversation flowed, effortlessly bridging the gap between them. Y/n spoke of her fascination with the ancient philosophies of Essos, the intricate political structures of the Free Cities, and the psychological underpinnings of human conflict and cooperation. Aemond, in turn, revealed a depth of knowledge that belied his fearsome reputation. He discussed the military tactics of Aegon the Conqueror with the precision of a seasoned commander, debated the merits of various historical treaties, and offered surprisingly insightful interpretations of the more obscure Valyrian texts.

He was not merely a reader; he was a scholar, a thinker, a man who devoured knowledge with the same intensity he was rumored to wield a sword. His gaze never leaving her face, and when he responded, his words were sharp, intelligent, and often laced with a dry wit that made Y/n laugh, a soft, melodic sound that echoed gently in the quiet library.

She found herself forgetting his missing eye, forgetting the whispers of fear that surrounded him. In this space, he was simply Aemond, a fellow seeker of knowledge, a kindred spirit. He asked her about the Tyrell library at Highgarden, and Y/n described its vast collection, her voice alight with passion. She spoke of rare botanical texts, ancient maps, and the illuminated manuscripts passed down through generations of her house.

"It sounds... magnificent," Aemond murmured, a genuine warmth entering his voice. "A true treasure. I confess, the Red Keep's collection, while extensive, lacks the certain charm of a more personal library."

"Perhaps you should visit Highgarden, Your Grace," Y/n suggested, surprising herself with her own audacity. "I would be honored to show you its wonders."

Aemond’s single eye held hers, a flicker of something unreadable passing through its depths. "Perhaps I shall, Lady Y/n. Perhaps I shall."

***

The hours slipped by unnoticed. The candelabra burned lower, casting longer shadows, but neither of them seemed to care. They discussed the nature of power, the burden of leadership, and the often-misunderstood motivations behind historical figures. Y/n found herself challenging some of his more cynical views on human nature, offering perspectives rooted in her studies of psychology, while Aemond, in turn, presented a pragmatic, often brutal, understanding of the world forged in the crucible of court politics and Targaryen ambition.

It was a dance of minds, a fascinating exchange that left Y/n feeling invigorated and seen in a way she rarely was. She had come to the library seeking escape, and instead, she had found connection. With the very prince everyone feared, the one she had dreaded encountering.

***

Finally, a distant chime from the castle clock broke their reverie, signaling the late hour. Aemond closed his book with a soft thud, the sound echoing in the quiet. "It seems even the most captivating discussions must eventually yield to the demands of time," he said, a hint of regret in his tone.

Y/n nodded, a sigh escaping her lips. "Indeed, Your Grace. The banquet must surely be drawing to a close."

Aemond rose, his tall frame unfolding with an almost languid grace. He extended a hand to her, his fingers long and elegant. "Allow me to escort you back, Lady Y/n. It would not do for a Tyrell rose to wander the castle halls unchaperoned at such an hour."

Y/n placed her hand in his. His touch was firm, warm, and surprisingly gentle. As they walked through the silent corridors, the sounds of the banquet now completely faded, Y/n felt a strange sense of anticipation. The feared Prince Aemond, the one-eyed dragon rider, was not the monster of the whispers. He was a man of intellect, of depth, and of a quiet intensity that she found herself drawn to.

The sun was setting over the gardens of Highgarden, summer was just beginning, the ambient heat was comforting, the flowers covered most of the soils, trees and shrubs of the gardens. The spring months had been very grey and rainy, several trees had large fruits full of water, several servants were responsible for the gathering, they went to work all summer long so that the kitchens could serve them fresh or keep them by turning them into jam or by naturally drying them. They were not the only ones working in the castle. Young squires trained in the animate me with various weapons, whether it be the sword, the fighting axe, the mass or the bow, while others trained to ride a horse, some having never climbed to the screens. But they all worked far more than usual.

The day had been pleasant a part of the Tyrell family was staying in one of the largest gardens, your uncle Lord Matthos Tyrell successor of the house, accompanied by your father were chatting under a large umbrella, composed of wood, linen fabrics and some pieces of warm colors. Lord Tyrell’s wife and your mother sat beside them, watching the younger members of the family played and heckled while you sat under one of the trees, reading, while your young cousin Harlan learned his lessons.

Matthos was talking with your father about the royal invitation, it must have been to announce some important things for sending a messenger. For a month in the windbreaks, a great storm broke over the region of Reach, the violent wind shook the branches of the trees, the younger ones folded under the breath, the beasts had to have hurried into their stables and henhouse. Luckily, the rivers had not yet come out of their beds, fortunately for the villages nearby.

In this storm, a herald accompanied by two knights rode to Highgarden, the sound of the clogs in the mud was barely audible, the breaking rain masked largely the surrounding sounds. The glimmers emanating from the castle windows were barely visible in the rain, which like a beacon guiding the messenger and his escort. At the time of passing the pat of the front door the three people were soaked to the bones, the servants had directly welcomed them and taken them to one of the large rooms of the castle, Lord Matthos Tyrell had joined them to discuss.

This is how your uncle spoke to your father about a scroll in his hands, protecting it from the sun.

“Viserys seems to get crazier and crazier with time.” Matthos sighed.

“Who would not, in his situation many would not have held.”

“Marry your own daughter to your brother? Celebrate future births?”

“The Targaryen are different, he had to consolidate his grip on the throne.”

“According to the Hightowers, Viserys accepted the marriage of Rhaenyra and Daemon, although the council is against it.” Matthos giggled for a moment. “He could have refused.”

Your father sighed, he understood that his brother reacted like this, the iron throne was very coveted, Viserys of his first union with Queen Aemma had not had a son, her death had mourned more than the Targaryen, She was appreciated and seemed to radiate during her presences. The fact that the king remarried was not a surprise, although the age of the very young bride was much talked about. At first, the lack of birth reassured the nobles and the people that Lady Laena’s age was inappropriate for marriage. In the coming years, this lack of birth slowly began to worry, perhaps the young queen could not give birth. Murmurs and rumours then began their way into the kingdom. What would happen when Viserys died? Who would take the throne? The houses that had passed their allegiances could equally break it, it risked imploding the kingdom. Rhaenyra, as the only child of the king, could assert his birthright on the throne, but none of the great Lords and the people were ready for a queen to rule the kingdom. Daemon as a brother of the king, was the direct heir, but having a bad reputation among the people and especially the nobles, was a complex choice. The union of Daemon and Rhaenyra a few years ago was intended to strengthen their «legitimacy» to the throne. Although many noble houses did not like it, the people were wary, for this marriage did not guarantee a long peace full of prosperity.

"Brother, why don’t you go to these festivities?"

“I have to deal with the requests from the villages, don’t forget, I don’t have time to go and celebrate.”

“I would take the applications directly, you could take the opportunity to find an fiance to my tender niece.”

Your father sighed, it was true that you had not yet engaged, it is not that you had no young and not so young men who wanted to court you, it is that for your father, you were still his little daughter, even though you are a young woman. He promised to think about it not wanting to tarnish this sunny day with a heated discussion, even though he knew that Matthos would repeat the question to him several times, until the moment your father snapped.

That’s how a week later, a carriage carrying the flower of the Tyrell house, headed for King’s Landing.

It was the first time you traveled to King’s Landing, you were only a child at the death of Queen Aemma, you had kept the blurred memory of your Uncle Matthos and your aunt being gone for several weeks, and that before their return Highgarden had become silent, for a few days. Your nanny had vaguely explained to you that it was customary to mourn for important people whether we knew him or not. It intrigued you, but you quickly forgot about the sadness, wanting to play with the other children present.

At the time of the king’s remarriage, you still remained at the castle, just as you remained for the various festivities that took place at the Red Keep, Highgarden satisfied you, you did not understand why the other ladies and young lady wanted so much to go there. Your nanny had repeatedly explained to you the misadventures that could occur in the capital, how the streets were covered with vermin and dirt. That this was no place for a girl.

Yet when you looked at the landscape through the screened opening, you could see large walls with black and red coats of arms. With difficulty you tried to see how the streets of the city really were, painfully observing colors and movement, you could not fully observe the life teeming around you.

When the carriage stopped, you waited to get out, the heel sounds of the boots echoed in the outer courtyard of the Red Keep.

Servants were the first to greet you, taking your luggage to the rooms that you would occupy during the festivities. A knight with a white beard and well cut came to greet you, explaining that the king being very absorbed by the preparations of the festivities apologized for not coming to welcome you in person.

Your father avoided giving a harsh answer to the knight, and thanked him. The castle never had him again. Perhaps it was due to not being at home or having to be always on guard whether it was for behaviour or words understood in the wrong way.

While your father joined the other lords already present, your mother offered to give your respect to the Queen, which simply meant, to say hello to her and luckily have a little conversation.

When you saw Queen Laenna, you were surprised by her look, it is true that you found her very beautiful, but her look was filled with a kind of melancholy, like a bird enclosing in a cage, a golden cage. With your mother you greeted him, exchange a few sentences about your visit, asking how she lived the future festivities. You were lost in her purple look almost erase.

"Is it true that you rode the greatest dragon in the world?"

This question had escaped you, you had heard lords and lady speak of it since Laenna had begun to ride the dragon. His words come out of your mouth, without thinking about all the protocols that reigned in the Red Keep.

To your question a kind of spark lit up the queen’s gaze.

« It’s true, even though I haven’t been able to do it for a few years.”

“Oh, that’s too bad, it must be extraordinary.”

“Much more.”

When you left your interview with Laenna, your mother scolded you for a few moments, it was not a good idea to speak so openly to the queen without her consent. You have a few seconds to apologize before continuing your way through the corridors of the Red Keep.

To say that the future festivities related to Princess Rhaenyra’s pregnancy were great was an understatement. During the day everything seemed calm, several lords and lady were chatting in the corridors and gardens of the castle, but on the first night of the banquet, calm gave way to fun, alcohol and food.

In the corridors of the castle several jugglers entertained the guests who waited before their entrances in the huge banquet hall. In the gardens, fire-eaters were getting ready, as was the band of musicians who accompanied them. 

At the festivities they had attended, such a show were not common. And it was only the first day. That night, the houses present were to present their respect and congratulations to future parents, while wearing the colors of his own home.

The entrance was generally spanned starting with the noblest houses, the vassal houses followed them, with a few exceptions.

“Don’t forget what I told you Y/n.”

“I know, mother, don’t speak without permission, don’t look them in the eye because it could be understood as disrespectful.”

“And above all, try to have fun, my dear child.” Your mother took your hand and gently squeezed it.

Your parents had explained to you that it would be interesting for you to get closer to a single young man from one of the houses present, whether they are the noblest houses or not.

If the little shows in the corridors had caught your attention, the size of the banquet hall did just as much. Many guests were already installed, music was audible through conversations. A large chandelier and many fabrics raised the ceiling and spaced far enough so that it did not catch fire.

The Tyrell House entered before the Hightower House, while you were waiting you exchanged a few words with the king’s daughter, Alicent, she seemed nice to you, she was talking about her recent marriage, with a young man from a vassal house in the Vale, This helped to strengthen the ties shaken when Prince Daemon’s first wife died. Although the agreement seemed cordial to you, Alicent was holding her hands, looking at them you could see that she passed her thumbnail on the skin surrounding her other nails.

The royal table, which was located on a platform, allowed them to observe their guests although it was not very high, two markets hardly separated them from the remains of the guests. Your father stood in front of you and your mother. After bowing in front of the people present, your father exchanged a few words with King Viserys. During this time, you watched who was sitting at the table, with your back straight and your head held high, watching from left to right. There was a man wearing the emblem of the king’s hand on his chest, his beard gray, and his look was hard and you seemed calculating, if this man was indeed the father of the sweet Alicent, she seemed to have held more of her dead mother than of her father. The Velaryons were standing on her left side, they seemed to you to be the queen’s parents, for she separated them from the king and spoke to them much more openly and seemed to be out of her good mood. The king in the center of the table seemed to you to be older than the age he had. He was starting to lose hair, his complexion was more greyish, almost a sick complexion. To the left of the king was a young woman barely older than you, her plump belly and silver hair made you understand that it was the king’s daughter, Princess Rhaenyra. You did not dwell on the details, for your gaze was like drawing by the person standing next to you.

A Targaryen, dressed in black was standing in his chair, one hand resting on the table. He didn’t seem so old to you, you looked up from his hand up to his chest, slowly going up to his neck, his jaw, his thin lips to finish on his eyes, by the distance you couldn’t see them clearly, but you imagined eyes of a bright purple. His hair was short and tied to the back of his head. Prince Daemon seemed even more attractive to you than the lady could say in the halls.

His gaze was fixed on something, it took you a few seconds to notice that he was staring at you, in an instant you felt like undressing under his gaze, perhaps it was because of your dress, Tyrell colors with a more plunging neckline than the rest of the women’s outfits present in these places, or was it due to her look that seemed to detail you, from head to toe, while gently licking her upper lip. You felt a gentle warmth mounted in your body as your hands became slightly moist, your mother pulled you out of this exchange by accompanying you to the table where you were installed.

On the first days of the banquets, all were feasting, drinking and eating much more than they should. Lord Baratheon had two nights during which he ended up being escorted by guards, so drunk that he fell trying to walk. Rhaenyra had only appeared at the opening banquet, locking himself in his room for the rest of the festivities.

The feeling of being observed had lasted all along the great meals. To try to forget it, you danced with several young lady, of one Alicent. Some less imposing house lords had asked for a dance that you had accepted. Although more chubby than the average woman present, you did not want to close on yourself, remaining smiling, you had confidence in your natural charm, but a part of you said that the name Tyrell was not at all at interactions, The young lords who had to find a wife did little to spank the fine mouths if their future wives were of noble lineage, you paid little attention, wanting to see the good side of things, you had fun and it was enough for you.

On the fourth night of festivities, you wanted to stay in the gardens, although livening, the places were quieter than the banquet hall. The feeling of being observed was for several hours faded, you were relaxing sitting on one of the benches of the largest garden, some knights were guarding the place, and some couples were watching the shows of the fire-eaters.

You were suddenly taken by a chill, it was not because of the light breeze that was blowing, it was even pleasant to you compared to the heat and dampness of the banquets, no other thing was going on you were sure.

"Lady Y/n. "

A man’s voice made you turn away from your contemplation of the place. You directed your head in the direction of sound, your heart missed a beat.

Prince Daemon was a few meters away from you. He was dressed in black boots and pants, and his jacket had scaly details and thin dark red trim. Her hair was always tied to the back of her head.

“Pr… Prince Daemon.” You were caught off guard.

"Don’t you like these festivities?" A smirk was attached to his lips.

“They’re nice, but I find the gardens more welcoming, so it’s good to be a little quiet.”

“My brother enjoys this kind of activity.”

"And you not my prince?" You could not hold this question.

“I’m less likely to like them, less strutting around.”

A relative silence settled in, not seeing him moved, you wondered why the prince was in the gardens, Daemon watched you, you did not look like the other lady, something in you had held his gaze, Maybe it’s your confidence, maybe it’s your less-dressed clothes. To put an end to this silence and its administration, which was beginning to make you nervous, you asked him the first question that came to your mind.

“Is it true that you fought the crabs for three years? “

You opened your eyes, you forgot the manners, and addressed yourself to the prince. You lowered your head gently, murmuring an excuse. Daemon rie slightly.

"It is true, why such a question, Lady Tyrell?" He leaned his head gently to the side.

“We heard about the war at the Highgarden, but never in detail, one day you were at war and suddenly you had won.”

“I can tell you what happened.”

“With pleasure, my prince, but… you don’t have to.”

Daemon did not answer you, he just approached to sit beside you. For several hours you listened, how the crabs had become dangerous for Westeros, how the years of war had unfolded to end with the king’s decision to come and help them after three years of war. You did not refrain from commenting on the king’s behavior, apologizing afterwards to Daemon, you did not have to speak thus of the crown. He smirk more at your words, but does not correct you, simply continuing to tell you his story.

The first glimmers of daylight appeared on the horizon, Daemon was staying by your side all night, chatting or just watching the shows. His presence although at first a little stressful, was almost comforting, his body letting pass a pleasant heat. The hours seemed like minutes. It is almost against your heart that the day rose, you had to go back to the castle, not to arouse the anxiety that might have your relatives not to see you in the morning.

On the following days and nights, Daemon seemed more present, taking part in a discussion with your father on subjects that escaped you. The prince offered you walks in the castle, offering you books for your future reading, Daemon was even interested in your life in Highgarden, leaving you little time to be really alone. In the rare moments when he was not with you, you had offered to keep company with the queen before Alicent, with whom you had made a gentle friendship, persuaded you to visit Princess Rhaenyra. Part of you felt guilty for spending all that time with her husband, when he should have stayed close to her. But another felt flattered by the prince’s attention.

If the gaze of the queen seemed to be off, the gaze of the princess was filled with boredom, two young children with silver hair were playing in her room, a servant was watching them. Rhaenyra was sitting by the window, one hand laying on the sell. You stood by the door while Alicent saluted her, you could observe from their interactions that they had been friends for a long time. Alicent took a few minutes before he introduced you.

“Rhaenyra, this is Lady Y/n Tyrell, we have sympathized the last days. »

As much as the moments passing by Daemon had seemed to you to be fast, the one spending with Rhaenyra seemed endless. You learned the children’s names, and looked at them from afar, you smiled softly at their children’s squabbles. You kept a cordial conversation with the princess, though your heart beat faster than usual. A presentiment became more and more present in you, the one that the princess knew of moments spent with Daemon.

The weekend was quite classic for such festivities.

The last banquet was the most grandiose, fruits and vegetables from Essos were present, dishes flavored with varied spices whether meat or fish, wine reigned on the tables, the buckets were always filled, The musicians were from islands near Essos, which played music with different rhythms and tones than the one usually played in Westeros. Although according to the region the music was different each corner of Westeros had different styles.

At the beginning of the evening, you stood between your mother and Lady Alicent, exchanging opinions on the meal, the guests and the music. From the corner of your eye you could glimpse the king’s table, the guests who sat there had changed from one evening to the next. Moving from close family to the closest advisors and allies of the Targaryen. Only Viserys and Laenna were present every evening. Rhaenyra only had to attend the opening, Viserys explaining that the young mother had to rest.

As the hours went by and the people present began to dance, the centre of the room gradually began to fill with people. Contemplating the group of people dancing, their movement gradually becoming synchronized, you did not pay attention to the people behind you.

"Lady Tyrell, will you accept this dance?"

A young Lord of a vassal house of the Lannisters had just spoken, his voice in grave tones had surprised you, turning on a young man with dark brown hair, and amber eyes, you accepted, he was not unpleasant to look at and courteous. Your parents were staring at you two, wondering if they had planned this meeting.

The dance did not last all the music. Daemon was watching you from the beginning of the meal and the young Lord he called «asshole» in his thoughts, irritated him, he had passed several times behind you before talking to you and the way he had to watch you make Daemon want to tear his eyes out. It is annoyed that Daemon rose towards the dance floor.

When you changed partners, you found yourself face to face with the prince, he, who had not danced all week, began to dance with you.

A dance was followed by a second, then a third. Viserys was not positive to see his brother dancing with a young woman other than his daughter. He sighed, exasperated by the actions of Daemon, Otto had transmitted to him the rumors of the prince’s adventures with the young lady of the house Tyrell. He knew Daemon well enough to know that his brother had something in mind and that he would do anything to get it.

You didn’t finish the night at the banquet, your feet were getting sore and fatigue was working its way through your body. You told your parents and Alicent that you were going to your room. Your parents followed you, fatigue also took them.

On the morning of your departure, you accompanied your parents to greet one last time King Viserys and Queen Laenna, and passed your greetings to the young princess. Daemon was not present, it upset you a little but did not reveal.

This annoyance went away when you arrived home. You were welcomed by several servants as well as members of your family. In your room stood a small pile of letter and parchment saddled. Surprised you asked the maid who was standing by your side, when they had arrived.

“They started when you were in King’s Landing, my lady. Recently they’re crows coming.”

When you took the first parchment, you noticed the Targaryen seal, opened it and noticed a beautiful healing handwriting. It contained a poem about flowers and dragons. Gradually opening the letters you noticed that it was the same writing and that everything was signed in the same way. The same first and last name. Daemon Targaryen. Touched you began to write a letter to the prince, you reread his letters one after the other. Your heart was palpitating, a silly smile sticking to your face. In one of the last letters received the prince promised to go through Highgarden. You began to look forward to this day.

A first visit was made two weeks after the end of the festivities, Daemon had arrived at the back of Caraxes. Your uncle Matthos was pleased to have a member of the royal family come to visit, even though it was Prince Daemon. You stayed in the gardens most of your time, watching the dragon lying in the gardens. Flowers surrounded the animal and contrasted with its red color.

"One day I will take you on his back." Daemon’s promise was written in one of his letters.

This visit was followed by several others, all longer and longer. Most often you and Daemon stayed in the gardens or in the library of the castle, he offered you at his arrival several jewels, rings, earrings and necklaces. Very quickly the end of the year pointed his nose, the leaves of the trees fell and the temperature dropped, this was nothing to compare to the temperatures of the north, but having lived all your life in the south of Westeros, the climate was cold. Daemon had arrived several days before, he intended to ask your father for your hand. Valeryen tradition didn’t stop him from having a second wife, he just had to be persuasive enough.

The news of Rhaenyra’s delivery arrived by raven, Daemon received the message, but did not return to the capital, It was only two days later when a raven arrived to announce the good news of the birth of Prince Joffrey and of his ans Rhaenyra good health that Daemon go. Not without an answer.

Your father agreed to give your hand to the prince. He was not afraid of the Targaryen, but he had heard of the obsessions that the prince might have and that he did everything to get what he wanted. Your father was just hoping the princess wouldn’t take it too hard.

Rhaenyra sat on one of the armchairs of his room fulminaient of the absence of Daemon, it was not the first time that he did not attend a birth, three years in the screen, for the birth of Luke, he stayed in the corridor, for Luke, he had remained with Caraxes. But for Joffrey, he was not even present in the city, no raven had arrived with an answer. When Daemon walked through the door, he walked towards the baby, posing in the arms of one of the nannies, he looked at him, detailing his face, noticing a silver-haired birth. He took him in his arms, without even greeting his wife.

« You were with that slut.” Rhaenyra’s tone of voice was dry.

“Don’t call her that in my presence.” Daemon looked up at Rhaenyra. “She will be my second wife.”

Rhaenyra understood, her husband, her uncle, was indeed in love with another young woman, she who thought that he would leave her before the end of the banquet, had been mistaken. She no longer spoke to him about the day, she was locked up in her room with the children. Viserys was more than despair of Daemon’s actions, he had just been a father for the third time and yet his spirit was elsewhere. Daemon explained to him that there would be no favouritism, that he would like them fairly.

But he was lying, whether it was to his brother or himself.

The ceremony of your marriage took place in the temple of Baelor, blessed by the septs, your house had asked to make a dress in a very «Tyrell» style, your dress, was less voluminous than that of the princess Rhaenyra at her wedding, the fabrics that made up the dress were fabrics of the greatest weavers of Reach and Essos, in the colors of your house, the nexkline was not too provocative, it just emphasized perfectly your chest, as well as the cut of the dress, which bent your silhouette. She also tackled fine embroidery, golden threads.

The marriages of the royal family attracted many people, the lords and lady of the noblest houses had been the first present, with a part of the people amassing at the entrance of the temple.

But this ceremony although official was not enough for Daemon, this ceremony had taken place to please your family and the king, but the ceremony that followed, before the eyes of some witnesses was much more official for the prince. The Valeryen ritual legitimately united you against Rhaenyra who had only the marriage of the seven to satisfy herself. This ceremony is the consequence of gossip, not for the least subtle. For the most part, they were insulting to your physique and your home. "It seems that the prince got her pregnant." "Did you see how big she is? Oh yes, she was already fat." Add giggles and you’ll only get a sample of the hallway gossip.

At the beginning of your marriage, Daemon visited you almost every night, the others he stayed with Rhaenyra, you could feel the princess’s gaze being more and more present and heavy, Your only ally in the Reed Keep was Queen Laenna and a surprising few knights of her close guard, from the young Sir Criston Cole. In the moments when Daemon was not with you, you visited the queen, although her visits were rare and spaced out.

The news of your pregnancy, did not surprise people, the prince ravages you almost every night, it was inevitable that you waited, by chance, so quickly, your first child. Rhaenyra already spoke to you very little, the communication was for a moment interrupted, Laenna ordered to her closest guards to watch on you and the unborn child. Your only refuge in the castle was the gardens that reminded you of home, Sir Cole working for your safety. He seemed to hold a kind of resentment towards the princess but you did not question him, for the first time, you had the feeling that the answer would not please you.

At the first delivery, Daemon was in the hallway of your room, he watched whether Cole who was posted at the entrance, Queen Laenna and Viserys were at his side, only the princess was again absent.

“Daemon she will be fine, she’s strong.”

Laenna tried to reassure him, but Daemon, listening to your incessant cries, was nothing more than a mixture of feelings, of anger towards the mestres, of fear, that something bad happened to you or the baby, of the joy of being a father again.

"DAEMON!!"

Your husband looked at the wall that separated him from your presence. For the first time in a long time he felt fear, true fear. With his heart racing to break everything, he held himself back.

“Go to your wife, Y/n needs you.” Viserys have spoked.

It was with trembling hands that Daemon entered, under the gaze of Sir Cole, the mestres present watched him astonish, never of the other births had he disdained entering before the end of the delivery.

“My Prince? The delivery is not over.”

Daemon was aware of it, if anything happened to you, he would be in the front row to kill the incompetent mestres.

The painful delivery ended after a very long day. You were exhausted, perspiration dripped from your forehead, the sheets were in places tearing so much that you had held them forcefully, you asked to carry your child, even though you were exhausted, you wanted to know that your child was well.

Y/s/n was your first son, he had purple eyes and a silver hair birth. Daemon placed a dragon egg in the cradle of Y/s/n. He stayed by your side for a full week, forcing the king’s advisors to wait in the corridor for an interview or a simple visit. Your parents, accompanied by Lord Matthos Tyrell and your aunt, were the first outside the Red Keep to visit you, Alicent followed closely, accompanied by her future husband.

Congratulations came from all over the kingdom, the birth of a child out of marriage between Targaryen was better seen. Gifts from all Westeros were sent, far more than Rhaenyra had ever had.

If the princess had never agreed to Daemon’s remarriage, she had not openly explained it to her family members. But the more her husband changed, the more a feeling of jealousy devoured her. She thought she was the only person for whom Daemon would remain faithful, she had believed him when he promised her that she would remain his priority. Now Rhaenyra no longer believed Daemon. In the vengeful years, her husband showed signs of favoritism, spending his days first teaching Y/s/n the High Valyrian, then defending herself while it was she who taught Jace and Luke the Valyrian. Joffrey grew up and although Daemon was present, he took him less and less for his father, Sir Strong who visited the princess gradually became a surrogate father. Rhaenyra ends up leaving an ultimatum to Daemon, one winter evening, she was waiting in the gardens, everyone knew that this was your refuge.

The same morning you were with your family in the dragon pit, Y/s/n was learning to lead d/n (dragon name), Daemon was more than proud of his children, your last-born, Baela was in your arms, you watched as your son’s eyes lit up in front of the little dragon following his requests, Caraxes was near, your twins born of the second pregnancy, caressed the great red dragon. Caraxes let a roar of satisfaction pass.

This warmth contrasted with the icy wind of the gardens, winter was at its zenith, the dormant flora, reminded you of Highgarden, which at times you missed.

Sir Cole was a few meters from you, Daemon knowing the resentment that the knight held against the princess, let him be your sworn shield, Criston would never have let Rhaenyra hurt you and he was sure of that.

Yet the princess was waiting for you, she wanted to secured her hold over her husband, even if it meant something bad.

"Princess?" Your voice echoed in the lifeless garden.

“I am not here for peace.”

« What peace? We’re not in conflict, princess." You were upset.

“Oh yes… Ever since MY husband fell in love with you. You are nothing, no more than a whore in the slums of King’s Landing.”

You felt Sir Cole stiffen up last, you could only imagine the knight holding his hand on the knob of his sword.

« You are badly placed Rhaenyra to speak to me in this way, when you, was less old than I was at my wedding be dragging a rumor about your visit to the debauchery places, more than one lord calls you, hanging around your back. Everyone thinks that you lost your maidenhood in its place and that your marriage to Daemon was there to avoid humiliating your father’s honor.”

"How dare you speak to me like this?! To your future queen!"

“The truth is painful to hear, I see.”

"I will make you! …"

"What are you going to do, Rhaenyra?"

Rhaenyra who had approached you looked up and saw behind you, Sir Cole sword in hand and Daemon standing by his side.

“D… Daemon… Nothing I promise you.”

Rhaenyra felt her blood freezing in her veins. She didn’t expect Daemon to be present. Daemon ordered Sir Criston to escort you to your children. He had to settle some conflicts with his niece.

Rhaenyra approached Daemon, a look that was meant to be sweet but also showed fear. As she placed a hand on his chest, he grabbed her by the throat tightening enough to hold her without choking her.

“If you threatenh Y/n or I learn that you orchestrate the slightest evil toward her or our children. You will regret it bitterly.”

“D… Daemon…” Rhaenyra was trying to free herself from the prince’s grip.

Daemon looked at her a few seconds before letting go of her grip. He left, without saying a word, walking towards the corridors of the Red Keep.

At the time of Viserys’s death, all were in mourning, Daemon had let his anger explode against the mestres who had not been able to heal his brother. Rhaenyra though devastated by the death of her father was thinking only of one thing, the throne, she would rule Westeros and could proclaim that your union with Daemon would be annulled and proclaimed that your children would be bastards. But… she was caught off guard.

On the morning of the coronation, Rhaenyra woke up in her room, usually the maids came to wake her up, and dressed her, but this time a man was sitting near the entrance, partially hidden by the shadow which was projected by the wardrobe nearby, A cane was visible. Rhaenyra knew this person, she had already met him before. Larys Strong was close to Alicent and close to you.

“Hello Princess”

"What are you doing here?"

“It just so happens that a plot to lose a friend has come to my ears.”

"Daemon will not leave you alive if anything happens to me! Guard!"

Rhaenyra got up rushing to his window to scream for help. But the one was blocked.

“No one will come to your aid at this time, princess, and I doubt that King Daemon will judge me if anything happens to you.”

Rhaenyra trembled, the fear she felt increased, her body trembled, her hands became sweaty and tears formed in her eyes.